Work Text:
On her wedding day, Ayaka wears white.
After all, it is tradition to wear a shiromuku as spotless as the winter snowfall on Mt Yougou. She is caked, like a ceramic pot, in layers of blanched silk, and on her back are silken renditions of herons, children, flowers — all heralds of good luck and fortune. The pure-white silk weighs heavily against her shoulder blades, but this is the tradition, and it would not do well for a daughter of the Kamisato Clan, the leader of the Yashiro Commission, to do anything halfway, especially when it comes to ceremony.
Her eyes are lowered, in deference to the great guardian of the shrine and a sign of good manners. Even if she could look up, though, she can see nothing, for the wide-brimmed headpiece balancing on her pinned-up hair blocks everything save for her sandals. And this too, is tradition, for her to-be spouse must be the only one who can see her face.
But Sara has not looked at her once since the ceremony began.
Not even when she offers her a small cup of sake, filled by the shrine maidens with the colourless liquor. Sara has taken her three sips, and now it is Ayaka’s turn.
She would know when the former General looks at her, for they have met thrice prior. All three times during a heated debate between Inazuma’s leading clans, and all three times, Sara’s gaze had been resolutely firm, unyielding to reason, unmoving like the woman herself.
Ayaka tries to look. But she only sees flashes — of her black montsuki haori hakama , of white Kujou crests on the sleeves. She can excuse the slight tilting of her head on the movements of the shrine maidens as they pour more sake, but even then all she sees is Sara’s back, black silk bearing another Kujou crest.
Calloused, bow-bearing fingers dip into her view, handing her a medium-sized cup. She is to take another three sips and ignore the lurch in her heart when their fingertips brush.
Once, twice, thrice. Meagre sips that do nothing to calm her nerves. One, two, three. Three Commissions of the Inazuma Bakufu that are meant to work together to bring harmony under the Shogun’s reign. They are the daughters of their respective ruling clans, and their union is political, no matter how many rumours Ayato had planted prior.
Because it is a fact that they do not know how long the Shogun will be in her meditative contemplation. The civil war has ended, but the Shogun is Eternal, and human lives have more immediate consequences.
Because it is a fact that the reputation of the Tenryou and Kanjou Commissions has sunk, nose-diving into electrified waters led by the Kujou Clan. Thus, it is only beneficial that they try to strengthen their political bearings now, when the Shogun is still contemplating their punishment.
Because it is a fact that the Yashiro Commission, despite being said to be the closest to the Shogun, has had their helplessness exposed to all during the civil war, when the two other Commissions stonewalled them with ease. Far be it for them to be so paralysed again, when there was another way to strengthen their power, especially in the Shogun’s uncertain limbo.
A larger cup slides into her vision. Three more sips to make it nine.
Ayaka thinks of her parents, wishes they were here to see her on her wedding day — in pure white with a partner by her side forever, now. She thinks of her brother, of the way he’s aged in ways that only a sister can see — the shake of his fingers, the receding hairlines, the thinness of his smile. She thinks of the people, of the lives that were lost in a senseless war — they deserved to know that such an atrocity would happen no longer.
Ayaka wonders if Sara’s throat was also burning uncomfortably.
Perhaps not. Her voice is steady as she reads their wedding vows. Booming, as is expected of a general, and clear, as is expected of a noble. When she is finished, she hears Ayato and Sara’s clan members raise their own cups of sake solemnly, and a moment of silence as they drink.
It is symbolic. From the nine sips of sake to the political weight of their alliance, all of it is symbolic. Yet perhaps most important of all is the white expanse of Ayaka’s robes, still an uncomfortable weight on her shoulders, and the dark colours of the montsuki haori hakama , crisp and embossed with crests.
She is a blank canvas, chaste and pure, for her future spouse to colour as she deems fit.
But Sara’s hands shake as she offers a sakaki branch to the shrine’s protectors, and Ayaka’s heart begins to pound like the war-drums before battle. Not once has the General’s hands wavered — archers rarely have that luxury, and it’s a break from her typical steadiness. But it’s enough — enough to jerk a brush and send colours across paper, ruining even the most careful, precious painting. She thinks of forgotten paintings in abandoned rooms, and her stomach turns unpleasantly, and she needs to do something, say something, but then the musicians have beguns their melodies and the shrine maidens are bowing and their family is clapping and —
And they are married.
Ayaka's eyes are closed, but she is far from sleep.
How can she, when the heat of Sara's body is just a few feet away? When she can feel the presence of another in her bedr— their bedroom, it's theirs, because they are wedded now, and Sara has moved into the Kamisato Estate and her breathing is steady and soothing against the anxious thundering in her chest.
Her maids had removed the white padding of her kimono and replaced it with just her colourful iro-uchikake . Cyan and purple and blue and pink, the colours of the Kamisato Clan, tied loosely with a decorative knot. Thoma had visited before she had to retire — had gripped her shoulders and said, eyes downcast and heavy, that she looked beautiful. The unspoken hung heavy between them, and Ayaka had thanked him with all the grace she could muster, an easy resource from years of practice.
And when she had entered the room, the unspoken had tightened in her chest like a thick lead chain. This robe was Sara's to untie, to slip past her shoulders and fall to the floor as a discarded heap of silk. Ayaka had expected that she was expected to reach for Sara, too — to loosen the knots of her obi and carefully peel away her black kimono . The rest had been filled in from her readings of sultry romances from the Yae Publishing House, but Ayaka hadn't known how Sara would act — if she would embrace Ayaka tightly, boldly, or if she would allow Ayaka to trail her fingers along her skin gently, reverently.
None of that had happened, however.
Sara had nodded at her — a singular, stiff movement, before lying down and turning away from her. Ayaka had no choice but to follow in suit, hyper-aware of the Tengu warrior’s breaths, both still clad in their wedding robes in their wedding bed on their wedding night.
City children play a game of marbles that are to be thrown onto a board with precise accuracy. Before their move, they rattle the marbles in their hand, and a similar rattling quivers between Ayaka’s ears. She wishes it would stop because then she would hear it, if Sara changes her mind.
The bed creaks; Ayaka freezes.
Anticipation thumping in her chest, she waits.
Some shuffling. Another creak.
And then the muffled sound of padded footsteps on wooden flooring. When the tell-tale rumble of the sliding door halts, Ayaka realises that Sara has left the room.
In the darkness of their bedroom, Ayaka’s mind races — perhaps Sara had to use the washroom. But that door was off to the side. There was a large tray of refreshments on a low, long table at Sara's side of the room. She could have simply gone there, if needed. Her clothes were folded and tucked between Ayaka's in the closets that lined another end of her room.
Biting her lip, Ayaka rises, pulling her robes around her for propriety before following in her wife’s footsteps.
It takes her only a few minutes of wandering about the Kamisato Estate, bathed in silver in the moonlight, to find where Sara has gone, so late at night, their wedding night. And on this night, the sakura petals that layer the estate gardens in a shroud of fuschia are beautiful, stunning in their beauty and trembling in their impermanence.
Because pink petals always cascade downwards from sakura trees, forming a rosy ocean on the Earth that scrunches under sandals and scent the skies. And standing in this perfume of pink is Sara, alone.
Ayaka stops, because her heart begins to shiver at the sight of the formidable General, unmoving Inazuman, stern noble, looking so lonely and so small that it twists painfully in her chest.
Creaking wooden stairs gives her away, and Sara whips around.
This would be the fourth time she’s witnessed her gaze, but this burns differently along her arms, for her strong features are mellow with a weak, delicate emotion that feels so close and so distant all at once. Ayaka cannot tear her eyes away from pink smudges on black silk, and reminds herself that sakura petals are delicate, and that’s why they have a place so close to the warrior’s heart.
"Is something wrong, Miss Kujou?"
"Nothing. My apologies for waking you, Miss Kamisato."
"Please, it's— it's no matter."
Ayaka has to be gentle, because that is what a wife would do.
"I am sorry that you are having an unfulfilling rest at the Kamisato Estate," she begins, echoes of her heart’s erratic leaps beating against her throat. "Allow me to rectify that to the best of my ability."
It's polite and kind, open-ended enough for Sara to ask for whatever she needed to return to their shared bed. To stop standing out here amid wilting, falling petals, looking so lonely that it wrenches something deep within Ayaka. Enough to remind her that Ayaka is her wife, and this is her duty to Sara.
Her stomach sinks when Sara's expression hardens.
"My restlessness has nothing to do with the Kamisato Estate's gracious hospitality," she says, stiff. "I have not been able to sleep for a long while."
And it should be easy for her to reach over the smudge away the pink tenderness in her features, to let the fuschia pain melt away into something steadier, as Ayaka remembers Sara to be. But she feels the horrible loneliness in her eyes ache along her throat, a sensation too familiar to warrant reasonable action.
“Why not?” asks Ayaka, and it’s a breathless puff that startles suspended sakura.
It upsets the slow, hypnotising fall of petals, and Ayaka’s vision is briefly blinded by a flash of pink before it clears, fluttering open like a curtain before a stage-show that reveals Sara’s turned back to her. She is looking up at the sakura tree, and Ayaka cannot see that horrible, aching loneliness anymore. She does not know if she should be grateful.
“I do not know where I will be when I wake up."
Ayaka blinks, confused, and blurts, "You will wake up at the Kamisato Estate."
Sara stiffens, and she knows it’s the wrong answer, but reason has slipped past her fingers just as the petals do, and she pushes on against the trembling thumping in her chest, because they are wives, They are wives, and Ayaka can be a good one if Sara lets her. But she needs to know — know what Sara wants because then this becomes easier, because a canvas cannot have colour unless the painter raises their brush—
"Unless you- Unless you wish to be elsewhere?"
In the trembling silence, a resigned sigh.
"When I am conflicted, I follow the sakura petals. They show me the path I must take."
Her voice is weak, fluttering.
"And they collect here, at the Kamisato Estate. So perhaps—"
And then it breaks, and Ayaka knows she has made a mistake bringing this up.
"Perhaps this is where I am supposed to be."
The answer rings hollow, as weightless and fragile as the sakura in the moonlight.
In the days that follow, Sara is a lonely figure in the Kamisato Estate.
So she asks Thoma to attend to Sara. Give her company should she need it, and he agrees — before reporting back to her that very same evening saying that the former General keeps to herself, which she understands as Sara being uninterested in Thoma’s delightful chatter. But he still accompanies her, and for that, she’s grateful.
That’s not to say that Ayaka does not attend to her wife at all — between Sara’s rigid routine in the mornings and Ayaka’s long list of responsibilities, they do make time to take walks around the estate grounds in the evening. Sara adopts a more languid pace during these encounters, and Ayaka has to crane her neck up to see her face. But, under the falling sakura leaves, the sting of their earlier conversation still burns, and she fills in the gaps torn open by her clumsiness with meaningless small talk that does not change from day-to-day.
It is Thoma who suggests a gift, because Thoma knows about these things.
Something meaningful, he says. Something she would appreciate, perhaps even see as a gesture of effort on Ayaka’s part. It is common practice between couples, especially newlyweds. And Ayaka cannot see any fault with the plan, until she considers what the gift should be.
Her first thought is a bow, for Sara’s fingers are calloused from daily training. But the blacksmiths under the Kamisato Clan are unfamiliar with bows — that is to say, they are masters of blades, and while they can craft a good bow, Ayaka does not want to get something sub-par. The next option is silk — yards of cyan and blue and purple and pink that are regal to witness but simple to wear. It is tradition, after all, to gift a spouse with cloth after their wedding. But this too, seems too much — Sara proudly wears the Kujou crest, and Ayaka has to be careful.
When she notices that the Tengu mask perched on her head is chipped, the answer becomes clear.
Any member of the Yashiro Commission, especially someone from the Kamisato Clan, is familiar with the arts. Their role places them at the centre of Inazuman art and culture, and she has made herself intimate with each and every art form as part of her duties. So it is easy to call upon an old theatre costumer for a personal favour, and give him the specifications for the mask. Although Ayaka asks him to take his time, she is secretly relieved when he says he will consider this as a priority.
It takes him two days, and Ayaka cannot help but be stricken by the scarlet hue of the new mask. The dye is made by crushing Dendrobium petals into a fine powder that is mixed with twice-boiled water, and is therefore expensive, so any work with this dye requires expert lacquer work. And this mask is no exception, for a glossy sheen coats every crevice of the Tengu mask’s grin and every wrinkle beside its eyes, preserving the maple wood soundly for years to come.
It truly is a fine piece of Inazuman craftsmanship, so she wraps it in a gift-box. Every gift must come with a note, so she sits down to pen one before Thoma snatches away her tools. A clinical note does nothing in the face of the heartfelt spoken word, he says. Ayaka disagrees, for there is little room for error in the clinical. But she listens, opting instead to jot down the specific dialogue she will speak to Sara, and shoos Thoma away when he rolls his eyes.
During their evening stroll through the grounds, Ayaka presents Sara with the box.
Tilting her head up, she says, “Miss Kujou, I got you a gift, if you will accept it.”
Sara looks at the box for a long moment before accepting it with a nod.
It takes her a long time to undo the ribbon, much to Ayaka’s dismay. Perhaps because Sara is strangely delicate with the whole matter — carefully untying the knots rather than snap it apart with the strength Ayaka knows she has — and the anticipation thrums in her clenched knuckles.
When she finally opens the box, her eyes go wide. When she says nothing for long moments, Ayaka’s lips kick-start into an anxious explanation.
“I— I noticed that your mask was chipped, and I thought that this would be an appropriate gift. I hope that is not an overstep.”
“Not at all. You have my thanks, Miss Kamisato.” Archer’s fingers, long and strong, lift the mask out of the box, and Sara examines the crimson wood with evident admiration. “This is a very well-made piece. The lacquer work is extraordinary.”
Her heart skips two beats before slowing down, throbbing like it would after a rigorous training session.
“I’m glad to hear that you like it,” she murmurs. “The Kamisato Clan has alway had a good relationship with the most skilled artisans in the nation, and I thought—”
She wrote this part down. It is best that she recites it, word by word, so that she makes no more mistakes.
A deep inhale, and: “I had misspoken earlier, at the sakura tree, and said things that may have come across incorrectly. You are always welcome in these grounds and are a member of this household, now. I apologise for my words, and hope that this gift reinforces the importance of your place here.”
Success, because she had scratched out the unnecessary adjectives and carry-on sentences until the meaning was clear and crisp. Success, because Sara’s features soften, a movement so slight that she would have missed it had she not been watching so carefully.
“Thank you, Ayaka.”
Her heart skips two beats before speeding up, thumping like it would in the adrenaline of battle.
“That is, if I may call you— My apologies, I—”
“It’s alright,” Ayaka hears herself say from a great distance. “We are wives, after all.”
Sara looks away. “You may speak to me informally as well, if you please. It is only fair.”
She has two red masks, says the only lit-up corner of her mind. One in her hair, that looks down at her with a knowing smirk. One in her hands, a gift from Ayaka that she likes so much that she now expects— oh, Archons, she expects—
“Thank you, Sara.”
A stiff nod is her response. Ayaka isn’t sure if she could have handled anything else. Sara still hasn’t looked back at her, opting instead to admire something very far away in the grounds, so the Tengu mask still smiles teasingly at her as she tries to compose herself. They are far from the end of their walk. Twilight is settling around them. They should really get going.
And then, so softly that she would have missed it if she weren’t listening so carefully, Sara says, “The Kamisato Estate is lovely.”
Two more skips, and a frightfully reckless leap. But Sara doesn’t need to know about that.
“The Kujou Estate, it— There were only the sounds of weapons and training. There was no scope for much else. It had— It has no room for anything else.”
A beat, where her long neck bobs from her swallow.
“I had always wondered what it would be like, to be surrounded by the sounds of music and laughter and...and family. Now that I am here, I must confess, it is...it is lovely.”
And perhaps it’s because she’s still floating in the happy clouds from earlier, because Ayaka makes the mistake of going off-script and saying, “You have family there as well.”
The Tengu mask’s smirk becomes lop-sided as Sara dips her head.
“They are my family, yes. But they—”
If she tilts her head just so, she can see the dullness in Sara’s eyes, weighed down by something so hurt that Ayaka would prefer to speak to the mask forever, than witness the bitter twist of her lip and sharp pinch in her brow.
“They never told me,” she says, voice tight and hoarse. “They had kept me in the dark of their wrong-doings. And I… I am unsure if they ever planned otherwise.”
Something lodges in Ayaka’s throat. She hadn’t known about this — the Traveller had never told her when recounting the events at Tenshukaku.
“Forgive me,” she whispers. “I didn’t know— I hadn’t meant—”
She can say something better, something more comforting, something a wife would say, to brush away the heaviness in her eyes. But it hurts so much, aches so close, that she’s left powerless again, years of learning proper speech abandoning her when she needs it the most.
“I’m sorry,” is all she can manage.
But that’s the wrong thing.
Sara’s shoulders tighten impossibly at the pity, at the desperation lacing her voice, and she collects herself quickly. Looms above Ayaka, still not looking at her, the moment of weakness only a strange mirage that Ayaka had mistakenly approached.
“It’s alright,” she says, voice clipped. “I didn’t mean to sour the mood. Pay it no mind.”
Red sandals move, red masks drift away from her vision.
“We should get back. It is getting late.”
Ayaka’s heart sinks, and it’s a tremendous fall from the soaring heights of before.
Ayaka is familiar with the many art styles and forms in Inazuma, as a daughter of the Kamisato Clan and a member of the nobility. However, calligraphy is an art style that is taught to all from a young age, and one that she takes great pleasure in.
Systematic motions of the hand — slow circles of the ink stick against the inkstone, gentle twists to drip away excess ink on her brush, and the rustle of mulberry paper as bristles slide across. She can appreciate it now, but when Ayaka was younger, she hadn’t enjoyed the dull, stuffy lessons in her family study one bit. Then, she had been filled with an excitable energy that demanded to be outside, to climb the sakura tree, to race across the Estate.
After her mother's passing, however, it became a way to ground herself — to control the bubbling thrum in her chest with slow, smooth motions completed in total silence.
In the Kamisato household, they use a special type of ink, made from pine wood and scented with eucalyptus. It runs with a deep, blue hue and, perhaps due to their family's fondness for the shade, was named Kamisato Blue. But blue dye is difficult to create — Sea Ganoderma are too fragile to be dried and caked with soot, and Crystal Marrow is too brittle for a smooth texture.
Yet the ink still falls as dark navy lines on paper, from just the head of the brush being dipped in the hand-ground ink. Ayaka can create words and sayings in hypnotizingly smooth motions, and the anxious pounding in her chest stills with each deliberate, delicate stroke.
She can do little more than this, now. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, she will do her best again, but for now, this is all she can do to settle herself. And repeating this mantra to herself, she slowly works through the stack of bare papers, flicking lines and curving edges.
A knock on the door breaks her focus, and she calls out, "Come in."
The sliding door rattles as it opens, and Sara emerges from behind it.
Balancing her brush on a flat ceramic holder, she says, "Sara. What brings you here?"
"It is late," she says, and that's when Ayaka looks out of the windows. The evening sun under which she had sat has now phased into a high full moon that casts silver shadows into her study. It's gotten quite late, if the howling of the foxes are to be trusted, and she should retire for the night, for Sara rises early and—
Ayaka swallows.
"Were you waiting for me?"
"Yes."
"Ah," she says against the bubbling thrum in her chest. "M-My apologies, I—"
She rises, gathering her tools and packing them away quickly.
"I hadn't meant to keep you up. Please, there's no need to wait for me, I will—"
Sara is staring at her, wide-eyed.
"What is it?"
Ayaka freezes when she realises Sara is staring at her attire. Her hand snaps to the collar of her rob— no, these are Ayato's robes, men's robes, meant to hang off his body with ease and not flop off her shoulders as it is now, and Sara is looking at her like she’s grown another head.
"I can explain," she whispers, horrified. "I— These robes are comfortable. I wear them when I practice calligraphy for that reason, and I—"
"It suits you."
The words catch in her throat.
"Sorry?"
Sara shrugs. "It suits you. Are those Mister Kamisato’s robes?”
Baffled, she can only breathe, “Yes.”
Against the hot flush crawling up her neck, Ayaka wonders if this is because she’s stayed up too late — after all, foxes love to play tricks, and the shadows of night are a perfect chance to disguise their forms. Because it has to be a trick of the moonlight when Sara’s gaze lingers on her frame for several moments, it has to be.
“When I had first joined the army,” murmurs Sara absently, “most mistook me for a boy, because my hair was so short. I hadn’t minded, because that meant that they wouldn’t pull any punches with me. And they took care of me well, too.”
Technically, based on her still-short hair, many could still make that assumption. But Ayaka is not focusing on technicalities now. How can she, when Sara is still staring at her, with— with appreciation ?
“That’s nice,” she rasps, dumbly.
Sara hums, dropping her head, midnight-blue hair curtaining her strong features.
“It didn’t last very wrong. We all received harsh scoldings from Master. He told the soldiers to leave me alone, and he told me that I was… As a member of the Kujou Clan, my duties lay in my training, and training alone.”
Ayaka stays very still, says nothing, because these things are delicate matters, and she does not know how to respond to them in a way that does not offend Sara. So she fumbles with the paper and pen in her clenched fists, the rustle of paper a loud, distracting sound in the silence.
“My apologies, I have soured the mood once more.”
“It’s fine,” breathes Ayaka, looking up.
Sara has a pinched, pained expression, and she knows it well. She knows it well, because it twists in her heart too, when she thinks of mother and father and brother and Kamisato Blue ink. And perhaps that’s why she knows that at the least, at the very least, she can do this.
So she says, “I don’t mind listening to you.”
Sara’s hair bounces as she jerks upwards, watches her with a wide-eyed look. It makes Ayaka’s knees go weak from the sweetness of her expression — like a child that has been told that they can play for the rest of the day with no homework to complete, innocent and open and trusting.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, looking far away again. At what, Ayaka isn’t sure, but she cannot tear her eyes away.
She finds that she wants Sara to face her again, so she says, “Aside from training, did you— what did you do to pass the time?”
The taller woman turns to her, shakes her head. Tilts her chin like a confused bird, and Ayaka tries to ignore the sweet honey dripping down her throat.
“Like— Like calligraphy,” she offers. “A hobby.”
“I never had one. And I was never taught calligraphy.”
A cross voice in her mind snaps, Did no one in the Kujou Clan even think of teaching her a fundamental Inazuman art?
She settles for, “It’s quite simple, and very relaxing.”
An image flashed through her mind — of Sara's calloused fingers pinched around a brush, and her breath hitches.
“I could— I could teach you, if you’d like.”
Every calligrapher has their own unique style. Ayaka’s is curved — a single line that does not break from paper, twirling and spinning along pressed mulberry to create looping, spinning letters that feel like dancing. She wonders what Sara’s would be like — rigid and stern, just like the woman herself? Or would she opt for showcasing lazy, lucid strokes that only impress the letters themselves?
Would Sara’s hands be bold, steady — unlike the quiver that shook through them on their wedding day?
Sara eyes the pen in her hand with no small amount of wariness, however.
“I doubt I would take to it well, given my personality.”
Pushing down the disappointment bubbling in her chest, Ayaka says, “To each their own, of course.”
Sara hums.
And then, “It suits you, though.”
Her fingers tighten around the brush.
“I understand that calligraphy requires focus, but also a certain type of grace. To mix the technical rules with the freeness of art — it seems like something you do well, and with ease, too, if your fighting style is any reflection. The brush seems natural in your hands.”
An uncontrollable, excitable energy — the ghostly memory from many years passed — rushes to her fingertips.
“Perhaps it would be more fitting for us to spar together,” muses Sara, unaware of the raging storm in Ayaka’s heart. “I would like that.”
Because the beating of a hundred drums pound against her chest, flat palms slapping pressed hides as the shrine musicians do during festivals. Surely Sara must know. If Ayaka can feel each beat reverberating between her ears, surely, surely Sara can hear it too.
And maybe she does, for her eyes widen and she says, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“Not at all,” and it’s a strangled whisper. “Your words are too kind.”
“Right, of course,” mutters Sara, and her face is hidden by midnight-blue hair again. “I will— Ahem. I fear I have taken up much of your time, and it is late. I will wait for you outside.”
Sara takes the sound of the drums with her, and closes the sliding door against their music, until Ayaka is standing alone in the quiet study. She stares down at her palms. There's a smudge of navy blue ink on her pointer and middle fingers, from crushing the inkstone and holding the brush.
Ayaka realises that her hands had remained steady through it all.
It is Ayato who suggests they go to the festival, because it’s only proper that the new couple make public appearances. Rather than be paraded around in a brightly-decorated float, would it not be better if the two of you walked with the people? It would set a better image in their minds , he had said, and Ayaka had agreed.
The truth, of course, is a little different. Political marriages birth strange whisperings, and so there is little difference between a confetti-adorned parade through the streets and their slow steps through the festival market now.
Sara walks like a General — proud and brisk, hands stiffly by her sides. Ayaka is no soldier, so her wrists curve anxiously every few minutes. She can feel the warmth radiating from Sara’s knuckles when she does, but doesn’t dare go any further.
Festivals are always brightly-lit — it’s important that they are, because these temporary spaces need to have adequate lighting to facilitate the large crowds that gather in the evenings, after parents come home from work and children finish their schoolwork. So there are long, parallel strings of paper lanterns on high beams that throw yellow-golden light onto the many stalls at the fair, on the many curious faces turning to regard them.
“I have never been to a festival before,” Sara says.
With a nervous pride swelling in her chest, Ayaka says, “I can show you around, if you’d like.”
“That would be for the best.”
So she does, biting back a smile at the sweet sight of the mask in Sara’s hair, at the little fox ears peeking through. She staunchy avoids the fortune-teller, because she wants to stay on a relatively safe path beside her wife as they participate in their first festival together. It's for the best, she thinks, even though Sara's sharp eyes drift curiously to the crowded stand.
A distraction, then. "The Kamisato Clan has always been responsible for the festivals that you see in Inazuma. We work closely with the local shrine maidens, vendors, and safety officials, so that the experience is an enjoyable one for all."
"I remember my brother's speaking about allocating security to these festivals," is Sara's response. "I had assumed that many crowd control tactics would be utilised to prevent any issues, but I never thought these events to be so…"
Sara trails off, golden-yellow eyes watching a child scurry across their path and to a group of giggling friends.
"So?"
"So harmonious."
Again, blooming pride heats her chest. "I never thought they would be, either."
Sara's gaze, keen as a hawk, snap to her. There's a question in them that she thinks is safe to answer.
"I had attended my first festival only recently," she admits. "It— You understand. It is not proper for a noblewoman to be at such events."
Sara’s response is a long, hard glance that makes her belly spin and swoop like a bird dancing in the sky. When Sara breaks her gaze with a distracted hum, Ayaka follows it to the wishing stand.
And the question traps her: "What is that?"
"It's a wishing stall. You can draw your wish and hang it up for the spirits to consider and bring to fruition."
Don't , thinks Ayaka. Please, don't say—
"Shall we try it out?"
"As you wish."
Swallowing back the rattling nerves in her throat, Ayaka approaches the stall and asks for two plaques and two pens. Hands one each to Sara without looking at her, and attends to her own silently. Sara says nothing, either, and there is only the scratching of pen against wood, until: "I am finished."
"As am I," says Ayaka, closing a fist over her plaque. It's pointless, because they are to hang it at the tree for all to see, and Sara will see that right beside her drawing of Inazuma is Ayaka's own drawing of Inazuma and now there's going to be—
Ayaka inhales sharply.
"Oh," she breathes.
"Oh," mirrors Sara.
Dimly, the small voice in her head smiles, She can't draw at all.
"You draw well," says Sara stiffly.
"Thank you."
There's a strange heat crawling up her collar. It's summer, and the heat doesn't quite leave in the evenings, so festivals like this are open grounds for dehydration and heatstrokes. They keep large terracotta pots of water every few meters for this purpose, so Ayaka pours herself a glass from the nearest one and takes a long drink while Sara fumbles with the edge of her obi .
The bang of a drum, once, twice, then two beats in quick succession. The crowds freeze until it stops, and then move with great urgency and interest, like a colony of ants that discover a dropped sweet treat.
Ayaka’s breath hitches when a hand presses against her shoulderblades, every thought flying out of her mind at the steady touch. Dizzily, she tilts her head upwards, because Sara is so close and so tall and her hand is so warm, to see yellow-golden eyes surveying the crowds with military efficiency.
"What is happening? Is everything alright?"
She does her best to push a smile through the cottony thickness settling on her tongue.
“It’s alright,” she manages. "Just a sign that the fireworks show is starting."
Amber eyes widen; it’s such a beautiful colour.
“Oh,” she says, and her hand leaves Ayaka’s back. “I see.”
Through the strange buzzing in her ears, Yoimiya’s cheeky grin wavers into her mind’s vision. I’ll save you my favourite spot to watch the fireworks , she had said with a naughty wink. Ayaka had blushed then, and surely enough, heat floods her cheeks now.
Of course she has read the stories — under her blankets and in the dead of the night — of lovers going to their first festival together for the firework show. Silent wishes for intimacy that soar into the skies in a flurry of bright light, until sulpher and metal powder can no longer bear the intensity of their desires and explodes in a flash of bright, dazzling light. At that moment, an embrace — tender and wanting, and the story ends, and Ayaka remembers having to press her giddy giggles into the pillowcase.
“Would you— Would you like to see it?”
“Yes.”
And that is how they end up sitting next to each other on a raised hill, waiting for Yoimiya’s expert skills to commence.
Sara leans back on one hand and Ayaka is careful not to sit too close, of course. But she’s taking up a lot of space, and their hands are close enough for Ayaka to feel that radiating warmth again. This would be the perfect opportunity, she thinks, if she just shifted her pinky ever-so-slightly to—
A deafening boom, and the sky lights up.
The mind goes quiet when the first golden firework splatters across the starry canvas, because such beauty is rare to witness. When the second rocket explodes beside it in a sparkle of silver and white, the mind starts to sing, uncontrollably excited. And then, as the midnight sky opens with bursts of yellow and golden and red and silver with little flecks of pink and blue beside each smattering of light, the mind starts to tremble, unbearably joyous.
It seems as though Yoimiya is fond of goldens and yellows, for the largest explosions are coloured in the thousand shades of ambrosia. And yet, there are touches of blue and pink and purple that emerge between the expanses of honey that drip along the sky, and Ayaka is surprised to see how well the colours work together. As expected of the master pyrotechnician, she thinks with a fond smile.
And she keeps smiling, even when the spectacle ceases and the cheers dull down, because this is a part of it too — the deafening silence after a colourful cacophony of light, the moment of shock after witnessing great beauty, the stillness after coordinated sweeps. Because the mind is working to preserve this moment — to carefully fold the precious memory and safely tuck it in a secure corner of the mind, working amid adrenaline to preserve the moment forever.
Sara breaks the silence.
“Did you enjoy that?”
Ayaka blinks, scrambles to collect herself quickly. Turns, and oh, oh dear.
Sara is smiling.
She is smiling, and it’s so precious that her mind snatches the sight of her narrowed eyes and curved lips and tries to fold it with fumbling fingers and shaking hands, searches desperately for a good enough space to tuck the lazy rise of her cheeks, trips and slips over the sweet softness of her jaw, and oh, oh dear, she has yet to reply.
“I did. Did— Did you?”
“Very much.”
And then Sara chuckles, a lovely, raspy sound that shivers against her skin.
“It is strange — these things are possibly the furthest thing from the Almighty Shogun’s Eternity.”
The fireworks are gone, but the thousands of lanterns from the festival radiate a soft golden glow that tickles the underside of her jaw, and Ayaka can’t look away. Their hands are still awfully close.
“I should not let myself get carried away by these momentary distractions, but once in a while, they...this is nice.”
“Yeah,” agrees Ayaka dumbly.
She should leave it at that, because this is a nice ending to a nice evening. She can leave it at that, and maybe press her pinky against Sara’s knuckles and she might twist her hand upwards and hold hers, and it would be a lovely end to the night. She can leave it at that, and the sweet memory of a wonderful night would be preserved like a perfectly lacquered statue.
But Ayaka is the daughter of the Kamisato Clan, the clan that opposed the Shogun’s civil war against her own people.
“You may not see the Raiden’s Eternity,” she whispers. “She is an Archon and we are— we are not. You will never see it come to fruition. So why do you toil so hard?”
There are no more fireworks, so there’s no fire hazard anymore, but when Sara’s golden gaze turns to her, it feels like she’s lit up a sparkler too close to her skin. Like the string caught fire too quickly for her to react and the rocket exploded in her hands. Wherever golden eyes lay, they sting and singe the skin — she’s seen the raised, pale patches on Yoimiya’s hands and calves, and surely, her skin must be burnt similarly.
“That is true,” says Sara, voice low to control the anger beneath. “I will never see Her Excellency’s Eternity. I had made peace with that fact a long time ago, and dedicated my life to that cause.”
And then the golden flames in her eyes waver, like a lit candle on a breezy night.
“I had made my peace with it. I had— I had walked into Tenshukaku and faced the Crimson Witch of Embers ready to forfeit my life for the Shogun. And I almost did.”
Immolation is the cruelest form of death. In Inazuma, such a sentence is reserved only for the worst of crimes done by the greatest of sinners. But Sara is not a sinner, she thinks. Sara is— Sara is her wife, and her wife looks like she’s lost, alone in a land that she had sworn to protect.
“I chose that fate,” she whispers. “I had told myself that I was ready to face that ending. But— But then I woke up, and I realised I had failed.”
“Sara,” she breathes, horrified. “Sara, you— you did not fail. Eternity was never your responsibility.”
Golden eyes pin her in place, harsh with judgement.
“And what of your responsibilities? The Kamisato Clan organises every festival in Inazuma. You organise every festival in Inazuma — I have seen you speak with shrine maidens and vendors and local officials. And still, you say you should not attend these events.”
Ambrosia is supposed to taste like a never-ending circle of life. Not this awful, burning end.
“So tell me, Ayaka. Why do you toil so hard?”
Through the yellow flames razing her fingertips, Ayaka thinks of two drawings of Inazuma — one done by a calligrapher, one done by a warrior. Graceful and clumsy strokes, hung up for all to see.
“You—” Her breath catches, for the flames have crawled up her neck. “You understand. Of all people, you understand why.”
“I do understand,” says Sara, eyes downcast. “But the more I think about it, the less it seems right. And if we cannot do the right thing, then what is left?”
Her eyes squeeze shut, golden flames extinguished for just a moment, and then Sara rises to her feet. Before Ayaka can follow, the Tengu warrior has walked away, leaving Ayaka in the burning silence of the fireworks.
She’s left aflame, fingertips alight with golden fire — so the folded memory begins to crumble into ash.
Ayaka’s mother had taught her that the dojo must be a place of quiet meditation. A swordswoman of great grace and power, Ayaka remembers the silent, deadly slashes of her blade, the only sound of metal slicing through air, and nothing else.
Because the Tachi Jutsu style calls for nothing less than total and complete stillness, so that the sword can speak through the swordswoman. Ayaka has never witnessed anything other than the stillness of a mind that is one with the blade.
Now, things are not so. Now, the dojo rings with Sara’s broken, roaring cries.
The twang of a bowstring as it fires off another arrow, the thunk of the target as it centers on the bulls-eye. Sara does not wait, does not celebrate — she leaps backwards, and another arrow has rushed away from her taut bowstring, and then another, and another. A never-ending barrage of sharp points that crowd the centre of the target, all shot from the Kujou warrior.
She has not stopped training at all today, and Ayaka is— Ayaka is worried.
“Sara,” she says, when there’s a moment of quiet. “Sara, stop.”
The wild eyes of the Tengu meet hers, but all Ayaka notices is the sticky crimson dripping from her wife’s fingertips.
“Please,” she says. “Enough.”
“Spar with me,” is Sara’s response, voice low.
Ayaka’s breath catches, because her eyes rage with a storm that should have no place in the dojo. A clatter as Sara drops her bow and reaches for the weapon rack, only to draw out—
"You—" She's walking towards Ayaka with intent, and it makes her knees go weak. Dumbly, she settles for, "With the sword?"
Sara nods, offers her one of the two blades in her hands.
Ayaka must remember that Sara is a Tengu warrior. As the legends go, all weapons sit comfortably in their hands, so the archer remains a threat. And she must remember that the Tachi Jutsu calls for stillness, for the tranquility of snow, and now the burning, blazing wildfire in Sara's eyes. She must be aware that accepting this will have its repercussions, because ice never meets fire with ease or grace.
A deep breath, and Ayaka grips the offered hilt closest to her.
Stillness starts in Ayaka's knees. A slow frost seeps into her bones, crawls upward. And then it spreads along her stomach and torso, a cold ending to any raging flames that may think of sprouting. But Sara's fury burns in a bright flash of gold that slashes along the training mats and crashes into her blade with a roar, and her stillness threatens to shatter. She blocks the strike with the flat edge of her blade, trembling from the cold and the force alike. This close, Ayaka can see the pink flush that crawls down Sara's tight neck.
When the mind is blank, the sword speaks; yet language is something that only humans speak. So the sword searches for the next best thing, and her years of dancing respond to the call.
A deep exhale that chills her shivering blade, and then Ayaka parries the strike with a long sweep. Metal screeches as she spins — a simple two-step spin to gather momentum and slash. It's a pirouette that dancers know, but not soldiers, so Sara has to duck to avoid the strike, her Tengu mask just a smudge of crimson. Ayaka follows with an upward slash that forces her to dip her blade to doge.
In the high mountains of Inazuma, snowfall is a dangerous thing, for powdery sheets covering the Earth swallow all sound. Ayaka is watching their fight from those snow-kissed peaks — watching the way Sara retaliates and strikes, watching her parry and dodge and strike in turn, watching the bounce of midnight-blue hair.
And then, the perfect moment arrives when Sara takes a step back to dodge three simultaneous slashes.
A twirl and an outstretched arm — it’s an approachable step to cajole an audience when one is on stage, but here, in the dojo, it is the end of the battle. She fists her fingers in Sara’s collar, bringing her body close to press the edge of her sword against her temple, and the spar is won.
For several moments, nothing. Nothing but the laboured pants between them, the harsh rise and fall of Sara's chest. Yet there is also too much — sound that breaks through after silence is always deafening, and Sara still has that crazed, wild look in her eyes.
Ayaka lowers her blade and releases crisp cotton. Takes a step back, tries to gather herself and quell the drumbeats pounding between her ribs, tries to look away from her wife—
Long fingers, archer's fingers, close on her wrist, yanking her back.
"Ayaka," growls Sara, and she feels it rumble through their pressed bodies, "tell me what you want."
Her throat is so dry. And Sara, she…
She leans closer, roars, "What do you want ?!"
"That's not how this works," she gasps. "It— That’s not how this works. You wore the montsuki haori hakama , so you— You should tell me."
Sara's eyes waver, and Ayaka thinks of her mother. Of the cold coals of her funeral pyre, of the cold pages of her diary full of dreams. Hope is, after all, a weightless thing in the face of duty. She can conjure imaginary friends to give her company, and Sara can continue to have no hobbies, because that is demanded of them, and hope— What hope does the emotion have in the face of duty?
“Don’t you understand?” breathes Sara, harsh and broken. “I… I am tired of these colours."
And it’s a strange emotion too, because now Ayaka is frozen with shock, with hope .
"I want—" Her voice breaks, throat shivering. "I want you to… Please."
Sara brings her hand to her own cheek, and Ayaka feels the pink flush that spreads across her high cheekbones. Drinks the ambrosia of her golden eyes, flushes under the Tengu mask's wink. Feels the tickle of sweat-slicked midnight-blue hair against her knuckles.
"Ayaka, please," says Sara, and it sounds like a prayer.
Dimly, she thinks of how light blue robes, the colour of a clear sky, would draw out Sara’s eyes beautifully. A touch of pink along her waise and wrists, white embroidery herons and children and flowers all over to herald good luck. And for the months where the weather is harsher, Kamisato Blue robes with large prints of purple, because Ayaka cannot forget about the crimson kisses of Sara’s sandals and Tengu mask. Those are important to her, and so those colours, too, are important.
After all, Ayaka’s hands do not shake when she holds a brush.
The realisation twists the thrumming in her chest, and the fluttering of a thousand Crystalflies replaces the anxious thundering of drums. And so it is easy, when the mind is still, to brush her fingers against Sara’s flushed skin gently, reverently.
Sara crumbles into her, pressing their foreheads together, and Ayaka traces the strong line of her jaw, feels her breathing grow even under the hands. Steady, like she knows Sara to be.
"Let me colour you with all the shades I know," whispers Ayaka.
Their mouths meet once, twice, and all the colours begin to blend together.