[Saiunkoku Challenge 34] Broken Metaphors

[runiclore]

Broken Metaphors
Author: Amber Michelle
Rating: K+
Genre: gen, introspective
Warnings: book 12 references.
AU/Canon: canon.
Pairing/Characters: Juusanhime
Words: 597

Prompt: delicate (250 words min.), due Jan.24
Notes: written at the last minute, which means it lacks awesome, and also no extra research on book 12 because, well. Time. But I'm going to get one of these in, dammit. >_>

Cross-posted at saiun_challenge.



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Fireflies drifted in the gathering dusk, pale yellow with white centers against the saffron color of the sky reflected from the pond outside Juusanhime's window. Orange darkened to pink, and far on the horizon it bled darker, to purple, when she went outside to gather a handful of lavender. Her new rooms at the Inner Palace faced east; the emperor had ordered the dormant beds of azalea replaced with lavender, the pond stocked with fish - small varieties, white, some mottled with orange or brown. They wove between the lotus stalks and into the dark depth of the water beneath the willow, then back out again, unconcerned. She'd meant to ask for plainer fish, the sort she wouldn't be tempted to name and watch for hours - the kind that didn't gleam like quartz and topaz, and appear too valuable to kill with a poisoned morsel. It was a nice gesture, though. Too nice. She didn't want to point out his mistake.

The murmur of other women talking, of screens clipping closed and doors closing pulled her away from the pond with her bouquet of lavender and a firefly perched on the tip of a purple blossom. It was jostled free when she twisted the stems together so they would fit in the porcelain vase. She pushed the heavy frame of the window open enough to push her hand through so it would fly free.

She hated metaphors. Juusanhime was good at fighting, riding, stealing-- when she had to. Her fingers were flexible from learning to manipulate throwing knives, though she'd never been good at that discipline in particular. The classics bored her to tears when they weren't talking about the philosophy of war or the elemental effects of plants. She knew eight hundred varieties of herbs and their medicinal qualities, she remembered dozens of poisons and their antidotes, and the blade that killed her mother - she remembered that too.

She remembered an embroidered eyepatch, and the blood rolling down a tanned cheek, milky residue glazing the red, a pearly luminescence.

Juusanhime slammed the window closed as soon as the firefly drifted outside. The glass rattled.

Some part of her had hoped the emperor would do what she couldn't. If he inspired such devotion in Shuuei, could he not melt the hearts of her brothers, or soften the coldness of ghosts? There were days she felt brittle as glass, a porcelain figure of the thirteenth princess waiting to be thrown against a wall and shattered. And somewhere far away, back in Ran Province where she'd been hiding, the real Juusanhime would get up, ride to the capitol, and take her place in the Inner Palace.

Time heals all wounds, or so the adage went. She didn't believe in those any more than she cared for metaphors. They'd returned from her home province three weeks ago. That was time. Her scratches had nearly healed - those were wounds. But remembering her blade slicing through that embroidered eyepatch still made her eyes glassy and wet. There was no resistance and barely a sound to mark its passing.

The lavender's sharp scent pulled Juusanhime back to herself with a sneeze. She backed away from the sill. Pinpricks of light drifted over the pond, gleaming against the purpling sky. The one she set free was indistinguishable from the others. They gathered and broke apart, and settled on lotus blossoms and stalks of grass.

She would be that firefly, someday.


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