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Even from afar, as the distance thins between them, Sara can sense that something is not quite right.
The Shogun holds Herself differently, less formal, less stiff—hands folded casually over the balustrade amid birdsong and lush petals and the sound of waves crashing like thunder below—as She stares out to sea, eyes trained on the storm that rages, ever-present, swirling violent and violet above the skies of Seirai.
Sara bows low and lays a hand over her heart, courtesies ingrained deep as the Sacred Sakura’s roots. “You summoned me, Your Excellency?”
She turns, and Sara feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end—this god (for that, at least, Sara knows without thought; can feel the power radiating from Her frame that ripples like static along the exposed skin of her arms) whose face is the Shogun’s, but whose mannerisms are not—whose bearing is regal and formidable and refined, but more like the embracing boughs of the cherry trees here in Tenshukaku’s secluded sanctuary, supple and soothing as they sway in the breeze.
The Shogun is impassive, immovable, firm; cold and determined as Her sharpest blades in the pursuit of that which She has deemed necessary for Eternity.
Her lips quirk upward in the warm hint of a smile, and Sara does not know who this new woman is.
“Much has happened these last several days,” She says, Her tone a lilting melody sweet like nectar and smoother than silk, and Sara quakes at the age in Her voice—at the humour and grief and the untold strength, manifold layers she has never heard before. “I am glad to see you recovered from your injuries.”
She steps ever closer in long, effortless strides, and this close Sara can see the creases at the corners of Her eyes—the laugh lines around Her mouth that have begun to smooth out from disuse—and Sara swallows hard the lump in her throat, her heart beating to match the rhythm of the war-herald drums that lie abandoned on the battlefield at Nazuchi Beach.
“You have been loyal to me,” She continues, that voice dropping low, so rich and honeyed and unbearably soft, and She raises Her hand to touch Sara’s cheek, a gentle caress that makes her breath falter. The tips of her ears burn steady and scarlet as her heart picks up speed, racing in her chest, rapid and resounding and impossibly keen, and to her shame she thinks it likely that the Archon can hear it. “Loyal and devoted and so very brave.”
The Shogun has not touched her in her years of service—not once—and something heavy sits still in her gut, the knowledge that she is missing an integral piece of this puzzle, but the touch is tender in ways she has never imagined; never allowed herself to dwell on in the darkest depths of her solitude, when she drifts from meditation to thoughts yearning and impure. She fights the impulse to lean into Her hand, invisible wings twitching at her back, and yet this Shogun’s shrewd eyes follow the movement, and Sara does not know whether to weep or rejoice, to be laid so bare before her Goddess.
Attention like this strikes lightning in her veins and Sara cannot curb the ache that spreads from Her touch, igniting her from within, a wish and a dream granted tenfold… but it comes from a woman whose familiarity is overshadowed by Her disparate airs, and this, more than anything, solidifies her will.
She must sense Sara’s reticence, her confusion, her need, for She offers another painfully small, sad smile as She grazes Her thumb along Sara’s heated skin. “I imagine you must have questions for me.”
Sara hesitates only for a moment, narrows her eyes, holds fast to her faith with a white-knuckled grip—
And leaps.
“Who are you?”
The silence begins to stretch as the wind blows through the trees, scattering the sakura in a spring-scented bloom.
“I am Raiden Ei,” She says, lithe fingers reaching upward to brush vivid petals from crowfeather hair, Her gaze unflinching when violet eyes meet gold. “And I owe you an apology.”