002: Solitude

Her mind was surprisingly empty.

It had taken hours, but she’d finally achieved it; not a single thought or emotion had been left unchecked, and she felt eerily like a black hole of sorts—a vacant void of nothingness. Meaningless, but still in existence. When the chilly breeze blew against her, she only felt the wind—no memories or trips of reminiscence.

If only it would last.

This time around, she was dressed much more appropriately; a warm at-home kimono of simple green protected her from the cold, a dark blue obi cinching the waist tight to her frame and keeping it closed. As was customary in the East, she did not wear shoes within the house, her white-socked feet—hidden within the length of kimono—quite warm in spite of the temperature up here at the Observatory. Her hair was in its trademark style of bun-and-braid, a red ribbon keeping it in place with the very tip of the plait brushing her outer thighs. She wore no jewels or make up—she was not one for much decoration—but she was still the epitome of a princess; back straight and poised, elegant despite—or rather, because of—simplicity.

She wasn’t gorgeous by any means—when she was younger, she dreamed of being as beautiful and dazzling as those princesses from fairytales. Ethereal beauties with neither flaw nor wrong; perfection—something she’d never be. Her eyes were large and her nose small; she was more cute than pretty in any respect, and didn’t exactly receive the same kind of attention as those women born with earth-shattering features and extraordinary curves—perfect. It was usually, “Aw—how cute,” rather than, “Holy Hell, was that an angel!”

She’d always be seen as just a child.

Asatamashii Miyu was a girl who knew her own strengths and weaknesses. Physically, her body was a frail little thing, betraying her when she needed it the most; but mentally, she was sharp and intelligent, able to outwit any opponent in spite of age or rank. She didn’t quit—she regrouped and restrategized. Without anyone outright saying so, she’d known at a very young age that she was an underdog; a girl raised in an environment that didn’t exactly fit her. A mere human. She knew she wasn’t pretty, and she knew she’d never demand respect the way her father’s presence did, but she knew this environment, and she knew this life; she could make due with what she had. Pull through. She could survive.

‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t dream.’ She didn’t want to get married to someone she barely knew. She didn’t want to run an Empire when she could barely govern her own life—this alone made her selfish, and she knew that kind of attitude was not for the good of her people. She’d grow old, bearing half Shinma, half human children with her distant fiancée—a man she could never love.

She wanted none of those things; they were against everything she’d ever believed in. She wanted warm sunsets and the laughter of children—children born out of love, not obligation. She wanted smiles and happiness. A barking dog galloping amidst a sea of flowers; a strong shoulder to lean on when she was tired, and a warm embrace to crawl into during those long, stormy nights. She wanted a family that would play games together—that gave a damn when you weren’t feeling well, or wasn’t too preoccupied to read a bedtime story before sleep. A family that put forth the extra effort to spend time together. Butterfly kisses and intertwined fingers. A warm bed at night.

‘I hate thinking.’ For a moment, she let the scowl peek through, her own distaste at the unsavory turn in her thoughts clearly evident. She’d depress herself at this rate.

“You didn’t show up for dinner.”

She hated when he did that. “Byoki desu,” she replied as if unaffected by his sudden appearance.

He gave her a smile she didn’t see—she still stared at the distant horizon. “Of course you’d be sick, standing up here all day. As comfy as these kimonos are, I don’t think they’d keep you too warm for long in this kind of weather, ne?” His Japanese was flawless; she wished she could speak other languages so seamlessly. “But I must say—you look spectacularly healthy for one unwell.” He was teasing again. “A little pale, but healthy nonetheless.” She did not respond in hopes that he’d leave her Sanctuary if met with silence; ‘twas not to be.

“Is there something amiss?”‘Why are you here?’ She wanted to ask, but did not. He must have truly been hunting for her in order to have found his way to the Observatory; the entrance wasn’t exactly up for public display. What could he possibly want to warrant this invasion of territory?

“No,” he said, his smile never wavering. He studied her briefly before stretching out his arm to her—there was a case in his hand.

She noticed it out of the corner of her eyes and looked. “. . . N-nani?”

He smiled at her open surprise. “I found it in the Gardens after unpacking yesterday,” he explained, handing her the instrument case. “Not a very safe place for a flute, I would think.” There was relief in her eyes—unhidden, unabashed relief.‘So . . . the frosty princess can feel.’ He didn’t necessarily think that the Lady was a stone, but he knew how secretive and hidden she could be. To see her so openly happy about something spoke volumes.

Her eyes were brighter than usual. “Arigatou gozaimasu,” she all but whispered, bowing deeply in gratitude.

His canines gleamed. “Anytime, kid,” he replied in English, ruffling her bangs.

He didn’t see the light extinguish from her eyes.

Disgusted with herself for stupidly thinking that he’d see her as anything other than a child—why had she gotten her hopes up in the first place?—she turned to the horizon once more, remaining silent; after a moment or two of this uncomfortable tension, the Western prince took his leave, letting the Lady alone with her own brooding thoughts and angry self-deprecation.

‘I don’t even know why I cared.’ Setting down the case, she took the flute and admired it for a moment, feeling the overwhelming need to play it; no matter if it had been a gift from a man she’d long ago given up on ever caring for, she still cherished the instrument as if it were her own limb. It felt good to play it—to let her soul run free through music. A long time went by—an hour or two maybe—before she finally left the Observatory and quietly ventured to her own room on the topmost level in the main house—away from everyone and –thing within her home. Most likely, the occupants of the house were sleeping, as it was a little past midnight; her fiancée was probably off somewhere with his older brother doing who-knew-what.

Whilst it should have bothered her that her future husband-to-be was probably grunting atop some nameless, faceless whore—for no respectable woman in her kingdom would openly have an affair with a man virtually taken—but she was not; she’d stopped caring years ago, if indeed, she ever had. It was just something that was. He was promised to her, but not yet bound—and even when he would be, that surely would not stop him from bedding any wench that caught his eye. As one of the highest rank of Shinma, he was still a baby; twenty-four years meant almost nothing, for Shinma could live for nearly a millennium—if not longer.

She probably wouldn’t live a day past fifty—if that.

A few more decades would mean nothing to him; whatever string of lovers he’d keep a ‘secret’ from her would only become more extensive and prominent the minute her casket was lowered into the cold, dark earth. He would touch and use her and, ultimately, father her children. He would be the only man she’d ever known, for she was inclined for neither lovers nor love; a marriage of convenience and peace—for her people. For the well-being of those she’d vowed to protect.

As the Heir, she no longer had dreams; the treaty had shattered any hope of those dreams ever coming to life, and to be a leader, one couldn’t afford dreams. Couldn’t dwell on misfortunes. The wishes made on falling stars were wasted—the candles on her birthday cake dying on their own instead of being blown out for a wish. Dreams and wishes—weaknesses. They meant nothing and were nothing. Childish fantasies. Hope—a thing of feathers; fickle and unfaithful. She had tossed away her hope the same day she’d annihilated her own dreams. She’d build a castle on a foundation of reality and truth—of darkness and, in the end, sadness; there were no rainbows or lights at the end of a tunnel. No Happy Endings. They were fairytales—pretty and soothing, but only temporary. Like a drug.

In a way, she was thankful for such a sort lifespan—thankful that she would not live the centuries of life gifted to the Kyuuketsu. At least, as a human, she could look forward to the serenity death would give her one day—she would be able to look to the horizon and imagine the peace she could one day have. The peace and happiness denied in her life. She sighed.

She hated thinking.

“Shiina,” she called quietly upon reaching her room, knowing that it would lighten her mood. Within seconds, the rabbit-eared creature appeared on her shoulder; the affectionate little bunny rubbed its head against her cheek.

“Ne, Miyu—Daijoubu?”

“Hai.” Though she didn’t really feel it, she saw no reason to worry Shiina about it. The disbelief she felt from the pink Shinma was almost tangible, but she disregarded it. Rearranging the sheets of music, she brought the flute to her lips, her fingers moving to their respective spots by mere habit; Shiina said nothing, closing its one visible eye and swaying to the soft, yet undeniably sorrowful melody. Having Shiina on her shoulder did not deter her music—the notes on the paper became blurry until she was playing from her heart instead of mere sheets of paper.

The melody changed.

Rainbows streaming through ashen skies
Fortune springing from candied lies
Mingled laughter from happy cries;
This, I sing of in lullaby

Go to sleep, my baby dear
Mommy promises to stay here;
Safe and warm, I will keep you near
My life I’d forfeit, so don’t you fear

Baby, sleeping and dreaming of Sun,
You know of sorrow, though Life’s just begun
I pray your dreams will remain as they are;
Full of smiles and gingerbread stars

So sleep, my angel—my only one
I’ll guard and protect you till my time is done
Child of mine, please remember this song
And use it to comfort you when I am gone.

Though the words were unspoken, Shiina remembered the tune—the hymn. The pink bunny-creature remembered it from the young princess’ childhood; remembered one of the rare times that Miyu had smiled. The dead look on the girl’s face did not convince Shiina at all—she’d been her companion for far too long to not know when the Lady was sad.

But Shiina also knew better than to pry.

So when Her Majesty continued to play the same tune once again, she said nothing, for she had neither the heart nor courage to bring up the subject. After the second time, there seemed to be no beginning or end to the lullaby, the melody seamlessly folding into itself and becoming one large, endless loop of music and sadness. It was as if the young human princess were unleashing whatever demons lay within her little frame—as if every tear and wail of desperation were flying free through the simple, yet beautiful notes of the flute. There was a sobbing, nigh hysterical woman dwelling within the teen, Shiina was sure . . . but how to break her free?

. . . How to break her free. . .

.: KYUUKETSUKI MIYU :.

The King and Queen had adjusted their schedules to accommodate their guests; Shinma were unlike Kyuuketsu in the sense that they had no restrictions—bound by the light of neither Moon nor Sun. When not working or entertaining their guests, the King and Queen would nap to recover a little before going on with the day, only able to operate at one-hundred percent under the light of the Lady Moon. The younger of the Ashbourne siblings thrived on the freedom they were given away from their parents, and even the older ones were grateful for time away from the hovering, ever-strict Western Ruler. Here, they could run and play within the humungous Kyuuketsu Manor without restraint, only mindful of not breaking anything. Even the staff seemed somewhat chipper, the sound of children laughing and playfully arguing adding sunshine to an otherwise quiet and haunted home.

And yet . . .

There was always a hollow silence—a grim, unnamable shadow lurking. Those visiting, or unused to the Manor would not know what the eerie feeling that caused the fine hairs on the back of the neck to prickle and rise was. They would not realize the gloomy and grey atmosphere that occasionally rolled in emanated from a single source—a single, solitary figure. A lone silhouette.

Everyday, when the sun just met the threadbare edges of the waning night sky, the same melody played—soothing and gentle, though undeniably sad. At times it was long and drawn-out—sometimes it was short and clipped, as if the emotion was simply too strong for the song to be continued. It was haunting—telling a tale of longing and sorrow; of regrets and hopes for a time of carefree joy and candied dreams. A cherry on top with all of the extra trimmings. One could feel the unshed tears thrumming through the corridors of the estate, quiet sobs echoing noiselessly—lacing through each melancholic note. No words could explain the sense of despair caused by the lullaby.

But, one day, Lava tried.

Over a very-delicious supper, the crimson-eyed prince looked to the Queen, who sat demurely sipping a cup of soup—they drank their soup in the East, he remembered, which didn’t seem as odd as some of the customs here; this could be attributed to the fact that he’d gotten used to some of the traditions that his betrothed often adhered to without thought during her stays in his home. Thinking of the absent princess—whom he hadn’t seen since that night up in the tower—a question came to mind. One he’d been thinking about often lately. “Who plays that song every morning, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You speak of the Lullaby?” When he nodded, she set down her bowl. Though she was pretty sure the young man knew—or, at least, had a clue—she answered it anyway. “Miyu,” said the Queen simply. “It was the first song she’d ever played on the flute, and I’m afraid it’s one of the only songs she’s ever truly taken a liking to.”

“She plays it every night,” stated Garnet, flicking a lock of raven hair from her eyes as she contemplated the anomaly that was chopsticks.

The Queen gave a small, sad smile. “It is the sound of her tears.”

They had never broached the subject again.

But night after night, the lullaby played—and night after night, Lava found himself more and more reluctant to leave the Manor with his older brother. It was ridiculous, this feeling, but it stilled his feet when he would have arrogantly strolled down the halls in search of Garline, intent on another wild night of bosoms and booze. At one time, he ran down the corridor, hell-bent on escaping the invisible bounds that licked at his heels . . . but dawn would always come, and with it, the sound of her tears.