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[traditional-with-a-twist]

lix. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3

Parallel scene: Lovely, Dark, and Deep from Obiyuki Winter Challenge 2018.

As Kiki set the hunting lodge to order, she assessed the situation.

Truth be told, she had foreseen little good following Obi’s choices from the start, and now there was every reason to declare her fears vindicated.

She found her friend alone and forsaken, stranded somewhere along the road to nowhere and by no means in the best of health.

...

Kiki had not meant to interfere. She had understood in the couple’s sudden and silent departure, vanishing on the eve of their wedding, that they would find their own way now. 

She thought of them; she wished them well; she waited.

When Shirayuki’s letters stopped, she had begun watching, listening, looking for signs of something amiss. 

Had they simply disappeared again, in quest of a still more distant retreat than the one they had made for themselves in the wilds of the Haruka estate?

The message from Mitsuhide had settled this question.

...

Where Obi had gone now, why he had left — those questions Kiki could not answer, and she doubted whether Shirayuki might, either.

Perhaps Obi himself would be hard-pressed to explain. 

Regardless of the case, Kiki considered such details immaterial. He had made his decision; he had broken the promise sworn before her and to his wife.

Now only one question remained: what next?

...

Shirayuki’s feelings wavered from gladness to trepidation when Kiki re-entered, bearing a bowl of something hot.

She felt herself stronger as she sat up to eat, but inwardly her spirit quailed. 

Twice now Shirayuki had appealed for assistance with her quest; twice she had been refused — by the very persons she might have expected more interested, most sympathetic to her case.

Now that she faced a third prospect of rejection, Shirayuki debated whether to mount the petition at all.

...

Perhaps Kiki was too busy; perhaps it would not be fair to ask.

Shirayuki would not want to put her in an uncomfortable position…would not want to impose….

She accepted the bowl in silence and began to eat with her eyes lowered.

...

Kiki sat beside her on the bed, a gesture so familiar that Shirayuki looked up in surprise.

She met her friend’s kindest smile, the one she had encountered first in the belly of a pirate’s ship after a long nightmare of fear and isolation.

The same expression of warmth and kind understanding met her now.

...

“Shirayuki,” her friend said gently. “You’ve come a long way.”

The herbalist of Tanbarun turned royal pharmacist then princess-to-be, bereaved and betrothed again, lately a wife and now a sojourner — at this acknowledgement, she felt herself begin to tremble.

Shirayuki gripped the bowl to stop it from splashing.

...

Kiki laid her small hand, strong and sure, on her friend’s shoulder. “You’re not alone,” she said simply.

Shirayuki set the bowl aside and let herself be held as she had not for an interminable number of nights — not since Obi had left her nor Zen before him, not even since her grandparents, but perhaps all the years back to the loss of that unknown mother who had once cradled her close and secure as Kiki did now.

The fear drained away as a restful sense of comfort overtook it.

Shirayuki leaned on her friend and said, “I’m looking for Obi.”

...

Kiki nodded. She had guessed as much, but it meant something that Shirayuki spoke in the present tense. She was yet searching; she had not given up.

Bolstered by this first mark of acceptance, Shirayuki drew herself upright.

She met Kiki’s gaze and confessed, “I don’t know where he is.”

...

There it was – the shame and futility of her search, bundled together in one short phrase.

She had admitted herself completely forsaken, even as she asked an fabulous boon: help me to find a man who does not want to be found. 

Help me track a flake of snow in the mountains, a fallen leaf in the forest.

Help me to journey, I know not where, for a man who may refuse me when I arrive.

Help me to do the impossible.

...

She bared the guilt and absurdity of it all before the gaze of Lady Kiki Seiran, the third nobility of her adopted country to whom she had addressed her plea.

The first had scorned both her and his son, lashing out in anger.

The second had turned from her, drawn away along his own road to somewhere she knew not, too bound in his own pain to minister to hers.

...

Now Kiki’s eyes regarded her: the pale clarity of an aristocratic line, hardened like diamonds in the forge of Kiki’s exacting mind and unrelenting spirit.

The eyes of a basilisk when angered, the eyes of a sphinx when calm, they weighed up all who came before them and found most wanting.

Shirayuki met these eyes unflinching, firm in the courage that rarely wavered and never deserted her for long, and awaited her judgment.

...

Kiki rose from the bed and walked to the window, every step precise. She stood gazing out at the forest around them, lately streaked with white.

They were in the depths of cold yet; spring had not thawed the roads.

It would be a difficult journey under the best of circumstances, like and unlike the one she and Shirayuki had undertaken alongside two men now lost to them. Then they had traveled from the border with Tanbarun all the way to the capital of Clarines, and Shirayuki had arrived a fugitive from injustice.

...

Shirayuki was hardy and wise to the natural world, Kiki knew, but her health was flagging; at the very least, she had suffered a shock.

Besides this, the long distance of that first journey had followed known routes.

Shirayuki had stuck to the main roads in her flight from Tanbarun – speedy, but not secretive, as the untimely gift of apples had proved.

The four of them together had preferred the open country, but still along familiar paths, with known supply points.

In this situation, such a method of travel would never serve their purpose.

...

“Obi had made a life of secrecy and flight,” Kiki said. “For his kind, the woods are the nearest they have to a home. He is skilled above all in the art of vanishing without a trace, of leaving false trails, of assuming multiple identities to conceal his passage.

“Beyond this, he will have allies equally if not better skilled, some situated to provide just such a service as preventing discovery — by bolt holes, hidden passages, even arranging stowaways aboard ships.”

She turned to read Shirayuki’s face as she spoke, watching for the emotions that overtook it.

...

“When Obi fell to our supervision, Zen instructed us in the case of his disappearance, that we were not to follow.

“It would be useless, a fruitless waste of our resources. To track him with no idea of his whereabouts or purpose may cost months… even years.

“He may never be found.”

...

“Even if it takes my whole life,” Shirayuki answered, eye blazing, “I won’t stop looking! I won’t give up on him. It doesn’t matter how long.”

“Long,” Kiki repeated. “It will be long.”

The two women stood in silence for a moment. Hard sunlight slanted in through the window and struck the floor in long bright bars.

...

Then Kiki smiled. “So,” she said, “there is no time to waste. Let us start at once.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lviii. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

After the spectacular victory at sea, Tanbarun had commenced a systematic purging of the Claw’s associates.

This had proved difficult.

Headless, the limbs scattered — vanishing into hideaways and boltholes, melting back into the anonymity of the underworld.

For every pirate the soldiers captured, two more evaded them.

...

The smugglers’ elusiveness frustrated justice, but it posed at worst a tepid threat. The sea witch had masterminded the vilest of their evils; she alone sported the fangs of the operation.

Umihebi had carved blood and misery across the seas.

She had built an empire, trading in flesh. She had defied the might of the royal navy and the merchant marine, digging her nest so deeply that its tendrils extended all throughout the land before she was rooted out at last.

By trapping her, the joint forces of Prince Raj and Prince Zen had lifted a scourge from the kingdom, freed it from a menace that stalked its borders and devoured its children.

They had laid to rest a malignant enemy.

Without her venom, the thugs at her command might snap at the heels of Tanbarunian society, but they would not imperil civil order or the health of the body politic.

Now Umihebi walked free again.

...

Word of the danger spread quickly.

News, rumors, began circulating. The countryside felt the shivers of realignment as people followed.

The more unsavory characters wound towards the source of disturbance, drawn like buzzards by the promise of blood. Whispers followed in their wake, warning of a force gathering — a hatred building.

Safety was west.

Obi went east.

...

He had left something behind him in that bedroom with Torou. He no longer sought distraction.

No more would he search for a way to forget or suppress the memories, as if he could find a cure for his regrets. This was no malady plaguing him, no medical condition. He was not ill — he was guilty of a crime.

He stopped visiting towns and taverns after that — stopped looking for ways to drown or stifle thoughts of her.

...

His mind roamed more wildly than his feet, vacillating confusedly from remorse to accusation. Where had he gone wrong — leaving? Staying? Asking her to be him? Discarding her and the home they had built together?

Every decision seemed suspect; entirely contrary choices struck him as equally wrong-headed, equally inimical to everything good.

How had he dared to presume he could care for her — how had he dared to abandon her?

...

Obi knew no rest, in soul or body.

He had always been a light and fitful sleeper, prone to snatching cat naps on window sills, sofas, beds that belonged to someone else — but now he knew not when he slept. 

He would come to himself in a wood somewhere, unconscious of whether he had dreamed or only sunk into a reverie. 

Other travelers passed him by, perhaps unaware of his presence, perhaps drawing back as instinctively as animals shied from the dangerous of their kind — scenting death in the walking wounded.

...

He felt marked, a  wanderer like Cain, cursed by his own transgressions — but he had lived on the wrong side of the law for many years.

This time a chasm had opened, between himself and the rest of humanity, such as he had never known in all his years in the underworld.

It would be easy enough to let the world grind him to nothing, as it had always tried in any case, but there was something to do first — one thing he had left to take care of.

...

Obi followed that undefined sense of incompleteness to a rough town near the border — “town” being a generous term.

It was one of those the places of buying and selling sprung up in conjunction with the crossing patrolled by their neighbors to the east.

Here, one might change money, change papers, change your identity even — and buy a drink, of course.

...

No such shadow town would be complete without a place for men to wet their throats, but this hub in particular did a brisk business in reallocating confiscated liquor.

The eastern empire did not smile on spirits, as many an ill-informed merchant discovered to his chagrin.

Sometimes a  finely aged brew would find its way to the dusty tables.

Other times, Obi thought, as he watched the bartender fill his glass, it might as well have been ditchwater.

...

He sat back and surveyed the room, his mind assessing, appraising each party.

Many drank alone, but a band was gathering against one wall.

They drifted in by ones and twos, ostensibly occupied with a game of darts, but Obi noted few heads turned in direction of the play and little interest in its progress.

The men were more occupied with consulting, murmuring to each other in low voices while their eyes flitted from face to face.

...

He downed his glass.

It tasted worse than it looked, but this mattered nothing to Obi.

Perhaps his body had reached its limits at last — perhaps there was a point beyond which a man could feel no more.

Obi rose. 

He was about to find out.

...

He strolled up to the dart game like a blind, deaf dog robbed of its scent faculties — oblivious, in short, to every sign thrown out to signal his unwelcome.

The men glowered, shifted together, closed ranks against him.

A fellow with an eye patch, stationed at the group’s periphery to head off interlopers, gave him a look that was downright mean.

Obi sauntered past, headed straight for the thick of their band.

All their low murmuring ceased.

...

A few watched him coldly; others fingered the weapons at their belts.

One lifted a short, heavy-handled knife. With a grunt, he sent it spinning through the air to bury itself in the black ring surrounding the dart board’s bullseye.

A moment later, Obi’s leaf blade joined it — dead center.

Now he had their attention.

...

'Do you know how it is when they punish a thief?' His knife blade dances between his fingers. 'It is different in every country. 

‘In the south, they charge a fine. In the north, they lock you up. 

‘Go east, and they cut off a hand.' 

The blade spins through the air; he catches it with his fingertips. 'But no one has invented a punishment for my crime.'

...

“Listen, you miserable whelp,” growled a hook-nosed man, eyes burning beneath the low brim of his hat. “Do you have any idea who you’re jabbering at?”

The corners of Obi’s mouth curled up.

He raised his hand, three fingers bent in, and pawed the air in an unmistakable slash — the kind he had found carved into a tree, a lifetime ago in Tanbarun.

Obi cocked his head, holding their gaze. “Meow?”

...

A heavy hand descended on Obi’s shoulder.

It was the man with the eye patch, and his fingers gripped like steel.

“That’s a nice story you’ve got there,” he said softly, leaning in close to fix Obi with his good eye. “I know somebody who’d like to hear you tell it.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

Thank you so much for the update! I was really excited when I discovered this fic of yours, and it was so fun to read.

Like Going Home, Chapter 6

[Read on AO3]

Written for Battlecrown of @traditional-with-a-twist as her prize for winning the Madness Kitty this year!

Dread builds with her every footfall, rising at the same slope as the stairs, just as inexorable— no, as inescapable— as the tide rolling to shore. Her slippers make no more than the barest hush against the carpet, and yet Kiki is sure that her mother counts every step, giddily awaiting the news of which noble son she has taken off the marriage mart. Mother might have been the toast of her season, a flawless jewel every lord coveted for his collection, but Kiki is relegated to choosing between liver and onions: two princes, both alike in incompatibility— and disinterest— and the most interminable second son to have ever fallen from a countess’s womb.

Perhaps she should have let Mother send her to the capital after all; at least there she has the chance to be called a failure, to be declared so unmarriable that she might give up on the idea entirely. But instead she is here, wondering how she might recount dinner without Mother heaving her weary sighs, worry etching itself deeper with each detail her explanations embroider.

When Kiki finally rounds the corner, the long corridor of nearly empty guest chambers unfurls before her. No light spills out onto the carpet— or at least, none save what the sconces manage from their perches, fluted glass funneling their shine up rather than out. Even her mother’s door is dark, cast in the pale shadow between sconces, not even a hint of a candle lighting the space beneath.

Her next steps fall quite lighter as she passes, relief buoying her like a feather on the wind. She drips pearls passing through her door, eager to be rid of her elegant trappings, the luxurious details that mark her out as the daughter of a count, a girl destined to be wedded and bedded and bred with a brave face. There would be time enough to disappoint Mother with her missteps tomorrow, after she’s had a full night’s rest, but tonight—

“Milady.” It’s a soft voice that calls to her, pitched at no louder than a whisper, more a notable absence of sound than spoken word. “Is that you?”

The clasp on her bracelet springs open, sapphires melting through her fingers as she meets the maid’s gaze over her shoulder. She’s a pretty one— they’re all pretty here— hair tidily swept back to underscore the point. An observation that might have been fun to float in front of His Highness, save that the girl is old enough to have been hired during his father’s term, not his. “It is. If you don’t mind, could you get the back of this? The buttons—”

“It’s your mother, miss.”

Every muscle stiffens, making her more statue than flesh. “My mother?” Her lips nearly cut themselves on the edge of those words. “Is she…?”

All right is what comes to her first, but there’s no point in asking, not when the maid stands there wringing her hands, distressed down to the weave of her dress. They hardly came here with hopes of improvement, merely a slower decline. A pretty place to pass the time while they waited out the inevitable.

And yet she cannot bear to voice the more salient question. Inevitable it may be, but still— there’s something about speaking it that makes it more immediate, more real.

“She’s…” Those slender fingers knit together, squeezing tight before she says, “Her breathing is quite labored, miss. Should we…?”

Call the doctor. Kiki’s teeth grit hard enough to ache.

“Don’t bother.” There’s little and less he can do for her anyway. “I’ll stay with her.”

*

Mother does not sleep easy that night.

For that matter, neither does Kiki. For hours she keeps vigil at her mother’s side, watching the agonizing struggle of inhalation, only to be followed by the stomach-churning lull of an exhale. It is not her worst bout, not by far, but as the hours creep toward morning, even the moon abandons her place in the sky, and she cannot help but wonder if each breath might be the last. If with every fall of her mother’s chest, it might never rise again.

At some point, Kiki sleeps— she must, since she wakes with a wince, a hand raised to shield herself from the light pouring through the curtains. Her gown is rumpled, pearls and silvered beads having shed off in the night, mussed beyond what even a good steam might fix. A chair— a big, wing-backed monstrosity of a thing— had been draw up for her use, set beside the bed so that she might hold one of those papery hands in hers, willing life where none dared cling for long. And yet somehow she’s migrated, no longer alongside the mattress but on it, propped up on her mother’s many pillows.

Every part of her curls around the small body beside her; the same one that once labored to bring her into this world now struggling with the same effort to draw breath. It’s eased now, no longer the terrible rattle it had been in the night but more a rhythmic wheeze, one that would dissipate as soon as she woke, as if nothing had ever happened at all. Not something that would happen soon though; Mother dozes fitfully besides her, limbs trembling with the effort of her tossing and turning, only kept in place by the barrier of Kiki’s body. One she removes, slowly, carefully, beads clattering as she rises from the bed.

Red marks pepper her arms; whole clusters of circular dints twine down its softest parts, carved into her like a relief of grapes on the vine. Ah, if Father knew that she had slept in this gown— if Mother knew—

Kiki grimaces. Best to change before she wakes and hope that there was a deft enough needle amongst the maids here to repair it. A squint toward the balcony informs her that it is far too late to hope for breakfast— so late the spread has long been cleared, not even the whisper of a sausage left behind to sate her— but still too early to be underfoot in the kitchens, inquiring about luncheon. The staff would be busy with its preparation though, rushing between the kitchen and cellar and dining room without room to think of the young lady abed upstairs. Zen would surely be holed up in his room still, licking his wounds from last night, and Izana…well, wherever he might be, he wouldn’t be sparing a thought for her. No one would be, not when Kiki Seiran is already accounted for.

It would be simple to slip into her buckskins, traipsing down to the shore with no one the wiser. Mother might not approve— certainly wouldn’t, not without her royal escorts— but there’s no reason for her to know, not when she’ll be there and back before she rouses, with only the lingering scent of salt on her skin as proof.

Her mouth curls, just slightly, reaching for the door. Yes, all she needs is to move carefully, and—

And the door flies open from beneath her grip, baring a maid behind it. The same one from last night, in fact; her pretty face now rounded in shock rather than worry.

“Milady,” she gasps, a hand pressed to her chest. “I didn’t…” She clears her throat, palm skimming down to her side. “Shouldn’t you be in your room?”

Kiki lifts her chin, brows curving into their most imperious arch. She may not yet be at her full height, still too small to look down on a grown woman, but confidence bridges the gap just as well as inches would. “Should I?”

The maid doesn’t quail as she should; no, instead, her mouth furrows at the corner, consternation sinking deep into every wrinkle. “His Highness said you would be, miss. He told the housekeeper you would need a maid to help prepare something appropriate.”

“Something…?” There’s a bitter taste on her tongue when she spits out, “…Appropriate?”

“For today’s outing.” The maid stares at her, as if she is perhaps speaking a different language. “I am to help make you ready.”

“Ready?” The knot of dread that tied itself last night pulls tighter still, settle her belly to roil. “Just what outing is this?”

“For the one young master Rougis sent this morning,” the girl explains, prim. “Out on their boat.”

Kiki blinks. “Excuse me?”

The words are hardly out before she remembers his father’s blustering last night. We have a fine little ketch my boys like to race around the bay. Out to Yuris and back in only a few hours!

Silly, it might have seen to her— the last place she wanted to be was with Hisame Rougis in a room she could not escape— but…

How diverting. Oh, what a shark’s smile that man wore as he said it, probably already thinking of invitations tendered and accepted. Perhaps we should plan an excursion?

“The invitation came in with the post, right over breakfast. Wasn’t my lady…? Ah!” The maid glances at her, guiltily, as she remember just why young mistress Seiran might not have been at the table. “Yes, well, His Highness sent your reply promptly.”

Kiki’s teeth grit down. “Did he now?”

*

Kiki strides into the training room with a storm dogging her steps. “I know you Wisterias are used to a certain amount of high-handedness, but I do not remember giving you leave to answer my correspondence for me.”

Frustratingly, His Highness doesn’t flinch. Even extended as he is, legs splayed deeply lunge and arm outstretched to the length of two men rather than the one, he doesn’t even tremble. No, he simply rises; a smooth flourish that brings his blade right down from his shoulder to his side. A salute, the way courtesy demands for a woman of her rank. Or at least it would, if he were not the crown prince, and she his unfortunate hostage.

His gaze lifts, scraping up from boot heels to hairline before his mouth settles into the sparest smirk. “Why, my lady,” he hums, sheathing the blade. “As much as I might appreciate a pair of trousers, I hardly think they’re suitable for luncheon.”

Her arms fold forbiddingly across her chest. “I’m not going.”

She expects him to balk, to straighten his spine and order her to obey the way a prince should, but his mouth only twitches. “That’s hardly the sort of manners a young lady should show, don’t you think? Not attending after you so eagerly replied that you would…”

“You were the one that sent that, not me,” she huffs. Izana was supposed to be on the defensive, and yet here she is, shoulders set stiff as a yoke, wondering if she might be able to flee fast enough before his footmen could catch her. “Without consulting me.”

“If it were solely an invitation tendered to you, I would have,” he parries, as deftly as he did with his blade. “But though it came in your name, Lady Kiki, it was issued to all of our party.”

“So you answered for Zen too?” The sudden jolt of his brow is all the reply she needs to seize the initiative on this bout. “I can hardly imagine he’ll thank you for that either.”

Now he draws himself up, squaring his shoulders into the shape of authority. “It is my prerogative as host to tender and accept amusements on behalf of my guests.”

“Oh?” She pitches a brow into a skeptical arch. “So he is your guest?”

“No. Zen is my responsibility.” There’s a weight when he says it, a reluctance. She might dig her fingers into it, might peel back that ironic armor he covers himself in, if only she understood why. “As are you, Miss Seiran. Your mother so much as told me so when she permitted me to manage your social calendar. At least, as long as you are here.”

She wishes that this small betrayal could shock her, but in her heart of hearts, Kiki knew: it was only natural for Mother to see him as her ally. Who else here would be so determined to see her well-married other than His Highness, after all? That his interest was purely to keep himself from being on the marital chopping block wouldn’t hamper her in the slightest. Oh no, it would almost be better this way— with all his attention fixed on her, surely affection and regard would be soon to follow.

Kiki hardly even knows she’s gritting her teeth until they ache, a sting that only spurs her to dig in her heels. “I won’t go.”

That twitch of his mouth is far less amused now. “I would hardly think a lady of your pedigree would stoop to be so rude as to—”

“I’ve done your dinners.” She takes a step closer, fingers dragging over the pommel of each blade on the rack as she passes. “I’ve made polite conversation. I’ve played nice”—she hesitates before stepping within arm’s reach, tilting up her chin to meet his stare— “but I have no interest in encouraging that— that annoyance any further. Unless it is to take a long walk off a short pier.”

Izana’s smirk never dims, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes either. “Hisame Rougis is the second son of a perfect respectable, if not as storied family as your own, Lady Kiki. Which means that his sole means of status is through marrying well.” He leans in, voice lowered to a rumble. “He will only have the power you give him, and that boy is cunning enough to know it. It would be an enviable position for many ladies in out court.”

Kiki blinks. “But he’s obnoxious.”

Izana does not sigh so much as exhale, disappointment palpable as he shifts back to arm’s length. “I am afraid you will have to give me a much better reason than that. At least if you want to avoid luncheon.”

If you could hear him talk about your brother, it would be so easy to say, perhaps you would not be so eager to see him with a ‘lord’ before his name.

Zen would hardly thank her for it, true or not. And though he’s nearly as intolerable as Hisame, Kiki can’t quite bring herself to cross the only person here suffering quite so much as her.

“I can’t swim,” she says instead, with a lofty lift of her chin. “I can’t possibly go out on a boat.”

Izana huffs out a laugh. “And am I supposed to believe that something so pedestrian as drowning would stop you, if you truly wanted to go?”

Beady black eyes flash across her vision, a diamond head distorting in preparation for the bite. Ah, he does have a point.

“Besides,” he continues, leaning his wrist over his pommel. It’s frustrating how princely he looks without doing much more than breathing. “It’s a short cruise between the islands on a pleasure yacht. You could hardly be much safer.”

Kiki frowns, bracing herself against the rack. “I could be on land.”

His gaze slips behind her, the briefest light sparking in his eyes before he lets it wander back to her. “Let us have a wager, you and I.”

The whole thing savors strongly of a trap, but Kiki can’t help but ask, “A wager?”

“Yes. I hear you are a deft hand with a blade.” He lifts one from beside her, tossing it into her hands. “If you can get the better of me on the piste, I will make your excuses.”

Hope chokes her until all she can stutter out is, “Excuses?”

“’I must beg your forgiveness, Count Rougis’” — a hand presses to his chest, utterly contrite— “’but I fear our dear Lady Kiki has taken to her bed this morning with a stomach complaint, and cannot possibly join us for luncheon.’”

Her hands grip tight around the scabbard, keeping them from trembling. “And if I lose? What then?”

“Then you will go, gladly.” A wolf might have a less predatory smile. “And in the highest fashion with which we can conjure.”

She tests the weight of the sword in her grip. Father had started her lessons two years ago, hiring only the best blades from Sereg to teach her. She could hardly call her education complete, but she could certainly beat a boy who only casually sparred with men paid to keep his porcelain skin unmarked.

“Fine.” Her mouth stretches into a smile. “I hope you’re good at apologies, since I’ll have you on your knees soon enough.”

“Oh.” His teeth flash, her last warning. “I think you’ll find a man of my inclination has no need to make them.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

woww, a fairy tale AU! We asked you to guess, and you couldn't have picked something more perfect <3

This is the 2023 Trope Madness prize rightfully won by @traditional-with-a-twist. I hope you like it.

There was a fox in the forest one early summer morning. That in and of itself was not unusual. What was unusual was the way he spoke. 

“Why, good morning, Miss,” the fox purred. “Barely dawn and you’re already out in the woods. What brings you?” 

Fog wound itself around the fox’s rust red paws, stubbornly clinging to the forest floor even as the sun was just beginning to chase it off. The fox’s tail swiped through the haze to wrap itself around his paws instead. He sat politely and stared up at her, unblinking. 

Well, Shirayuki supposed, she was not an expert on everything in the world. Who was to say talking foxes hadn’t always existed, and she simply hadn’t come across one? 

“Good morning, Mister Fox,” she said. 

“What business have you in this here fine forest?” the fox asked. 

She replied, “I am here to gather some plants.” 

“For what purpose?” The fox licked his lips. “Lunch, perhaps?” 

“Medicine. I work in an apothecary.”

“You’re an apothecary.”

“An assistant apothecary.” 

“So you are used to helping people in need.” 

“I try,” Shirayuki said. She crouched low to get as close to eye level as she could to the fox then. It felt strange to stand so far above him when she asked, “Do you need help, Mister Fox?” 

“Who, me?” He rose onto all fours and turned away with a swish of his tail, nose in the air. He took two steps away from Shirayuki, then turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye. “I need no help. You, however…” 

“Me?” Shirayuki prompted when the fox simply trailed off without further explanation. 

The fox sauntered back to his original place in front of Shirayuki, though he did not sit this time. He said, “It is only that these trees do not like interlopers.”

“I promise I won’t do anything harmful while I’m here.” 

“Yes, but they can’t exactly trust your word as a stranger, you know. If, however, you had someone to vouch for your good character, they would let you do as you please. And I would be happy to vouch for your clearly upstanding character if only you agree to do three things for me.”

Sly, golden eyes that had previously been flitting all around the forest in a show of disinterest finally met her gaze and held it, waiting for an answer. 

“Alright,” Shirayuki said. 

On a normal day, she would be opposed to being tricked and coerced in this manner. As this was not a normal day, and as the fox was clearly too proud to ask for the help he clearly needed, she decided to play along. 

“Just like that?” the fox asked, clearly in disbelief. 

“Alright, I will hear you out.” 

“Careful, Miss. Words have meaning, and unless you are specific with yours someone might take advantage.”

“I tend to believe people are good if given the opportunity to be good.” 

“What a dangerous way to live,” the fox said softly. Then, shaking off the moment, he said, “First, you must take me home with you. Second, you must feed me from your plate when you eat. Third, you must let me sleep in your bed with you.” 

“For how long?” 

“One day and one night.” 

Only for today? She could handle that. She held out her hand and said, “I agree to your terms, Mister Fox.” 

His glanced at her outstretched hand, an approximation of a smirk flitting across his maw. After a moment, he placed his paw in her palm and let her shake it. 

“Please,” he said, voice low and honeyed, “call me Obi.” 

As early morning bled into afternoon, Shirayuki went about her business. Obi followed close on her heels when she moved, and watched her work from the shade when she stopped to gather this or that. When the work was done, they returned to Shirayuki’s modest apartment at the edge of town and shared a simple meal of bread and apples - from the same plate, of course, as per Obi’s earlier stipulation. After, she set about sorting what she’d gathered while Obi poked his snout curiously into just about every inch of her home. More than once, she heard something wobble precariously, only to hear a shout of, “It’s alright, Miss! Nothing to worry about over here!” 

The time inevitably came, after the sun had disappeared from the sky and Shirayuki had shared her second meal of the day, to confront Obi’s final stipulation. She took in mud caked around his paws, the sauce from the evening’s meal staining the white fur around his mouth, and began filling the bath. 

Obi took a lot of convincing, but he learned there was no denying Shirayuki when she’d set her mind to something. That something at the moment just happened to be letting her scrub between his toes. 

“You know,” Obi said, sounding mortified, “most people simply kick me out at this point so I don’t dirty their bed.” 

“That’s awful,” Shirayuki said and continued scrubbing. 

Humiliation complete, Obi was allowed to curl up on a towel on one side of Shirayuki’s small bed. She slid under the covers on the other side, having just enough room to lay on her side. She chose the side that would allow her to have Obi at the small of her back rather than spoon him. It felt more dignified if slightly less hospitable. 

“Goodnight,” Shirayuki said once she’d settled. “I hope you sleep well.” 

“This is it?” Obi asked after a moment of silence. “You’re really going to let me sleep here. No questions or tricks?” 

“Of course.” 

“Why?” 

She peeked over her shoulder and found him watching her with evident confusion and more than a little wariness. Like he was waiting for her to kick him out of her bed at any moment. She wondered how many times he’d tried to ask for help and been denied. She swallowed the indignation on his behalf that welled inside her at the thought and said, “Because you asked me to.” 

The rest of the night was not comfortable. Shirayuki was so unused to sharing a bed with anyone - man or creature - that she stirred at every slight movement from her current companion. At one point, he pushed up against her back so forcefully she thought she might topple right over onto the floor, but she managed to hold her ground. 

She gave up any hope for sleep at the first sign of dawn. It was fine. She’d slept less in her life. Honestly, she would have been fine not sleeping at all and giving Obi the bed, but it seemed like they needed to share the bed for anything to work. So yes, the lack of sleep was fine. The man in her bed was most certainly not. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, already across the room, back pressed against a wall and all of her attention on the stranger in front of her. Her hands shook as anger flooded her veins. Someone had taken the liberty to sneak into her house and into her bed in the middle of the night. The absolute gall. 

The man’s eyes went from sleepy and half-open to fully alert in no time at all. He glanced down at himself, discovered he was nude, and hastily covered himself with the bit of sheet that Shirayuki had claimed the night before. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” the man said. He seemed to get distracted by his own hand then, and let out a laugh. He looked over at her again and said, “Miss, you did it! You broke the curse.” 

Slowly, groggily, Shirayuki’s mind put together the pieces. The golden eyes. The lack of fox in her apartment. The Miss. She didn’t know what to expect at the end of all this, but it certainly wasn’t a man with shoulders so broad they nearly took up the entire bed. She’d seen men naked before, of course, but something about this particular naked man had her cheeks flushing. She averted her gaze to the ceiling to give them both some semblance of privacy and said, “I take it you’re Obi? Or were Obi?” 

“Still am, Miss.” In the very edges of her periphery she was trying her best to ignore, she saw him nod.  

“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s good then. Congratulations.” 

Any potential awkwardness was dispelled easily when Obi said, “Thank you. For everything.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said. 

Obi insisted on making her breakfast as an official thank you gesture. Her stomach agreed before she did. Breakfast turned into lunch, and Obi never left. They lived happily ever after.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

ahhh, so exciting to read this! Thank you for the gift ^_^

Age of Reason, Part 4

[Read on AO3]

Written for PurePassion, the other half of @traditional-with-a-twist, who also won the Obiyuki Madness Kitty! I am not often asked for more of this fic, but I am all too happy to oblige!

The thing is, the ambiance— it doesn’t add up.

Country nights run black as pitch, and the shadows here stretch deep in the stuff, dragging across the marble floors like a tiger’s stripes. The sort of inky darkness so thick a mind might trick itself into think it could leave streaks on a man, that it might even be solid enough to reach out and swallow given half the chance. The kind of endless deep that really gets the small animal of the soul shivering, wondering what might be on the other side— or if there is an other side to find. Toss a dir down a well like that, and you might be more surprised to hear it hit bottom.

That alone could have a man jumping at his own footsteps, thinking he sees ghouls and demons and worse around every corner. There’d been more than a few grifts where Obi had the dark do the heavy lifting, letting a moonless night press in around the kind of men who had more pride than sense. The kind that were eager to prove there was no vengeful spirit lurking around the village hall, or no vampires stalking through their forests in the dead of night. Convincing the shepherd went a long way in convincing the sheep, after all.

But tonight is no moonless night— no, he’d picked an evening where the old lady sat fat in her velvet bower, molting moonlight the way birds might their feathers, so bright there’d been no need for candles, even in the deepest bowels of the manor. No need for any casual passerby to know someone had been poking around the old pile, not when a ghostly princess would soon make her debut. Last thing he’d wanted was folk around here wondering if the ethereal princess had a more earthly in origin.

Picked the first night of the full moon too, just in case he needed to move fast— these Clarinese were always so quick to fall back on reason, once the fear had its time to settle, like water sinking below oil in a flask. There were ways to make skin glow and sigils flare if an enterprising person knew the angles the moonlight would slant through the window and the sort of unguent and powders that would use it to its best effect. The real could become surreal in the right man’s hands, and Obi— well, he’d made himself the right man long ago.

But standing here, staring at this apparition’s ghostly pallor, so translucent he can see where her veins run along the length of her forearms and snake up the column of her neck, blood soaked and flaking from the linen of her nightrail, and well—

It just doesn’t lend itself to the word con man. Or the way her hip cocks, unimpressed, as she cradles that bundle in her arms.

“Ah, miss!” He presses a hand to his chest, sketching the barest bow. She’s no sleeping princess, that’s for sure, but it always pays to be polite. “Con man is such an ugly term. I am a helper of man, a hunter of the unknowable, a—”

“A scoundrel, then.” She sets her bundle against her shoulder, the wailing cutting off with a hitch. It turns to a whine, the blankets squirming in strange, jerking movements. “Or perhaps you prefer ne’er-do-well?”

His hand drops, boneless under that dubious stare of hers. “I’ll have you know I do quite a bit of good.”

“I’m sure,” she says, too polite to be sincere. “I am curious though— what’s the grift, here? The house is closed for the season, but you’ll hardly be able to convince the townsfolk that there’s ghosts in the basement, or werewolves in the orchard. And when the guard find out you’ve snuck past them…”

There’s a doleful little warning in the glance she gives him, one that promises a tour of whatever dark corners the royals like to keep their undesirables in. But it’s hard to feel the threat of it when Obi hadn’t seen so much as a single petal of Wisteria blue since he stepped into town, and he doubts he’s about to see more. “Grift? Miss, I was sent here. Asked— no, begged, really— to come investigate the goings on here at the manor. There’s supposed to be a girl here, spurned by her royal lover and left to sleep for—”

“Ah, you’re a monster hunter.” Her smile’s almost fond when she shakes her head, as if he were a child dressed in his father’s maile, declaring himself a dragon slayer. “I haven’t seen one of those since I left Tanbarun. I never thought one would try their luck here.”

He wouldn’t have if sleeping mistress hadn’t seemed like sure money. “Is that so.”

“I thought germ theory sent all of you scampering back over the border.” Hand rubbing in soothing circles over the bundle, she peers down the hall. “So where is your partner?”

“Partner?” This girl knows far too much for those doll-like eyes. “I’m alone. Why would you think I had—?”

“Because someone has to be the monster, don’t they?” She takes a step, glancing through one of the open doors. “What was it supposed to be? Tragic young maiden, wrongfully killed before her time? Scullion who got in the family way and chose to take her own life, rather than suffer the dishonor? Oh, or perhaps a vampire—”

“With all due respect, Miss,” he blurts out, impatient. “I believe it was supposed to be you.”

“Me?” She doesn’t so much speak the word as shape it, mouth rounding as her gaze drops, tracing the eerie trails of blood winding down her gown. “Oh.”

*

If Obi thought it had been a pain sneaking out, it’s somehow an even bigger pain sneaking back in to Torou’s room. The window’s loud, for one, grunting and groaning as he tries to swing the pane from the sash, nearly slamming back in on his fingers once he does get it open. The company, for the second— and third, since the young lady balks when he offers to hold her blankets and give her a boost, and in the process of strapping it to her back, he discovers it isn’t an it at all.

“That’s a baby,” he hisses, nearly dropping the thing in panic.

“Of course he is.” She turns her head over her shoulder, mouth matching the baby’s disgruntled pout. “What did you think he was?”

Evidence of a mental illness, he doesn’t say, settling instead for, “There, all snug now. Now will you let me boost you up?”

And for the fourth, well…there’s something left to be desired in their reception, too.

“What are you thinking?” Torou squeaks, fingers tights as iron bands where they grip his arm. “You meet a girl covered in blood, and you think we should bring her in on the take?”

“I think we should hear her out at least,” he says, watching the girl linger by the kitchen fire. “Let her warm up a little. Maybe get her a new dress?”

What’s she’s got clings to her in all the wrong places, too stiff and crusted to seem like a second skin, but molded to her in a way that suggest it’ll feel like one when she pulls it off. Torou doesn’t miss it either, a breath huffing out as her arms cross over her chest.

“Fine. One dress.” She casts the girl a long look. “And one night. We can hear what she has to say, but if I don’t like it…”

Her thumb hitches over her shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

*

“Oh…” There’s a chair drawn up before the fire— he’d dragged it there himself while he waited, not quite sure why he bothered. At least, not until the girl sinks down into it with a sigh, stretching out her legs until the joints crack. “Feels like I haven’t done that in ages.”

The baby’s still in her arms, sleeping now, small face tucked up against her chest. It— he grunts every breath or so, little frown furrowing deeper with each one, an old man’s face writ in smaller lines. It doesn’t seem possible for someone to be that tiny, to be that new and be out in the world with only a few scraps of cloth to keep him safe.

“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” Her head tilts back to look at him, hair shining penny-bright in the firelight. “Do you happen to have some…something to eat?”

Torou glances at him, unimpressed, before telling her, “There’s some stew I can warm up. Bit of bread too, if you don’t mind it’s a bit stale.”

“Oh!” Her breath hitches. “That…that would be quite enough, thank you. I don’t have anything to pay you, but I’m sure I could, um…?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Obi tells her, feeling the weight of the purse at his belt. “It’s on the house.”

There’s not a drop of noble blood running through Torou’s veins— neither of them; if he knows one thing, it’s that for sure— but she could give the finest countess a run for her money with the arch on her brow now, a look so loud he practically hears, ‘Oh, is it now?’ echoing in his ears. He gives her a charming smile, his best, and only budges that brow a bit higher.

“On…?” The girl’s cheeks flush, not perched all pretty on the apples of her cheeks, the way a prince’s mistress should, but splotchy like a farmer’s daughter. Not ideal for running this grift, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not like vengeful ghosts were given to be bashful anyway. “The kindness is appreciated, but I couldn’t presume to…” Her head shakes, though he doesn’t miss her glance toward the pot, all hunger. “This is a place of business.”

Between one blink and the next, Torou changes; stubborn giving way to surprise, then gives way to a different sort of stubborn. She’s already reaching for a trencher when he says, “Seems a fair exchange to me, miss…for a name.”

She hesitates now, one arm squeezing tighter on the babe, shoulders hunched as if her slight body could protect him from anything more substantial than a breeze. “…Shirayuki.”

He mouths the name, oddly familiar on his lips. A nice one, even if it doesn’t come with a last name to match. Not all do, where he’s from. He certainly doesn’t have one to give. “And him?”

She’s more eyes than face— probably even was even before that babe of hers pulled every last scrap of life from her it could— and all of it glances down to the bundle in her arms, a pink, wrinkled face pouting out from the swaddle. “I…” Her voice is so soft he hardly hears it over the scrape of the ladle. “I don’t know yet.”

Torou bustles over to her, thrusting the bowl between them. “Not going to name him after the father?”

It’s a cheap ploy, but an effective one. The sort they’ve made their bread and butter on for years, spooling out reason and rumor alike from the townsfolk they fleece, using every last thread of it to weave their grift. Except on this girl— this Shirayuki— there’s no crying or raging, no nothing. Just a tightening of her mouth and a small furrow carving itself between her brows.

“I don’t think,” she says, so carefully, tightening the makeshift swaddle around him, “that would be a good idea.”

Torou’s mouth goes a little pinched too. “You can’t eat and hold that thing. Here,” she says, holding out her arms. “Let me take him. Just for a minute.”

The girl shrinks back, eyes measuring the distance between Torou’s outstretched hands and the door. Whatever number she gets can’t be compelling.

“Listen,” Torou sighs, cocking a hip. “If he’s going to eat, you got to too, right? Can’t do that without both hands.”

Obi’s mouth twitches. “Unless you want me to feed you, Miss. I’d be happy to serve on bended knee, if only you said—”

The girl can’t get the babe into Torou’s arms fast enough. “Thank you.”

Her mouth twitches, meeting the babe’s eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

*

“Tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Torou mutters, jogging the baby boy up on her shoulder. He’s fussing quiet-like, not enough chest to make the full-bodied shrieks a bigger babe could, but he’s grunting— whimpering, really— nosing around Torou’s neck like if he roots hard enough, he might find his mother.

He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You don’t got to tell me that.” Her gaze darts over to where the girl sits, digging into her stew slowly, methodically even, but still— there’s an intensity to it. An urgency. Probably can’t remember the last time she ate, but she’d rather die than give that away. He’s seen it before— hell, done it before. “But I mean under all that not thinking. Tell me you’re not going to…”

There’s no need to say the words, not when they both know— “She’s perfect.”

“Are you nuts?” she hisses, so close to shrill he nearly shushes her. The baby does it instead, whining into her shoulder, little limbs jerking where he rests. A hand to the back soothes him, but Torou still glares, so tense that mane of hers nearly stands on end. “We don’t know anything about her.”

“Come on.” His charm might be wasted on Torou, but reason wouldn’t be. “This isn’t like our other jobs. These people actually knew the girl. We can’t just stuff you in a nightgown and hope for the best.”

“And what’s to say she’s got the look anymore than I do?” she sniffs, chin taking it most stubborn angle. “Sure, you found her in that creepy old pile. Sure, she was covered in blood. That’s doesn’t make her…her…”

She glances down at the kid, strangely pale— and even more strangely silent.

“Look at her. She’s so thin you can practically see through her. Put her under the moonlight with that bloody dress and even I thought she could be…” He clears his throat. “Red hair too. Not easy to find in these parts.”

Though he could have sworn he saw it recently. Not as apple-bright as this, but still, something close. Kissing-cousins. Family.

“You can dye hair,” Torou mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. No conviction. He’s got her hooked, now he’s just got to reel her in.

“To that color?” His shoulder bumps her, drawing a gurgle from that sleepy baby throat. “Come on, it’s not like we have better plans. What’s the harm?”

Torou stiffens, a palm absently rubbing over the baby’s back. “What if you’re right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“What if…?” She licks her lips. “What if this isn’t a coincidence?”

A scoff escapes him before he can catch it, which means he has to commit. “You can’t really think she’s the mistress, can you? Torou, you—?”

“I know what I saw,” she growls, voice pitched low. “She was cursed, Obi. And no one knows why! What if…what if they find out she’s awake and—”

“Torou.” His hand weighs heavy on her shoulder, trying to ground her, to recognize it’s earth under her feet. “We make up all our grifts! There’s never been a vengeful ghost, or a werewolf, or a…a cursed princess. They’ve all been parts you play!”

She shakes her head, all eyes when she looks up at him. “But the best lie has a grain of truth in it. What if…what if we’ve finally found ours?”

Obi frowns down at her, a strange sense of dread knotting in his gut. “We know what this world can do, don’t we? And if it could do something like that…”

Then maybe it wouldn’t be just the two of them. Or maybe they wouldn’t be here at all. A little bit of magic could change everything, once a body started to believe.

“We’ve made a mint making other people fools,” Torou says finally. “But I’m telling you, Obi. If we get involved with this girl, we’ll be the bigger ones.”

He’d love to get the last word in on that one, to tell her she’s just being as gullible as their marks, but he can’t get a peep out, not when the little man on her should rears back his head and wails.

“Oh!” There’s only the trencher left in the girl’s hands when she turns back, already half-eaten. “He must be hungry.”

It’s Obi that lifts him from Torou’s shoulder, letting a grin tilt his lips. “Hey, Miss,” he starts, patting the little guy on his back. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one before…”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

Thank you so much for the lovely gift!

Window Visit

A gift for @traditional-with-a-twist for winning the Obiyuki Madness Kitty in 2023. :)

Summary: Shirayuki receives a surprise visitor during her wedding preparations.

Link to A03 Below.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lvii. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Kiki enters the hunting lodge eagerly, her step light and quick, head up, eyes alert.

She is looking for him.

The lady knight would never betray her dignity with excitement, but she has missed Mitsuhide — felt his absence keenly, an unaccustomed space at her side, an ache that has worsened in inverse proportion to the healing of her bone.

Her arm is functional again, regaining its old strength with training and with time.

Time has not healed their parting.

Anger subsided into melancholy, invisible to almost all beneath Kiki’s implacable calm.

Then followed this dull discontent, punctuated with bursts of hot vexation when something brought him to mind — a maneuver on the practice ground, a remark he might have made, a thought she might have shared … if only he had been there.

...

Sometimes she misses him so much, she wishes him gone forever.

Better the certainty of a final and irrevocable farewell than the vexatious hope, repeatedly disappointed.

Kiki took refuge from the strain by renouncing him — casting him off in her heart, declaring the self-exile banished.

She cannot oppose his choice; therefore she affirms it, finding reasons to justify it, embrace it, declare herself satisfied.

If he will go, then she will wish it so.

She won’t think of him, but when she does, she will be glad that he left.

...

At a stroke, his letter swept all that aside.

It had arrived by royal courier, a brief but painstaking thing — perfectly in keeping with the feelings she could easily imagine as animating him.

That mingled sense of shame and duty, peculiar to Mitsuhide, runs through it all. 

He disavows himself, writes as if to strike himself from the record with the very hand then pens it, yet never more clearly has he shown himself honorable in the humility of addressing himself to her.

...

She took it in at a glance, knowing at first only that he had asked for her. 

Annoyance evaporated; her heart lifted. A cloud passed from her countenance.

It had lingered so long that all had forgotten what she looked like without it.

...

A second read apprised her of the circumstances, and her elation turns to urgency.

Mitsuhide had not made the request on his own behalf — of course he had not. He thought of himself first, never.

Kiki had expected something serious when he wrote; he was not a man given to trivialities, nor one likely to disturb a still pond (no matter how much it needed weeding) unless spurred to it.

Still, this news outstripped all expectations.

It answered a mystery — what had become of her friends since Shirayuki’s letters had stopped coming, since it was quietly known that the recently declared heir to one of Clarines’s largest and most prosperous estates had gone missing.

The answer was plain: nothing good.

...

Keenness of purpose mingled with brightness of anticipation, of pain relieved. She presented herself to request leave.

The first prince did not press her for explanations. “You have served well, Lady Kiki, at a time when others might have expected a greater claim on your attendance.”

He saluted her with an elegant hand; she bowed.

“Consider this furlough a token of gratitude for your dedication.”

...

As Izana spoke, he passed Kki a sheaf of papers, which she slid into an unmarked satchel.

Some would be written in code; others were not.

A good many were useless: disconnected excerpts from unrelated reports, taken at random from their proper context.

One contained her instructions for the task she had agreed to undertake, should a plausible occasion arise for her to leave the capital.

...

“Do not press yourself,” urged the prince with his half-lidded smile. “It is only your due.”

...

Kiki rode hard, eating up the miles between her and the origin of that letter.

She weathered the barrage of memories that emerged from the trees along with the hunting lodge.

The brightness of that time had crystallized like a colored pane of glass — fragile, fragmented, yet brilliant in the light of memory.

If she tried to hold on to it, the edges cut into her. She could embrace it only from a distance, and that separation was its own wound.

Another time, the hurt might have penetrated more deeply, but not today.

Hope was her shield, her ward against the doubt and pain of the past.

...

Her first misgiving came when she found the stable empty.

A dozen explanations flicked through her mind, hastening to account for the incongruity. 

She settled on none of them, but let them hover around her thoughts like a curtain, a layer of obfuscation between herself and the dawning possibility that she refused to countenance.

...

Resolutely, she turned and entered the lodge.

Silence greeted her.

The sitting room, the hearth – empty. The coals smoldered; a pot hung on the hearth, but there was no one there.

Kiki stopped.

She looked, and she listened — straining for any trace of her partner-that-was.

Nothing below, so she ascended, unwilling to give up the search, to relinquish her hope.

...

Upstairs, dim candle light flickered under one door.

Kiki’s chest tightened painfully as her pulse accelerated.

She laid a hand on the latch and eased it open.

...

Inside, a solitary figure lay buried in blankets. A flush of red hair left no doubt as to her identity.

Again they were meeting in an in-between place, somewhere on the journey from one home to another.

Then Shirayuki had met them with a confidence alien to her predicament; now she looked scarcely larger than a child, her stillness a mute appeal.

Beside her, there was no one.

Kiki stopped.

Her heart sank.

As it fell, she hardened it, cutting off the shock of dismay before it could immiserate her. She looked and understood and willed herself to feel nothing.

...

“Kiki…”

The voice, delicate as a bird wing, recalled her to sensation.

The lady knight heard her friend’s call, and a gladness tangled with concern kindled in response.

She stepped quickly to the bedside and knelt down.

Shirayuki smiled at her. “You came.”

The tightness returned.

Yes, she had come — for nothing! cried her injured self, the tender core of every human, who all long to receive love where it is given.

...

For a moment, Kiki struggled with herself.

She met the impulse to lash out in pain, and she mastered it.

Coolness returned; she regarded the situation dispassionately and recognized that she had not been summoned without cause.

...

“Yes,” Kiki agreed. “I’m here.”

...

A smile illuminated Shirayuki’s face, restoring a glow of vitality to it.

Gratitude welled up in her.

As was Shirayuki’s way, she sought immediately to share her happiness.

“Mitsuhide—” she began, but Kiki’s face stopped her.

She faltered at the blank look that overtook her friend’s features, the smile vanishing into a void.

“He… he’s not…?”

...

“He has gone,” said Kiki, colorless.

“But… you’re here… How did you find us if…?”

“He sent for me,” came the reply, “and now he has gone.”

...

Shirayuki gazed at her in confusion and real sorrow.

‘Oh,’ she said softly. ‘Kiki, I’m so –’

Her friend rose, avoiding the hand stretched out in consolation.

...

“You must be hungry,” Kiki said quietly. “I will bring you something to eat.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lvi. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Shirayuki was alone and in distress, fatigued from her journey, upset by the shock of violence, friendless and ill.

What she wanted most was a knight — a champion of the defenseless, selfless in service, tireless in courtesy and charity.

Once, Mitsuhide might have been that to her.

...

He might have stepped into the breach and taken up the mantle, with the confidence born of purpose.

He would have aided her steadfastly, remaining by her side until he was assured of her security and recovery.

Now he knew better.

...

Mitsuhide was no knight.

...

He brought her to a hunting lodge not unlike the one where they had first met, in another time, another life.

It was the nearest shelter, now that night had fallen. Shirayuki’s assailants had lured her outside the city walls, and these would be sealed until daybreak.

The lodge was overloaded with memory, hauntings of the time before the war, but it was also well-provisioned and warm. 

It would do.

...

Another man might have shied from the pain of remembering, ignited by the familiar scenes of his former life, but Mitsuhide bowed to it.

He let the reminder of all that he had lost wash over him, allowed the ache to sink into his bones.

He deserved the pain.

...

Like a spur in his side, like a burr or a stone in his boot, the memories served as reminders to him. They bit into the skin of his heart, rubbed the callouses raw again. Some were scored as if with hot metal into the fabric of his mind.

Remembering kept it always before him – why he was here, why he was no longer a knight.

It could do nothing to atone for his failures, but it was better than walking free, as if none of it had ever happened.

...

Mitsuhide carried Shirayuki inside, glad to see that she had drifted into a doze.

He was no nurse, but his former duties — as he thought of them – had extended to mending a scrape or two.

The weight of those years gone pressed on him, paradoxically made heavier in their hollowness.

...

This was the burden that made him grim and unsmiling, taciturn in his hidden struggle as he tucked Shirayuki into a bed upstairs, checked the window for drafts, then retreated back down to warm a brick in the grate.

He kindled the coals. He hauled water from the cistern in the back. 

All the while, he was steeling himself to a task he found far more insurmountable than facing old memories.

...

Shirayuki might be feverish; she needed care.

It ought to be someone trustworthy, someone skilled – and someone who could get here fast.

Mitsuhide knew who it must be, for there was none better. Under such circumstances, he would hardly have trusted his friend to anyone else.

Shirayuki wanted a knight, and that knight was Kiki.

...

The trouble was, his former partner deserved to be left in peace, not harassed with messages and favors asked by one who didn’t merit her notice.

Disgraced in his own eyes as a warrior, still worse as a friend, he had never intended to  presume to renew contact – least of all after the response his parting gift had occasioned.

Mitsuhide had angered Kiki. There was no point in seeking her pardon, because her anger was justified.

...

He had no right to address himself to her, had forfeited all claims to her attention and assistance — but neither could he abandon Shirayuki to continue her journey alone in wintertime, bent on her dangerous search.

Not to act, in this case, would be worse than to give further offense.

...

He would be brief, Mitsuhide decided.

He would make his appeal not as an acquaintance, not with reference to a history now past, but in the name of charity.

He would write to Kiki.

...

First, Mitsuhide delayed.

He opened the cellar and extracted whatever might be of use from the supply cache stored there. From a sack of root vegetables, he prepared the sort of hardy stew that would warm and revitalize a body.

As food, it was fit more for camping or campaigning than for sickbeds, but he hoped it would do Shirayuki no harm at least.

Leaving it in the pot to simmer, he went out to ameliorate his hasty attentions to his horse, arranging its feed and brushing it down with meticulous care.

...

Satisfied that the animal would rest easy after its unaccustomed exercise, he returned inside to check on his charge.

On his way to the upper floor, he passed the satchel of messages stamped with the Clarines seal. It waited yet on the table inside the door, accusing him with its silence.

There was no one to carry word that urgent business had detained him because he was, after all, the courier of this route.

...

Another time, the delinquency might have troubled Mitsuhide. 

Even knowing his absence to be rightful, he would have fretted over the disappointed expectations of the dozens of faceless names. Each was expecting a letter, perhaps eagerly sought, perhaps of critical importance.

Now he accepted the fault as his natural state. It came as no surprise that he would find himself inadequate in neglecting even this simplest of duties.

...

Grimmer than ever, he eased open the door to Shirayuki’s room.

Shirayuki stirred at his entrance but did not wake, so he advanced in silence to slide the hot brick into a bundle of linens at the foot of the bed. 

He was tiptoeing out of the room when a sound stopped him.

“Mitsuhide,” she sighed, her eyes unfocused.

...

He set a bowl of the steaming stew beside her bed.

“Where are we,” Shirayuki mumbled, her face turning towards the smell.

“Somewhere safe,” Mitsuhide answered, his shoulders tensing. 

...

Before she could inquire further, he hurried to ask, “Are you—shall I—?” He gestured uncertainly to the bowl, but she was already sitting up and pulling it towards her.

“Gotta keep my strength up,” she informed him, gripping the spoon with a look of intent concentration. “Long way to go.”

Mitsuhide didn’t argue with her. He hovered, with just a trace of his old anxiety, as she adamantly ate her way down to the dregs.

...

Shirayuki sank back with a sigh, looking spent but less pale — a touch of color had entered her cheeks.

The wan face on the pillow, crowned like the sun with its halo of red, seemed easier now, the lines of pain and tension eased.

Mitsuhide backed out of the room without another word. He chided, berated himself for neglecting her out of no better motive than the wish to avoid embarrassment. The time for delays had passed.

...

It was a formal, yet urgent letter. It outlined the facts of the case, without any expectations of resuming contact for his own sake on his own auspices.

Shirayuki may be ill, he explained. I fear for her safety should she continue alone, unguarded.

He noted the address. He signed it simply, not giving himself time to dwell on the closing or what reception it might meet with.

Then he sealed it and secured it in his courier bag.

...

Mitsuhide stacked the fire high with logs, so that the stove would not burn out in his absence. He left the stew on a low simmer, for Shirayuki to refresh herself when she woke.

Then he bundled himself into his cloak and set off into the night.

There was a letter to deliver, and that was his work now – the only work he was fit for.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lv. Beauty and Her Beast

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“Let her go.”

The rider's voice, low and thick with menace, sends shivers down Shirayuki’s back.

She knows that voice. 

A long time has passed since she heard it last.

...

The man holding her wavers, but then he tightens his grip. He nodded to his fellows, and they closed ranks with her in the center.

Steel flashed in the dying sunlight.

Deliberately, the leader drew Shirayuki against his side, twisting her arm behind her back. He lifted his chin against the interloper and bared his teeth.

“Look here,” he snarled, “don’t go sticking your nose in where you don’t —”

The horse whinnied, the bell of its voice crashing over them as its rider lifted the reins and bent close to its neck.

As one, horse and rider charged.

...

Yowling in fear, the bandits scattered.

Knocked off her feet, Shirayuki threw up her arms to protect her head and tucked in her chin. 

She curled into a ball, the most she could do before the thundering hooves were upon them.

...

She felt a rush of wind, the force of its weight in motion, but nothing touched her.

The rider had guided his mount with an expert hand. When she peeked under her elbow, the horse had swerved around her and plunged after the men.

Limbs trembling, Shirayuki raised herself into a sitting position.

...

Wails of alarm were receding amongst the trees, and her rescuer had drawn up with his back to her. He stared after the men with a rigidity that spelled controlled fury. 

She could see more than his outline now: straight back and broad shoulders, a soft gray uniform like and unlike the Wistal castle livery.

Even before she registered the bright, close-cropped hair, Shirayuki knew him.

“Mitsuhide,” she breathed.

...

He turned, eyes flashing at the affront to the innocent, to the peace of Clarines, to his friend.

One hand fisted at his hip as if seeking a sword that no longer rested there. He bore no weapons, no armor.

Shorn of every trapping, Mitsuhide had rarely looked more like a knight.

...

Emotion welled up in her: relief, astonishment, a delight shadowed with sadness. 

Last she had seen Mitsuhide, he was pressing a good-bye gift into her hands, resigning himself from the royal service, walking away without a backward look as she and Kiki gazed after him. 

To see him now brought her back in time, to those endless days of loneliness and inescapable grief, the crushing burden of coming to terms with her loss, the lighthouse that Obi had been to her - a safe harbor when she was tossed at sea. 

Regret shot through all the gladness she felt; her heart throbbed.

...

Fast on the heels of remembered grief, the questions crowded in. 

What was he doing here? Where had he come from? 

Where had he been?

She was struggling to distill all this into words when Mitsuhide let out a cry. “Shirayuki!”

He leapt from the saddle, rushing to raise her from the ground.

She gave him a wobbly smile, feeling dizzier than ever as the adrenaline drained away.

...

“Shirayuki, what are you doing here?” Mitsuhide asked, the lines in his face drawn taught with distress. 

Words faltered in his anguish, falling over each other: “Alone — in the woods — almost night —” 

“I…” Embarrassment crept over her as she considered how rash her actions must look. “I wanted to buy a horse,” she confessed.

...

“A horse?” Mitsuhide repeated. “You learned how to ride?”

“Oh.” She bit her lips. “Not … no, not really.”

He stared at her blankly. As the absurdity of the announcement sank in, disbelief gave way to worry, incredulity, frustration — each taking it in turns to chase each other across his face.

He might have been tempted to scold her, but there was something disarming in that earnestness peculiar to her. 

Besides, she looked as though a gust of wind might carry her away.

...

Mitsuhide dragged his fingers through his hair, then shook his head with a sigh. “Never mind that now. You should be inside, somewhere warm.”

Shirayuki felt the wisdom of this; she nodded and stepped forward, reaching for the bag lying discarded on the ground.

The next moment, the sky slew sideways. 

The trees threw up their arms, tilting wildly. 

...

She would have fallen but for Mitsuhide beside her, his outsized hands steadying her shoulders. 

“Easy… easy there. Shirayuki –” He broke off and shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Up close, Shirayuki could trace the etchings of misery on his face with the fading light of the sun. 

Worried, she patted at his arm. ‘Everything is okay now,’ she told him soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’

...

His gaze traveled over her, from the snow in her hair to her bloodless face and clothes in disarray.

Mitsuhide shook his head. 

‘No,’ he said, so low he might have spoken to himself, ‘it’s not.’

...

"Shirayuki -- for today, please let me take care of you. Forgive me, it's not much."

He didn't allow her space to object but ground on. "I'll see you to safety until we can find someone more suitable to help you." 

He turned away without waiting for an answer, busying himself with preparations for riding together. 

...

Mitsuhide was quieter than she remembered. He mounted the horse with her bundled up in one arm like a child, her pack dangling from his shoulder, and settled her with the utmost gentleness, but he didn’t speak. Gone were the fumbling, well-meaning speeches; when he wasn’t looking at her, a curious blankness stole over his expression.

He rode with her in front, where she could rest against his shoulder, at an easy pace that lulled her to drowsiness.

Some time passed before questions began to return to her.

‘Mitsuhide?’ 

‘Please rest if you can, Shirayuki,’ he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘I’m very comfortable,’ she assured him. ‘It’s just that… I’m sorry. Weren’t you busy doing something when you found me?’

...

Some feeling returned to his face as he shook his head at her. ‘That’s… Shirayuki, your safety is more important than my regular duties.’

‘Oh!’ Her eyes rounded in comprehension. ‘You work in town.’

‘Ah…’ He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. ‘No, it’s… I came to report, to deliver messages, but it can wait until tomorrow. First, we’ll get you somewhere safe and dry.’

...

She understood then, what he had done since leaving Wistal.

There was some logic in Mitsuhide becoming a courier, Shirayuki admitted, given his hardiness in the saddle. 

It was strange to see him unarmed, so reduced in rank, but it made more sense than that he would leave the service only to idle his time at nothing.

...

As she mused on it, a new thought dawned on Shirayuki.

Here was someone she might ask who traveled, swiftly and far, who knew her husband without description, who — this last thought came to her almost against her will — who might understand the need to wander in the first place.

‘Have you–’ she couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice, ‘--have you seen Obi?’

His eyes flashed to her face. ‘Obi?’

"Yes -- that's why I wanted -- he wasn't in the town so I thought --"

Mitsuhide's expression darkened the longer he listened. "Do you mean… you were out here alone because you were looking for him?" 

...

She nodded, eyes full of hope as she awaited his answer. 

"Where did he go?" Mitsuhide asked sharply. 

Shirayuki winced. "I don't know," she answered softly. "You -- you haven't --?" 

"No.” He turned his glare to the road.

She didn’t ask again.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

liv. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Shirayuki had had occasion in the past to strike out alone, to walk a solitary road with a singular purpose.

Generally, her motive had been to escape the notice of someone, to prevent a meeting — in effect, to become a missing person herself.

Now for the first time she set out to do the opposite: not to lose herself, but to find someone else.

...

She knew how to pack, where to find shelter and food, but she did not know where to find one man amidst vast lands of wood, sea and mountains.

To escape, to hide, meant infinite possibilities; to seek and find meant one chance in a million.

At first, Shirayuki reasoned that multiplying her attempts meant multiplying her odds — in other words, to inquire in places with more eyes meant a greater chance that Obi had been seen.

She began her search in the largest town nearest the Haruka estate, in a square bustling with merchants, traders, and townspeople.

There she encountered another problem: How to describe Obi?

...

“Tall and dark?” a fishwife repeated, rubbing her chin. “Covers his face, does he?”

“S-sometimes,” Shirayuki agreed, hesitating as she tried to picture him.

She had most often seen Obi working — dressed in livery and uniforms, or perhaps field gear for navigating through a forest swiftly.

What would he wear for traveling the town roads?

...

She remembered him at their cottage together — soft, loose tunics open at his neck with the sleeves pulled up, until the weather had chilled.

Then he bundled into long sweaters with sleeves down to his fingertips and wrapped her up with him in warm wool when they rested together before the fire…

...

Shirayuki wrenched her thoughts back to the present.

The fishwife was watching her with an odd expression, mouth creased at one side, sun-weathered brow wrinkled.

“Don’t know where you found a type like that, missus,” she said gruffly, “but I wouldn’t hope for too much, myself. Once they’re gone, men like that, they don’t come back.”

...

Shirayuki’s cheeks lost their color, but she nodded politely before turning away.

It was only as she was walking across the square to inquire at a cartwright that it came to her.

The look on the woman’s face had been pity.

...

Shirayuki drew her cloak tighter and sighed to herself.

The fishwife had meant well, but she didn’t know Obi.

Shirayuki wouldn’t give up until she found him.

...

By afternoon, however, she felt that it was time for a change in tactics.

Hours of pushing through the tightly packed crowd, raising her voice to shout questions over the din, and standing in the bitter wind had worn down her reserves.

She was pale and drawn by the time she presented herself at the post office.

...

“Mail coach sold out for the day, ma’am,” the coachmaster said at once.

“No, no, thank you…” She realized she was swaying on her feet and set a hand against the counter to steady herself. “I’d like to hire a horse.”

The man peered down at her. “Beg your pardon?”

“A horse – I’m traveling in the open…” Shirayuki gestured vaguely, hoping he would understand.

...

He regarded her in silence for a moment then shook his head. “There’s a spare bed upstairs and stew in the common room. Next seat available in the morning.”

“Not a coach,” Shirayuki protested earnestly. “It’s too–I won’t see anything. I’m looking for—”

“Nothing to see in the winter, ma’am,” said the implacable coachmaster.

Her words were water, washing up against the rocks.

...

Shirayuki had decided to cast her net wider, not in the thickly populated town but further afield.

It was too easy for one man to vanish in crowds like these — that was the trouble.

On the long winding roads that threaded through the forests, a lone traveler might be more easily remembered.

...

Besides, the towns were bright, noisy places, even as winter swept over them – somehow she thought Obi would not feel at ease in them, would not linger in them or make anyone’s acquaintance.

She would look elsewhere, somewhere off the beaten track, somewhere solitary.

Somewhere one might go if he did not wish to be found.

...

In making these arrangements, Shirayuki was taking refuge in her practical side. Truth be told, she was not just weary but frightened, not of being alone herself but of the increasing hopelessness of her task.

So she bent her mind to mundane practicalities, burying panic in the details.

A coach would not suit her purpose, she thought. She would have a better chance outside in the open air, attentive to anywhere he might have stopped to rest, than she would enclosed in four walls, rushing from place to place.

...

She leaned towards the counter, intent on convincing the coachmaster, but he was already looking past her.

“Next!”

Another customer edged forward, jostling her aside.

...

As Shirayuki stumbled back, her eye fell on a man swathed in a thick traveling cloak. He caught her look and beckoned with one finger.

“Wanting a horse, are you?”

Shirayuki nodded, drawing closer.

He gave her a friendly grin. “Got just the thing for you, little lady. Follow me.”

...

He led her outside the stableyard and down the cobbled streets. Shirayuki kept her eyes fixed on his back and thought of Obi, alone in the cold somewhere.

They passed from the main roads towards narrow alleys, then dirt tracks as they neared the outskirts of the town.

“Got a nice pony tied up by the stream, not far from here,” the man said over his shoulder, as if he had sensed her hesitate.

...

Shirayuki nodded and pressed on.

Her feet were aching, and her vision swam. The uneasy thought came that she might not get far once she had hired the horse, but she pushed it away.

She had herbs in her satchel for wakefulness; she would chew a bunch of them before setting off.

...

They were in the woods now, the trees closing around them.

As they reached a clearing, the man raised his voice. “Here we are!”

Shirayuki looked around, but there was no stream.

There was no pony.

...

She stopped short, but the man turned — quick as a whip — and seized her arm.

Dread washed over her.

“Come on now,” he whispered, dragging her closer. “What have you got under that hood?”

Shirayuki tried to shake him off, but his fingers dug into her skin.

...

Two more men had emerged from the woods, one holding a length of rope.

“What have we got here, eh?”

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” the first replied. “Makes you wonder… why’s a lovely lady like you keeping herself all wrapped up?”

...

“Let go!” Her voice came out too thin — her vision swam.

Shirayuki swung her travel pack at his head, but her aim was clumsy. He shrugged it off and shook her.

“None of that now,” said one of his friends, circling behind her. “There, hold her still.”

“Let’s have a look first. What are you hiding under there?”

He reached for her face.

...

“Stop!”

The shout rang out, freezing them all in place. Shirayuki raised her head to see a horse silhouetted against the setting sun. 

On its back a man, impossibly tall in the saddle, gazed down on them with anger in his eyes.

[traditional-with-a-twist]

liii. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

“Big brother!”

Rona dashed across the marble tiles of the audience chamber, skirts and curls flying, her face a picture of consternation..

Eugene scampered in her wake, equally anxious in his quieter way.

...

Raj flinched back a step, then snapped, “Stop, you’ll muss my new dress coat!” to cover his weakness.

It mostly worked — Rona jerked to a halt and glared, forgetting her fear. “Is that all you can think of,” she demanded, “when dear Lady Shirayuki is in danger?”

...

Raj winced, feeling a cold sweat break out on his brow. He snatched a lace handkerchief from his pocket and buried his nose in it, inhaling the astringent scent. 

Sakaki had liberally dosed it earlier that day, after delivering the news.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Raj asked his sister, voice muffled. “You’re too young to preside at criminal cases.”

“We were waiting for you,” Eugene put in, taking advantage of a momentary lull as outrage reduced Rona to squawking. “Big brother, what will we do?”

...

A pounding in his temple replaced the dizzy fit. Raj lowered the handkerchief hastily.

Where had Sakaki gone off to, just now in the middle of a crisis?

The twins were staring at him, like oversized kittens who didn’t know what to do with the mouse they had cornered.

He summoned his bossiest voice. “You two! Keep quiet and let the adults handle these matters.”

...

As Raj spoke, his eyes raked the room, searching for assistance.

There! Clusters of soldiers and advisors stood around the throne, talking in low voices and pointing at maps.

His father was not present, of course, but there was Sakaki, with that dratted gray cloak blending in perfectly with the subdued field uniforms.

...

“Sakaki!” he boomed. “Come here at once and explain the situation to m—er, these two.”

His attendant bowed assent and approached, serious as always but with a new line creasing his brow. 

“Your Highnesses,” he hailed the young prince and princess respectfully.

...

“Oh, Sakaki!” Rona burst out. “It’s so dreadful—how will we ever save her?”

Sakaki paused. “I believe the intent is to recapture her, princess,” he said carefully.

“No, no —” Raj waved his handkerchief. “It’s all a muddle —she’s gotten it into her head that this means trouble for our friend, for Lady Shirayuki.”

He shot his attendant a sharp glance as spoke, gauging for himself whether Rona’s fears might have found any basis in the latest reports.

Sakaki looked serious —as always.

...

“Please do not upset yourself, Your Highness,” he said. “It is difficult to speak with certainty, as Lady Shirayuki’s exact whereabouts since her wedding are unknown—”

Rona gasped, her eyes filling with tears.

“---but there is every reason to believe that she remains in Clarines.”

...

“So?” Raj demanded, forgetting that he was supposed to know all of this already. “So what?”

“Therefore,” continued the implacable Sakaki, “there is little reason to fear. The trail appears to lead east.”

Raj let out an explosive breath. Rona sniffled; Eugene was patting her arm.

“Clarines lies to the north,” Sakaki added.

“We know that!” Raj snapped.

Sakaki smiled.

...

Glowering at him, Raj turned to his sister. “There, you see, enough nonsense—it is all a matter of patrols and search parties and no danger at all. Now go find something to play with.”

Rona stopped sniffing and gave him a look of deep disgust. “Eugene and I are too old for games,” she said, lifting her nose.

Then she marched away, her brother at her heels.

...

As soon as they were out of sight, Raj rounded on his attendant. “Now, tell me the whole truth, at once! What is being done? Have they sent messengers to Wistal? Who is standing guard over Lady Shirayuki?”

Sakaki bowed. “It is as I said to the young prince and princess, Your Highness—no one knows where the lady may be found.”

Sakaki did not add that dispatching troops across the border to Clarines without prior notice would not be smiled on as a diplomatic gesture, particularly as the matter involved a straightforwardly domestic case of a criminal tried, charged, and suffered to escape, all within the royal jurisdiction of Tanbarun.

...

Raj groaned and covered his face with the handkerchief again.

The thought of his friend in danger again, at the mercy of that devil of a woman, sent hot and cold flashes down his spine.

Worse, though he would never admit it out loud, he worried that in no small part, this whole mess might be his fault.

...

After they had secured the pirate ship and taken its crew prisoner, Raj hadn’t troubled himself to supervise. There were courts for that sort of thing, with their magistrates and bailiffs and prison wardens.

It was one thing for the crown prince to concern himself with bandits and ambassadors, but as for the boring business of trials and prosecutions, that was quite another matter.

The great might of the crown reigned; there were laws in the books, people read them, justice was served, and no one complained.

...

Now, suddenly, he found that comfortable vision of life upended.

Ages ago, Sakaki had wanted approval for some sort of prison transfer—why not? What was all the fuss about, if the thing was done properly?

As it turned out, the thing hadn’t been done properly at all.

In spite of whatever routine precautions one presumably undertook when undertaking such dangerous tasks, something had gone amiss—that is, someone had gone missing.

As Sakaki had put it to him that morning, quite succinctly: “The prisoner has escaped.”

Umihebi, the pirate queen, was free.

...

She had slipped through their fingers, as oily as her name and twice as fearsome — a nightmare Raj thought they had all put to rest that day in the dank caves festering in the underbelly of his kingdom.

He shuddered.

“What does she want, Sakaki?” he demanded, seeking something to turn his thoughts away from the memory of her poisonous looks. “Why east—what could she possibly want out there?”

...

Sakaki hesitated then admitted, “The lands to the east are no friend to Tanbarun, Your Highness. We received the report from a patrol troop. They are stationed at the border now, on guard for her return.”

“At the border?” Raj echoed. “On guard? What are they doing, lazing about there?”

A sense of relief and purpose suffused him. There were guards; they had her in their sights. The nightmare was as good as ended.

He drew himself up and waved a finger. “Order them after her at once, to the ends of the earth if need be!”

...

Before replying, Sakaki paused to scan the usual hiding places, assuring himself that Rona and Eugene hadn’t lingered to eavesdrop.

Then he said, “They cannot, Your Highness.”

“What!” yelped Raj. “What do you mean!”

“We have no such treaty arrangements with the lands to the east. Their border guard has refused to grant our soldiers passage.”

...

“But–but–letters! Yes, a letter to the prince of Clarines.” 

Sakaki bowed. “A messenger was dispatched this morning.” 

“Ah–ah, good. Then…” Raj began to pace. 

...

On the third turn, he stopped and snapped his fingers. “I have it! The Lions! Fetch my writing desk — I will write to…” 

He trailed off. Sakaki hadn’t moved. 

“Already done?” Raj asked faintly. 

Sakaki nodded.

...

Raj’s shoulders slumped, his energy melting away. “Then you mean—”

Sakaki lifted his hands. 

“There is nothing to be done, Your Highness. We can only wait.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lii. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

No sooner had Shirayuki admitted to her ignorance of her husband’s whereabouts than Haruka’s expression darkened. 

“Regrettably,” he said, “such indifference to domestic responsibility is likely … hereditary.”

“Hereditary?” Shirayuki repeated blankly.

...

Haruka jerked a hand in the direction of a box sitting on the corner of his desk. 

Unlike the neat portfolios typical of Wilant, it overflowed with scrolls and strangely folded papers bent like accordions.

“I have lately returned from an embassy of that land,” he said.

...

She might as well know something of the mess her reckless actions had caused.

“As we discussed in your tutorials, a claimant to noble property must establish the rights of kinship.”

Haruka’s voice settled into the drone of instruction, without his being aware of it. “As, in this case, the formalities were not observed in a Clarinese court of law, but rather abroad, it has been necessary to submit a formal request for the official records.

“That, as you see,” his lip curled, “is the result of my applications thus far.”

...

Shirayuki peered into the box, which was painted all over in bright colors. A string of beads trailed from one of the scrolls bundled within.

The inky branches of a tree spread across folds of paper beneath it, marked with unfamiliar characters. Lines split and joined and split again, connecting the characters.

“You mean,” Shirayuki said slowly, “this is…about… Obi’s mother?”

...

“It is a marriage license,” Haruka answered shortly. “Or what passes for it in that land.”

The lesson had gone on long enough, he thought.

He was beginning to feel an uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck, as long repressed memories began stealing back. 

...

They came unbidden, as she had come unbidden into his life — flighty as a butterfly, beautiful and useless as a songbird.

He had not welcomed her, even as he did not want these remembrances that crept into his thoughts — persistent images of shining black hair and laughing green eyes.

The child had been born with his eyes, not hers, though by then she was rarely laughing.

...

Haruka had been young then, when she found her way into his life, though still with a sense of responsibility far weightier than his years.

The Clarines royal family had dispatched his delegation to the east for the purpose of negotiating trade routes; he intended to think of nothing else during his stay in that wild and overly colorful menagerie of a country.

There had been many women, flitting in and out, shameless in their self-display, but none had come so near as her.

...

He had spurned her smiles and friendly manners, her light and playful overtures, but it was like rebuffing a summer day.

She shone on him, like it or not. He felt her beauty, though he tried to close his eyes to it.

Still, by what fit of madness had he allowed her to win him?

...

Once the decision had been made, on whatever spurious grounds that his deranged reason had justified itself, the force of Haruka’s character continued to operate — but in exactly the opposite direction.

The malady had set in. With as much vigor as he had once resisted her, now he applied all his considerable powers to effecting their union.

This he pursued in the only form conceivable to him: wretch that he was, he had married her.

...

Her people had not smoothed the way for them. Coquetries, flirtations, they allowed — even encouraged — but a permanent and binding contract with a veritable stranger, they viewed with suspicion.

How much of the contortions and convolutions of the arrangements owed to their twisted institutions, and how much to their furtive, backhanded mode of opposition, he could not have guessed.

Nor did he much care.

If it accomplished anything, their resistance only fired his determination still further.

...

Never had he known a victory so sweet as claiming her for his own – and never had one soured more quickly.

Before he had managed to bring her back to his homeland, before they had even reached the crossing, she had gone.

Little surprise that the cold winds of responsibility had blown her from his life as easily as she had drifted in. 

...

Such creatures could not be trusted. He had erred grievously in supposing otherwise.

...

Lord Haruka rode across the border proud and aloof; he returned bitter and ashamed. He imagined it discretion, not wounded pride, that he spoke of the union to no one – but then why had he not married a second time? 

Was it propriety: too stiff to sweep a foreign marriage under the rug, if it meant a shadow of doubt that he had behaved improperly? 

Was it lingering affection for the woman who had turned his head? 

Whatever it was, his pride had cost him the chance to secure the future of the estate - he never thought of marriage again.

...

Fatherhood, however, had proved more difficult to forsake.

By the time he turned his attention to the boy’s upbringing, it was too late. Early years in the care of that fickle creature had spoiled him for any discipline, for living indoors, even.

Haruka had done his best to arrange for a suitable education, but it was all a waste. The boy had proven himself incorrigible then vanished, news of his whereabouts surfacing but rarely. 

He had dismissed the possibility of ever naming him as his heir.

...

With good reason, as the present state of affairs had once again confirmed.

Here stood the living proof before him: the failed princess, now saying without a shadow of shame, “Lord Haruka, I’m worried about Obi. When he left—” her voice trembled, “he wasn’t…happy. He thought I… I…”

“It is his blood,” Haruka snapped. “Rootless, feckless wanderers, good for nothing settled — they cannot be trusted.”

Shirayuki stared at him for a long moment, wondering to see some of his heart at last, after all this time.

“Did you miss her after she left?” she asked, in a voice of great tenderness. “Obi’s mother?”

...

Lord Haruka’s face hardened to stone. “Good day, Lady Shirayuki. Please consult with the steward on whatever refreshments you may require.”

She stepped forward, laying a hand on his desk. 

“Obi does want a home,” Shirayuki said softly. “We were happy together in the cottage. It was just — I —” 

...

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. It just matters that we find him before it’s too late—”

“It was too late for that boy long before you came here,” Haruka interrupted coldly. “Do not think you can reform him. You must simply accept the error of your decision, as I have.”

“But—” Her eyes widened. “If you come with me, we can—”

...

“Do not be absurd. I depart at dawn for Wilant, at his Highness’s request. Your road, should you be foolish enough to follow it, leads elsewhere.”

...

Shirayuki tucked her chin against her chest, pained on Obi’s behalf. 

She didn’t like to think how he would feel if he were here listening; she flinched from imagining how she would feel if her own father had spoken so.

Once she had told Obi that Haruka might be lonely, that he might wish for a family. Now she confronted the possibility that even if Haruka held such a wish, he would deny every opportunity for it.

...

When Shirayuki looked up, her eyes were full of sadness. 

“Obi was right about you,” she said softly, “but it doesn’t have to be that way. If you change your mind, there’s still time.”

She raised her hood.

“Good-bye, Lord Haruka.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

li. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Torou rises from her seat and passes so near that Obi feels the heat from her body.

Pausing with her back to him, she looks over her shoulder. The robe has slipped down to show the warm curve of her skin.

She holds his gaze as she reaches out and pushes the door shut behind him.

...

At different stages in her career, Torou has both posed and worked as a street dancer. Flashing skirts and whirling ribbons will tempt gold coins in many quarters, or draw unwary eyes away from a partner slipping through a door that ought to have been locked.

Her costume is more muted, but she is dancing now: a lithe, teasing display.

He can see that she is enjoying every step.

...

Torou turns to face him, leaning against the doorframe. One eyebrow arches inquiringly.

She has set the stage. 

Now it is his turn to act.

...

'Hey, Torou…’ he says, answering her unspoken question with a tone of mock confusion, ‘you would have any man, wouldn't you?' 

'Not at all!’ She lifted her nose, answering him with haughtiness. 

A sly smile disrupts the aristocratic air when she adds, ‘He would have to be good-looking.' 

...

Obi half-smiles. She had a tongue like a knife, this one, and she used both willingly.

‘Is that so?’ he asks softly.

Instead of answering, she melts back into the wood, tipping back her head to expose her neck and regarding him from under her lashes.

Obi steps into the space she has opened between them, accepting the invitation. He stands looking down on her.

She is all curves and coy smile, tempting as a ripe peach.

...

He sets a hand on the wall beside Torou's face, studying her with that now habitual flatness in his slanted eyes.

Could she drive out the ghosts for him? 

Could she free him from the unrelenting pain of memory, of regret?

...

She has done it for many men before him, he is sure of that.

The solitary room, the flickering candlelight, the musky scent perfuming the air, all attest to her skill.

She has waited for him, welcomed him in, even spared him the trouble of walking across the room to her.

...

Obi is a step from losing himself in her arms, drowning out conscience in animal instinct, surrendering his will to sensation.

His body is bruised, aching; his soul even more so — everything in him cries out for relief from the awful pain that dogs him everywhere.

Why hesitate? Thinking comes sluggishly, this late at night, after not enough sleep, too much drink.

...

There is something inevitable in it, in his finding a familiar face here — someone who knows him and yet expects nothing, would not begrudge him a mercenary exchange, would think no less of him for using her and letting her use him.

She is ready to devour him, and he wants her to do it. 

He wants anything but to endure another night of emptiness, another hour of facing his failure, another moment of knowing himself worse than useless to the one he had cherished most.

...

Torou watches him with that hungry curiosity of her half-wild nature. She likes the uncertainty, he knows, relishes the suspense.

Obi pauses on the brink, the possibility of oblivion yawning before him, and then he leans in.

Her lips part.

A breath away from closing the kiss, he turns aside. 

Torou’s questing lips meet only air; Obi’s forehead thuds against the wall.

...

It is worse, not better.

...

Somewhere in a dusty archive, locked away in the castle vaults, lies a paper with two names scratched out in ink.

Nothing remains on his person of their vows to each other — no ring, no token, not even a mark like the one he bears for the late master.

There is nothing to see or touch, yet the owner of that name has marked him more deeply than flesh, than blood, than bone. 

...

He has wronged her in most ways imaginable, but not this one.

She might have been standing right behind him, looking over his shoulder with the look of solemn compassion she wore when in the presence of something despicable.

The closer he came to another woman, the nearer he felt her.

...

Her voice has been weaving through his thoughts, plaguing his dreams, but just now she might have whispered in his ear.

The roughness of the wood, the brush of Torou’s loose hair against his skin — it all feels insubstantial as mist compared with the sense that she might be a moment from laying her hand on his arm.

Even the heady perfumes have somehow faded; all he can smell is that unmistakable mix of fragrance and medicine, flowers and earth. 

He could almost taste her.

Obi’s body slumps, folding in on itself, as the tension drains out of him. Inside there is nothing but a bleak and blighted waste.

...

Torou’s shoulders quiver. She makes a sound, low in her throat.

Obi jerks back, eyeing her warily.

She shrugs at him, grinning. “Can’t blame a girl for being curious.”

...

No sign of offended feeling or even irritation shows; she regards him not with hostility but a nonchalance bordering on amusement.

“You’re not even surprised,” Obi accuses her.

She shakes her head, grin widening.

...

He drags a hand down his face, searching for a well of anger to draw on, to show some resentment that she has played him like a fish that she always meant to throw back into the pool.

He finds only exhaustion.

Coming here had been pointless, like everything else.

...

“Going so soon?” her mocking voice follows him, as he crosses the room in a bound. Obi doesn’t pause on the windowsill. 

He doesn’t look back.

Throwing up the glass, he releases himself into the night and lets the darkness swallow him, for what little relief it brings.

*****

Torou straightens and stands with her arms akimbo, frowning after him. 

She had rolled the dice to see how they would land, not to win — but she couldn’t call herself satisfied.

The reports had not overstated the case. 

He was half-mad and running amok. All her tricks had barely slowed him down for less than a night.

...

Torou walked to the dressing table and began pulling the sleeves, shifts, pads, and skirts of her usual costume from the drawers, attiring herself in a more practical sort of a battledress.

She pursed her lips as she worked, weighing her training against her inclination.

There was no money in following Obi — clearly, he would be no good for a job, even. That made it a waste of resources.

She knew that, yet still she found herself wanting to.

...

Tugging her own laces tight, in a show of strength and flexibility that would have impressed a circus performer, Torou turned from the mirror.

She has always liked Obi, but it is not just nostalgia for old times making her restless in the wake of their encounter.

The night before, while sniffing out Obi’s trail, she had encountered a rumor. 

Someone dangerous was on the loose, it was whispered — someone who had a bone to pick with the royals of Tanbarun and Clarines.

...

She had thought it meant Obi. He was dangerous; he had crossed swords with one or even two princes, if the gossip could be believed.

After seeing him tonight, though, she wondered.

No one could mistake a man like that, crazed with his own memories, for a hunter questing revenge.

...

If not Obi, then who?

[traditional-with-a-twist]

Practicing with watercolor pencils

[traditional-with-a-twist]

It's beautiful! Thank you so much for such a wonderful favor

When there's rain, there's sun

This is the second half of @traditional-with-a-twist 's obiyukimadness prize! A moodboard/playlist combo based on their fic Rain, Sun, and Snow!

Here's the Playlist!

(Picture credits underneath)

From top left to right, going down.

Campfire-pixabay

Forest trail- pixabay

Wildflowers-pixabay

Donkey-pexels

Mortar and pestel- unsplash

Potatoes-pixabay

[traditional-with-a-twist]

l. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

“State your business.”

The servant who opens the door to Haruka manor is as unsmiling and impeccably dressed as her master. She is expressionless, but something in the very air conveyed her unwelcome.

Her gaze travels from Shirayuki’s sturdy boots to the hood neatly laced at her chin. She does not qualify her command by appending any title or respectful address.

Shirayuki inclines her head politely. “I am here to see Lord Haruka,” she said.

“You have no appointment.” It was not a question.

...

Shirayuki shook her head. “No, I’m sorry to come unannounced,” she agreed quietly, “but it is important.”

The woman regarded her expressionlessly, the line of her mouth unyielding. 

“It is not permitted to allow entrance without an appointment,” she said, without apology.

...

Shirayuki lifts her chin. 

“This is a — a family matter. It’s about this letter.”

She lifted the envelope delivered by the royal messenger, its seal still intact.

...

The servant spared it a glance. “That message was not addressed to you,” she said, coldly now.

A flush crept over Shirayuki’s cheeks, but she held the woman’s gaze.

“It was entrusted to me. I must speak to Lord Haruka about it, as soon as possible.”

“You are requested,” said the servant, barring her way, “to present identification.”

...

Shirayuki hesitated, her fingers tight on the letter. Everything in her rebelled against the idea of forcing her way inside by claiming a rank that had never really belonged to her.

She almost turned back, gave up the struggle until she thought of a better way. She might send a message in advance, perhaps, follow the protocol expected of her.

She almost let it go for another day, just one more day ��� but then she thought of Obi.

...

He was out there somewhere, alone, hurting, and it was her fault.

She had to find him.

She needed to know where to look.

...

Shirayuki sought for relenting in the woman’s stony face, rigid posture, but found nothing. She sighed to herself.

Then she reached up and lowered her hood.

***

That insolent girl could hardly have chosen a worse time for her visit.

Lord Haruka’s manor was in a state of what would have devolved into full-on uproar, in another household.

Even in an estate managed as rigorously in its lord’s absence as when he was present, a low current of tension simmered in the air.

Servants trained to march the halls straight-backed and prompt had quickened their pace — not hurrying, which would be unseemly, a symptom of disorder, but brisk.

The usual silence pervading the halls trembled like a pot about to simmer. It stirred with whispers as packages changed hands, grooms left their stations, and an army of maids wielding dusters stalked the outdoor livery invading their sanctum.

...

Lord Haruka had lately returned from a journey — a disruptive event under any circumstances, which was why he avoided travel unless absolutely necessary.

He managed his estate by letter and steward; he resided in Wistal where he could best perform his duties to the crown.

Today, however, those duties had seen him depart from not only the castle but Clarines itself.

...

Haruka well remembered the last time he had undertaken a mission of foreign diplomacy.

How could he forget, when it had led to his committing the gravest error of his life — an error that plagued him still?

For some score years and more, that error had dogged him, a living breathing reminder of his folly.

Now it returned in its latest guise — or rather, by extension, in the form of an uninvited guest.

...

He stood in his office, papers stacked unconscionably high, half-full chests and trunks open in every corner.

Haruka still wore a traveling suit, though a footman had immediately relieved him of his road-worn cloak.

The servant who had brought this unwelcome news waited in the doorway, her hands folded in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture.

She had known before she spoke what her master would think of the intrusion, and his sustained silence let her know again.

...

A muscle clenched in Haruka’s jaw. That girl had once been betrothed to a prince of the land. Now, as the wife of his good-for-nothing heir, she could expect a claim to hospitality from his estate, if nothing more.

It would not do to send her away, dismiss her like the commoner she once was.

“Beg the lady Shirayuki’s pardon,” he ordered, “for my receiving her in my office. Inform her that I am to depart immediately in the morning on business for the crown.”

...

No, Haruka’s journey was not yet done. He would spend but one night at the estate, ostensibly as a respite to break the long ride north, but in fact to prepare the documents that the prince Izana required.

It was this brief window that the unfortunate girl had landed in, with all her usual penchant for stirring up trouble.

The work was delicate, involved. Doubtless, it would cost him not only the daylight hours but many candles into the night.

...

If it were not also essential that the urgent nature of his task remain unknown, he would have directed his steward to receive their guest.

As it was, a lady of her particular connection to himself — little would he have ever imagined consenting to such an arrangement — could hardly fail to command a personal audience.

Even one as unversed as she in courtly manners might take the hint, though, if she met him in the midst of paperwork.

Their meeting may yet prove mercifully short.

...

Indeed, Shirayuki’s first impulse on walking into the room was dismay.

A palpable sense of stress rocked her from the threshold; she cast an anxious eye over the scene she had disturbed.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” came the curt greeting in the accustomed stiff tones.

Shirayuki’s hands dropped automatically to her skirts, answering the signal as she had rehearsed countless times under his stern eye.

She almost surprised herself as she executed a textbook curtsy.

...

Then Shirayuki raised her head and straightened her shoulders. “Lord Haruka, I received your message, but I couldn’t give it to Obi.”

The lines around her father-in-law’s mouth deepened. “As the messenger was instructed to inform you, we are aware that the … that your husband has left Clarines.”

She nodded and said, “I want to find him.”

...

Lord Haruka’s gaze left her, dismissing her from his presence as completely as if she had bid him farewell and walked out the door.

He turned over a paper and paused, seemingly surprised to find her still there. “Yes?”

Shirayuki’s brow furrowed. “I want to find him,” she repeated.

...

Sunlight slanted between them, revealing the quality of the furniture by the warm glow it summoned from the polished wood.

The curtains hung in heavy folds, the fabric tastefully subdued in color and design yet unmistakably distinguished by its richness.

This was the estate that Obi would one day inherit. If not for her, he might have been here now, learning what was needed to take his father’s place someday.

...

Haruka regarded her grimly for a moment then returned to his papers.

“No permit is required should you wish to depart Clarines,” he said. “I trust that you —”

“But, Lord Haruka,” she broke in, aghast. “Don’t you want to help? Aren’t you worried about him? He —” 

She swallowed hard. “He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

xlix. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Lightning never strikes the same place twice.

That was what they said, anyway — yet here Obi finds himself in Tanbarun, at an inn, once again facing that feline smile across the room.

Obi’s face makes no secret of his disinclination for conversation. Anyone else might shy away from contact with the barren expression he presents: narrowed eyes set above a grim mouth, black hair shading in stark contrast against ashy skin.

Anyone might, but her.

He could run, but he knows she would only chase him. 

Instead of joining the raucous crowd at the bar, Obi lays down money for one night. Then he pivots and stalks towards the courtyard. 

...

A few minutes later, a woman with long, burnished hair and bold eyes saunters out to admire the stars on a cold, clear, winter’s night.

...

Obi has changed since she saw him last.

Torou takes her time observing him, marking each new detail as she would assess a fortress.

Gone is the light from his eyes — this is not the softer Obi she met once. Nor is he the fierce, wild man she partnered with long ago, but something colder and darker.

He bears unmistakable signs of neglecting himself on the road, a carelessness as culpable as a knight leaving his sword to rust.

Altogether, she is not sure whether to consider him less dangerous … or more.

...

Unless the question is whether he has become a danger to himself— on that point, Torou is very clear.

...

She advances on him in the night, this time resolved to test him not with blows, but with words.

“A legend!” Torou hails her old partner. “Tired of the quiet life, Obi? All the taverns are buzzing about you.”

This was no mere raillery. “People are talking about you” was not a compliment, in their line of work.

...

Obi regards her grimly. Like everything else, Torou is tied up with memories he would rather forget — thoughts he cannot bear, yet cannot escape.

He looks away, wondering how long before he can be rid of her. 

“If you’re looking for a rich man to entertain you,” he says, in a flattened tone impossible to mistake for banter, “you’ll have better luck inside.”

...

So he doesn’t want to play, Torou thinks. Then again, he hadn’t the last time they met either.

Still, there is something different. That time at the inn, he had been not impatient, exactly, but engaged. He had wanted to be left in peace because he had something else to do, something absorbing his time and attention.

Tonight he is utterly without direction — not roaming free, but lost.

She has never seen Obi lost before.

...

“What, back there?” Torou flips her hand at the warm light spilling through the windows behind them.

Shaking her head, she declares, “I’d be bored to death — too safe.”  

She doesn’t need to emphasize the last word to be sure that he’ll get the message.

...

Even so, he gives no sign of it, not a twitch of the eyebrow in response.

He only leans against the wall and folds his arms. “Is that so.”

...

Torou is not one to give up easily. She may have a wandering eye, but once something has caught her attention, nothing will dislodge it.

She presses on, pressing in, shortening the space between them.

“But you — I’ve been hearing all about you,” Torou purrs. “Up and down the road, there’s talk of a dangerous man, asking for more danger.”

His eyes shift away. 

“Is that why you came,” he says, in that expressionless voice.

...

He wonders why she won’t just leave him alone.

...

A new feeling wells in her as she watches him disregard her warnings. She steps closer, inside his circle of movement. 

She has entered the danger zone now, where a strike given or received could be lethal.

The proximity triggers a physical response in Obi, sparking his defensive reflexes. His pulse accelerates, preparing for explosive force.

Although he would rather look anywhere else, be anywhere else, he can’t resist the impulse to keep the threat in view.

His eyes slide to her face by force of habit.

...

She would have anticipated as much; it is her business to make herself impossible to ignore.

Now she has him.

For the first time, Obi really looks at her.

...

Torou is startling when roused. Her nostrils flare; her color rises. It is like an ember blazing to life.

He would never have guessed it of her — the coquette, who played with her food before she ate it and troubled herself only for money or amusement.

He had always supposed he was just that to her — a source of amusement, a curiosity that caught her interest as fleetingly as a gleam of light or spare bit of string.

She was steel wrapped in velvet, a kitten with sheathed claws. Now, suddenly, she bares herself to him.

...

A possibility forms in Obi’s mind — the possibility of a distraction, presenting itself in a new shape.

...

Torou jabs a finger in his chest. It isn’t a calculated gesture. 

She is just angry.

He watches her bemusedly, surprise offering some variety to the slog of anguish and despair that has weighted him for endless days and nights.

...

“You keep chasing death long enough, Obi,” Torou whispers, “and someday you’ll catch it. Believe me, I’ve watched it happen.”

Then she backs away, a strange smile on her lips. Her passion has banked to embers, subsiding as quickly as it came.

She leaves him standing there, alone in the dark.

...

Inside, voices rise and fall.

Laughter, drink, a crackling fire, all dwindle to ashes.

Hours pass, and the tables empty.

...

Obi never makes a decision.

He only allows his feet to carry him up the stairs, down the hall, until he reaches a door left unlocked.

It’s almost too daring — an invitation for trouble, issued in defiance of anyone who accepts it.

Then again, perhaps it’s an invitation for one troublemaker in particular.

...

He places a finger on the wood and eases it open.

...

At the sound of the hinges, Torou smiles to herself.

She is seated before her mirror, her long hair loose and gleaming, a brush in her hand. 

Her wrist moves in slow circles, languid as a tongue on fur. Smooth and unhurried, the brush polishes gleaming auburn to bronze.

...

She wears only a robe — divested of the apparently casual but carefully arranged layers of their trade.

People in the underworld dress for stealth. That meant ordinariness, unremarkable townspeople clothing, as often as it meant the camouflage of gray night shadows or forest greens.

They dressed also for protection, but not the sort that would attract attention. Armor, guards, sheaths, and the other trappings of warrior trade tended to make a target jittery, a law enforcer suspicious.

Instead, they clothed themselves in thick, loose weaves. Apparently for comfort, the thick material actually served for turning aside a blade, dulling an arrow’s point. Scarves and gloves masked the vulnerable, sensitive skin at their throats and wrists.

...

Torou has shed all of this. 

Only thin cotton drapes from her shoulders to the floor, open at the neck and elbows. Her skin is warm and glowing in the lamplight.

Something sweet and smoky burns in the air.

...

Her eyes meet his in the glass.

They are amber on gold, fox to cat, caught in a dance that has just turned interesting.

Torou’s smile widens. “Hello, Obi.”