Hi guys! I'm back!
It's been a long time, I know, and I'm so sorry I haven't been very present over the past few months. I've missed FanFiction so much, and I have another three stories in the works. I can't express how excited I am about it all!
Just a short note: This story is going to be pretty different from Rin's Love as one might hope. The next chapter will contain some more information, so I hope you stick around to read it. All I can really say is just trust me on this one.
This chapter's very short, so please continue on with it! I encourage you to stick with it despite the fact that it's not super fast paced in the beginning.
And here's the vocab list!
Wataboshi- Japanese wedding hood, sort of like a veil, typically made of silk
Shiromuku – a pure-white silk kimono used for Japanese weddings
Daimyo – a powerful, landholding ruler of an area that were relevant through the mid-19th century in Japan
Hakama – loose-fitting pants
Obi – thick belt of the kimono
Tokkuri – sake serving flask
Today is my wedding day.
The wataboshi droops low over my eyes, obscuring my vision, the hair pins apparently having failed to fulfill their duty. I want to raise my hand to move the hood into its place, but I am to remain stock still, waiting demurely for my husband-to-be to arrive. Instead of traditional silk, the thick white hood is made from cotton as the last girl who had worn the village's silk wataboshi had dragged it through the mud after getting drunk from sake. Nobody had said anything at the time, but the glares had been obvious enough. Such an expensive commodity that the village shared should not have been treated so lightly. The morning after her ceremony, she had shown up with bruises on her arms and legs that were not entirely concealed by her navy work clothes. Presumably, her new husband had taken it upon himself to punish her soundly for her carelessness, an act to which the rest of the village did not dissent.
Stupid, silly girl, I think to myself. Eri had always been a fool, but at least now she had the company of two children to keep her daft self busy.
So, now, instead of a traditional silk, my bridal hood is fashioned from a rough, cheap cotton fabric gathered at the last minute for my wedding. The middle-aged village miko had smiled warmly when she had presented the wataboshi to me, exposing her uneven teeth that were yellowed from three decades of drinking tea. I had managed to scrape a meager smile to show my gratitude, but honestly, I can't say that anything other than social obligation motivated it.
Now, however, looking down at the shiromuku which had been worn by so many brides before me, I regret having a wataboshi at all; the newly starched and pure, lily-whiteness of it only makes the old kimono I wear seem all the dingier. Having passed through many hands before reaching mine, it had been through far too much to remain as beautiful as it might once have been. The silk had been sullied over time, leaving it a sickly, pallid shade of mottled cream rather than the snowy pearl it must have once been. I turned the sleeves over again and again in my fingers, trying to quell the nausea rising in pit of my stomach. As the fabric slips through my fingertips, I see the stains of dirt and food which tarnished what might have been beautiful once. The local daimyo's mother had purchased it for the village as a sign of her graciousness as the majority of the families here were far too poor to afford their own silk wedding kimono. I scoff at the thought. More to please and congratulate herself on her generosity. They think we're all worthless, parasitic vassals.
Hot tears of anger sting my eyes as I sit under the pounding rays of the blistering sun. The injustice of this day is rising like a flood inside me, threatening to drown me. Looking down at my clenched left hand, I spread my fingers for a moment, revealing the small, white paper crane which had been left on my windowsill the night before. Sweat has softened the crisp lines of the folds, and my heart flutters lightly when I remember that his hands must have touched this same paper just hours earlier. A tear finally breaks free and rolls down my cheek, dropping onto the wing of the crane, withering the fragile paper.
The small crowd that has gathered goes quiet. I know he is here, my husband-to-be. I force my eyes to dry up for I can no fidget in the slightest now that he has come. I am paralyzed, turned to stone in my own body, yet remain subject to the turmoil of emotions still raging inside me. He kneels next to me, and from my downward-cast gaze, I can only see the faded black of cotton hakama and his hands tanned the color of oak from working under the sun year-round.
He touches my wrist and I know it's time to rise and walk. A wedding party of eight surrounds me and I'm led to a wooden dais where there are cushions for us to kneel on. Even as we walk, I can't bring myself to meet his eyes. I see only the stained socks and rough sandals that cover his calloused feet.
A priest begins reading the ceremonial mantras with a voice sandpapered to a rough whisper by the years and already my attention is drifting. The silk stifles my breath and I feel like I'm being suffocated even though the obi of the kimono isn't fastened all that tight. The scorching summer sun pounds into my clothing and I'm fairly certain that I'm being cooked from the inside of my kimono. Whoever thought a summer wedding was a good idea was an idiot.
The priest pauses for a moment and I realize the sake is being poured. I clench my fists even tighter, sweat beading up in my palms. I hear the soft thud of the ceramic tokkuri on wood, the sound mixing with the erratic thumps of my heart. The cup is passed to me and I rotate the cup to avoid the spot where his mouth has already touched it. I sip, wishing I could gulp the whole thing down to dull my nerves and quell the nausea rising in my stomach, but the cup is to be passed twice more between us. I know that if it has to be refilled before we finish the ceremony, then rumors would fly about omens of a bad marriage which is the last thing I need on the long list of sins already against my name.
Our hands brush and the clammy moisture of his palms dampen my own. I cringe inwardly as for the final time I sip what is left of the sake.
Today is my wedding day, and I don't want to be married.
A short chapter, I know, which is why I posted two today =) I hope you enjoy! If you're at all confused about why this is listed as a Rin and Sesshomaru story, let me just say once again: trust me. Keep reading and you'll hear more about him soon =P
As always, thank you for reading and reviews are appreciated! Please let me know if there's something that concerns you or you would like to see more of. Criticism can be a writer's best friend.