Chapter Text
When Machi is seven, her dress catches on the large gates of the castle and causes her to fall. There is a feeling of cold metal hitting her arm, and then the sharp sting of pain as the spike carves out a gash above her elbow. Oddly enough, it is not the pain that registers in her mind, but the thin trickle of blood that slowly makes its way down her arm and drips into the fresh, linen-white snow. She watches, mesmerised, as red bleeds thin little webs in white, reaching out one finger to smudge the pattern, drawing slow circles in the freezing ground. The ice responds to her touch, small cracks spreading slowly from the point that her finger brushes the snow, but Machi doesn’t notice. She is transfixed, unable to look away from the uneven patch of colour spreading rapidly through the blinding white.
Her mother crouches down to look, inspecting the girl's arm with a quick, sharp glance. A restrained ‘tut’ rests on her lips as she determines that it isn't anything worth worrying about. With a small sigh, she grasps Machi’s outstretched hand and pulls it from the ground. At once, the spell is broken, and Machi feels hot tears rushing to her eyes as the pain comes rushing back.
"Machi," her mother says quickly, before the girl can let out any sobs. "It's just a scratch.” Her voice is calm, dismissive, but she eyes the cracks in the ice with concern. “Come on now, you can't be seen crying."
The hand that helps her up is offered reluctantly, and lets go much too quick. There’s a coldness to it, something entirely different from the frozen December ground. Even at seven years old, she feels the weight of her mother's expectations, crushing and claustrophobic, as though she is in a very small, dark box.
Gathering herself, she stands up, holding her arm gingerly as she follows her mother back into the building. The diminishing sight of the gate taunts her as the castle swallows her whole.
The wound would be cleaned and eventually heal, but the long, ugly mark of a scar above her left elbow would never fade. At her mother's insistence, she keeps it out of sight - long sleeves, wrappings, strategically chosen blouses that hang past the elbow - but some part of her is comforted by knowing it is there. She is reminded of an afternoon long ago, where for a small moment, she was able to crack the mask of perfection and catch a glimpse beyond.
In the years that follow, Machi grows with the words of her mother ringing in her ears. There are many rules to follow, many expectations to fulfil, but not a word of protest comes from her, as it is all she has ever known. In many ways, she becomes the perfect image of what a princess should be - polite, proper, never a toe out of line. She is enrolled in the finest academy and receives top marks in every class, year in, year out.
That’s how it is, at least for a couple of years. Until the cracks begin to show.
Machi’s family, the Kuragis, are an ancient line of mages, having ruled over the nation since its founding due to the immense magical abilities of all in their lineage. As a child, she had once attended a duel between her uncle and a neighbouring lord, and had witnessed first-hand the immense control and power the former had exerted, making the earth beneath his opponent’s feet rumble and crack. And of course, she had grown up with the stories of her father’s courageous leadership during the five-year expedition that had happened long before she was born, where he had, in the words of his men, “moved mountains.” The magic running through the veins of all in the Kuragi line was a point of great pride for them all, and more often than not, a great point of contention when the time came to choose an heir.
So when Machi slips up in her Practical Magic class, it’s much worse than it seems.
The problem hadn’t started in that class. In fact, when she looks back, there doesn’t seem to be any single moment when things had changed, but many small things that had accumulated until it had all come crashing down, like a boiling pot that had finally overflowed. There were the whispers in the hallways. An overheard conversation, the words “boring child” echoing in her mind during the sleepless nights where she had studied her ceiling. An array of indistinguishable, identical days had lined themselves in front of her, stretching endlessly into the distance. Slowly, slowly, a thick, dense fog had filled her head.
There had been many warning signs, she thinks. The missed class. The gradual drop in her grades. The nights where time didn’t seem to pass, where she had stayed frozen in her bed until the sunlight crept in through the cracks between her curtains. But she had ignored them all until that one day where the ground beneath her had exploded and she was thrown backwards with the blood of her classmate splattering onto her pristine white uniform.
The first thing she feels is a stab of some strange emotion - joy? contentment? - at the sight of the deep, ugly crack that mars the marble white floor of the school hall. Then the horror sets in as the other girl begins to scream.
In the end, the nurse had informed her that it was a miracle no one had been seriously injured.
The next time Machi sees the girl in the corridors, the words of apology have not even left her mouth before the girl turns and hurries away looking frightened, accompanied by her friends who give Machi looks as though she might hurt them too.
The whispers in the hallways increase.
Machi is pulled aside by her Practical Magic teacher before the start of the next class.
“Control over the inner self is the core of magical control.” she says. “You must not let your emotions get the better of you - what happened in the previous class can never happen again.”
It happens again.
Two weeks later, they are out in the fields practising a simple movement spell when the pebbles she is holding explode out of her hand, one broken piece hitting a boy in the forehead.
This time, her mother pulls her out of school.
There’s a stilted dinner conversation, on an evening that her father is off visiting the other woman. These were always the worst of days, where her mother’s mood was sullen, and her spirits could not be lifted by anything that anyone said.
“Machi,” her mother says, and Machi can feel the weariness in her tone. She stops herself from biting her lip, and looks down at her plate.
Her mother sighs.
“Machi, we both know this has to stop.” She waits for her daughter’s response, and when none comes, she presses on.
“Word is already beginning to spread that the Kuragi princess is a difficult child. These rumours that you can’t control these tantrums of yours…” She sets down her fork and knife, waiting for Machi to meet her eye. “If this gets any further, you know what it will mean for us.”
“Mother, I…”
“You and I both know you can’t afford to be like this, Machi. Not when that boy still appears so perfect in the public eye…”
She’s right, of course. Anything less than a perfect reputation is not acceptable. Not in their situation, and certainly not when the competitor never slips up. Machi will just have to find a way to deal with this…problem of hers. Of course, she doesn’t know how, doesn’t understand why it keeps happening. But that is unimportant - it simply cannot happen again.
Vaguely, she thinks about the other boy. Her brother. Her and Kakeru do not interact unless they are required to, but it does not mean that she can escape his inevitable presence in every single aspect of her life.
He is older than her by barely a year, and yet she feels like she is forever playing catch up in a race with no end in sight. They compete in the arbitrary spaces of areas so difficult to measure - public opinion, her father’s love, reputation, allies - and in every aspect, she feels as though she is treading in his shadow.
Her mother had explained to her when she was very young, that Machi was the “legitimate” heir - the child born to the Queen, and the one that would rightfully inherit. There was a system, she had said, a system that favoured Machi over her older but illegitimate brother, a system that would ensure the safety of their future in a world past her father’s reign. But her confidence had diminished over the years as she had witnessed the King’s affection for the boy, and his increasingly favourable treatment of his second wife.
There was no place for her and her mother in a world where Kakeru inherited the throne - her father’s two wives fought bitterly like snakes, and there was no love lost between their children. And so Machi had known for a very long time that her future was fragile, determined in these key years when the King had yet to announce his official heir.
Her mother reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder, although all Machi can feel is the weight. “We can’t afford to have people think that you are...unstable, not at a time like this. You do understand, right?”
“Yes, mother.”
Her mother smiles at the response, although it comes out as more of a grimace. “Good, good. That’s my daughter.”
There are an array of private tutors organised for her in the weeks that follow, and for a while, things seem to be better again. She enjoys the solitude, she tells herself, and her studies are meticulous, leaving the tutors nothing to pick apart.
It is not until the day she is informed that she will be resuming Practical Magic classes that the nauseous feeling in her stomach begins to set in again.
She sits in the instructing room and waits for her new tutor.
For what seems like the longest time, she fixes her gaze on a crack in the wall. She has sought it out immediately after entering the room - this is one of many identical instructing rooms that are indistinguishable to the unpractised eye, but as she has spent most of her life exploring the castle or being trapped within one of its rooms, she knows each like the back of her hand, and with them, the small thin lines of wear and tear that spread through and connect the room like a crude artery system. Most of this particular crack is hidden behind one of the polished brown bookshelves, but she can see a small sliver creeping out from behind the imposing wood, blended into yet, distinct from the white paint of the wall.
With eyes still fixed on the fault, she rearranges her books into a neat pile and folds her hands gracefully in her lap with the practised motion of one who has repeated this action more times than she can remember. Eyes straight ahead, a poised and graceful smile. That was the way.
The clock on the wall ticks past the hour: one, two, three. An array of orderly seconds, each spaced precisely the same, lined up in a neat little queue. She casts a furtive glance at the door, bracing herself for a knock.
It doesn’t come.
That was…unusual. Had there been a mix-up? An accident, a holdup along the way to the castle? But no, she knows that all her tutors arrive a day ahead of time, although she did not usually meet with them until she had a lesson.
So what was the delay? The tutors were always strictly punctual - no, they were more than that. She had thought that this newcomer would seek to set an example for her in their first encounter, and had come to greet them early herself. But as the clock had inched closer to noon, she had theorised that this tutor was of the other type - the ones that attacked their schedules with a precise frenzy that aligned right down to the minute.
Evidently that was not the case here either. It was now a minute - a full minute - past 12. So it must be - it must be that they were struggling to find adequate tutors that would accept her. The rumours must have spread far and wide. She tries to mask her growing panic by sitting up a little straighter.
In front of her table there are many bookshelves, looming, rectangular things filled with rows and rows of near-identical volumes. Their spines are embossed with the gold lettering of their titles, each arranged to precisely fill the space of a single shelf, so that no gap remains.
An uncomfortable feeling rises in her chest, and she can feel her heart begin to race.
She grips the side of the table, her chair hurtling backwards as she abruptly stands. There’s a dull crashing sound and she realises that her own pile of books have toppled over.
Words ringing in her head, her mother’s voice, boxes closing in. The looming shelves that seem to get closer…
She’s on the ground again, and it’s another scene. Torn spines, pages scattered across the floor like a hurricane had attacked the small room.
There’s a knock on the door.
Oh no.
“Hello…?” a boy’s voice comes out from behind the door as it opens, and she flinches.
She doesn’t turn to face him - a servant surely, summoned by the commotion and now surely rushing to report this new incident to her mother…she feels her cheeks flush red with shame.
“Oh! Are you alright…?” she hears the newcomer say instead, footsteps hurrying towards her.
She turns abruptly, and catches her first sight of the new magic tutor.