Archive of Our Own

Slumber came easier to Mitama than anything else. She can’t explain why, but her body felt heavier—like she was always carrying around a sack of bricks. But then again, the feeling of having a chip on her shoulders wasn’t anything she would consider new. While the war was ongoing, she had felt a similar sleepiness which shackled her to her bed, much to the annoyance of her mother. But that was because fighting felt like a farce and tuckered her out. What excuse did she have now?

When Mitama heard a familiar fierce pounding at her birch bedroom door, she was reminded that not everything changed. The war against Nohr might’ve been over, but her mother’s leniency on leisurely rest wasn’t.

Grumbling, Mitama peeked out of the covers and shot a glance at the sky. It was only almost noon! Couldn’t Mother let her have another hour or two!?

“Mitama! Mitama!” her mother screamed like a banshee. “I know you’re asleep in there! Get up! We have work to do today!”

Work. Whenever she heard that wretched word, her heart hurt. Mitama wished to curse whatever god or goddess that made humans just to have them slave their lives away for a bullion or two. But she was superstitious and figured that she would probably curse herself in the process. It was unfair—but she knew that life was unfair. Still, if she couldn’t rend the heavens and test the gods, she could at least test her mother.

Mitama replied with a poem she made up on the spot. “I simply will not / I’m comfortable in bed / I want to sleep more.”

Afterward, the knocking stopped. Mitama didn’t go back to sleep, though; she held her breath instead. That silence meant her mother was stewing on the other side of the door. So, to the same gods she nearly cursed, she prayed that when her mother kicked down the door—like she had a few times before—it didn’t go flying in her direction and slam against her skull.

Luckily, the day of Mitama’s death was delayed as brutal knocking continued. “Mitama! Out! Now!”

Mitama counted her blessings and submitted. With a sigh and a voice and sounding like a kicked puppy, she whimpered, “Coming, Mother…”

After Mitama had changed out of her pajamas, threw on just one of her father’s enormous dragon and koi-adorned haori, and put her kashmir blue hair up into her idiosyncratic ponytails before she opened the door. After she did, the look on her mother’s face was one that was familiar—and one that could make her nearly wet herself nearly every time. The anger in her face could rival that of a malicious demon or an Oni that wanted to slaughter her and chop her up into a thousand pieces. Every single one of her features was pronounced in darkness and fury; suffice to say, it would be easy to mistake her for the embodiment of evil.

Mitama considered herself lucky that she wasn’t a Nohrian soldier on the battlefield. The faces that Mother used to make around them during the war were ten times worse. And Mitama still occasionally saw them in her nightmares.

“Oboro,” Mitama greeted with a lethargic wave and a forced smile. “Good morning, my mother.”

Oboro tapped her foot against the wooden floor in a wild rhythm. Mitama was going to die. “You slept in again! When I took you on as my apprentice, I expected that you’d stop waking up so late! These clothes aren’t going to get made by themselves!”

Mitama wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, roll her eyes, or all of the above. She was no stranger to her mother’s stern lectures, but they always felt new to her ears. Oboro knew all the ways to get under her daughter’s skin and made her feel like she was still a little girl stealing from the cookie jar. In response, Mitama gave her mother a solemn nod.

“Apologies, Mother. I can say this as simply as I can.” She cleared her throat. “Sleep is comforting / Like a mother’s calming touch / My mother, in fact.”

Mitama had hoped that her heartfelt poem would prod at her mother’s penchant for affection and lessen the severity of whatever punishment was to come. When Oboro let out a defeated sigh and her features softened, she knew it had worked. Good. She still was quite the sagacious strategist in dancing around Mother’s punishments.

“Fine,” Oboro said, her voice as calm as the spring breeze. “You’ve always been like that, but I really need it to stop, Mitama. You were the one who begged me to teach you all about how to make clothing. You should have some more enthusiasm about it. I know it can be tedious, but it can come in handy.”

That word—should—soured Mitama’s mood; it always had when her parents had used it. It was an irksome issue that she had kept to herself, but whenever they used it, it always felt like they had been steering her in the directions they had wanted her to go down in life. However, truthfully, Mitama could never fault them for it. She knew that without them, she would probably sleep her life away, confined to the comfortable prison of her queen-sized bed enwrapped in thousand-thread quilts. She rarely had the energy for much else.

However, hearing Mother say that she should be more enthusiastic upset her more than usual. It felt like she had taken an arrow to her heart and like she was twisting and pulling it about to get it out. It felt like her morning had been ruined.

Mitama never contested her emotions. Her father was a strict man, but with his little girl, he had different standards. When he probably would’ve urged other women to smile through the pain, he professed his pride and joy—his only daughter—should proudly show her emotions. It was the only way she was getting help. Father was hypocritical like that.

So, sinking to the ground and crossing her legs so her underwear wouldn’t show, Mitama rested her head atop the hammock-like net she had made with her interlocked fingers and let out a sigh so powerful that it could move buildings. Oboro obviously wasn’t oblivious to what was going on, but she rolled her eyes and placed a hand on her hip. Mitama didn’t take it personally—that was just something she did. She wanted to seem like a tough mother.

“What’s wrong?” Oboro asked, her voice soft and kind despite her aggressive disposition.

Mitama sighed heavily again before replying. “That wretched word—should / It makes my heart ache so much / You should change your speech.”

Oboro’s eyes widened before she closed them and huffed. Mitama could tell that she was getting a little annoyed, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She felt how she felt. And that was that. Both of them would get over it, eventually. Hopefully.

Oboro interlocked her fingers and rested them against the back of her head, pacing around like a fowl with its head cut off. Again, Mitama didn’t take her mother’s fast fury personally—that was just how she was. And luckily, for both of them, Oboro seemed to calm down quickly.

“Something’s going on with you today,” Oboro said. “Something weird. You’re usually not this… down? Defiant? I don’t know. But you’re something.” She sat next to her daughter and threw her arm around her, pulling her against her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Mitama nestled against Oboro much like a pet would its owner and dug her slender fingers into her mother’s crane-inspired hakama. As Mitama spoke, there was a stark sadness in her voice. “Mm, I truly do not know, Mother. These days, I find I desire to sleep much more than usual. My body feels heavier than usual, like I am shackled to the earth… And, well, I think sometimes… I find myself more melancholy than before as well. I find I don’t even enjoy my poetry the same way. Isn’t that odd, Mother?” Her lips stretched into a large frown. “It seems like I have quite the predicament on my hands…”

Humming, Oboro pat Mitama’s shoulder. Mitama looked up from her mother’s clothes to see her pensive expression. She had wanted to ask her what she was thinking about, but the answer was obvious. Her. Mothers worried about their daughters, after all; the thought that Oboro could think about anything else was stupid. But Mitama hoped she was. She didn’t want her to worry about her. Mother would’ve been happier that way.

Mitama’s body was feeling heavy again, so she allowed herself to drop her back into her mother’s lap. As the two locked eyes, Oboro smiled and ran her fingers through Mitama’s silky hair. Mitama didn’t mind; it was relaxing. So, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into her mother’s care.

“Remember when I used to read you stories before bed?” Oboro asked.

Mitama chuckled softly. “How could I forget? You were like an actress on stage the way you read… You would put so much emotion and power in your voice and embody the roles of the characters so deeply. Hearing you read was my favorite part about bedtime, Mother… Though sometimes I was certain you were enjoying it more than I was.”

Oboro’s cheeks turned red. Seems like Mitama was right, then.

“Well, I did all that for you,” Oboro said with a brief huff. “I would do anything to make you happy. Like now, Mitama. If you’re feeling sick, I don’t mind letting you sleep in to get better, if that’s what you need.”

Mitama blinked a few times. She wasn’t sure if she was hearing things or not, but if her ears were telling the truth, Mother told her she could sleep in if she wanted to. That sounded like the best thing ever!

However, Mitama couldn’t agree to it. As much as she wanted to laze around at her leisure, it didn’t feel right. Her issue wasn’t that she needed more rest. So, in making what may have been the worst decision in her life, Mitama shook her head.

“I’d rather not, Mother,” she said, frowning. “My grim affliction / It is not quite restlessness / It is something else. Something I can’t place, Mother. My will to stay in bed is greater than before—and I wish it wasn’t. If I stay awake, I could read more poetry. Do more things… Spend time with you and Father when he returns… But I find I have no real will to do so. Or… for much, if I’m being quite honest.”

Admitting those words made Mitama’s body feel heavier, like she was tied to a boulder. Luckily, her mother was there to hold her, and she leaned into her embrace without a second thought. Mitama loved her mother’s hugs. She hadn’t gotten many when she was growing up because time in the Deeprealms made it so that a week for her mother was years for her, so she treasured them as a rarity more valuable than diamonds or gold. She would give anything to hug her mother repeatedly—especially now.

“Mitama,” Oboro started, closing her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to say the right things to help. But I’ll be here for you. Because I love you. More than anything and everything in the world.”

Even though Mitama had the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s sappiness, a smile crept over her face. Her mother could be so adorable sometimes. Many had known her as a fierce fighter who had felled her foes without fear. Mitama and her father were one of the few people able to flake that frank facade and force Oboro to flaunt the fact that she was a furtive sweetheart. Around people who weren’t Prince Takumi, anyway.

Regardless, Oboro’s kind words had warmed her freezing heart. So, Mitama squeezed her mother like she was her favorite stuffed animal, never wanting to let her go.

“Thank you, Mother. Truly. Your words really do mean the world. And I love you just the same.”

Mitama couldn’t recall that many times she and her mother could have heart-to-heart moments like this. The war and living in the Deeprealms had made their relationship complicated. And even though the war against Nohr had ended two years ago, her parents had been working so much with their respective lieges that it had left them little time for their family. Mitama had tried to remedy that by offering to live with her mother since her father was always out and about with Princess Hinoka. She guessed those duty-filled days and dastardly early risings were bearing fruit with their blossoming relationship. Mitama didn’t want this to end.

“Mother,” she breathed. “Can you… please keep saying things like what you told me? About how much you love me and care about me… I would appreciate it. Truly.” Mitama let out a dry chuckle. “You do not know how I’ve longed to hear such sweet things from you.”

Mitama felt Oboro tense up in her arms. She hoped she hadn’t said anything wrong. However, Oboro had eased her worries when she warmly squeezed her daughter and pecked her on the forehead—something she hadn’t done in ages. Out of embarrassment, Mitama blushed, but her smile brightened, her white teeth glistening like pearls.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you all the time when you needed me, Mitama,” Oboro confessed. “And I’m sorry that your father couldn’t do the same. It might not have been the best idea to have you during war times, and we’re both responsible for that. But I’m here to look after you now. I don’t care that you’re all grown up. I promise I’ll tell you those kinds of sweet things often if that’s what you want. I’ll be here for you.”

Feeling as if she could burst from brazen joy, Mitama nodded in a way as if she was wildly swinging her head around. “Truly!? Thank you so much, Mother! My dearest Mother / You imbue me with new life / I thank you for that. Truly. I thank you so much.”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” Oboro said. “It’s what I’m here for. And I actually think I have an idea of how I want to make you feel better.”

Oboro shot her a wide, toothy grin after she spoke; Mitama cocked her head in response. Had her mother already come up with a way to feel better? That felt too good to be true. She knew her mother could be a sensitive woman if she tried—but not that sensitive. Regardless, Mitama was willing to try anything once. What was the worst that could happen?

“Is that so?” Mitama asked. “Well, I would be unwise to deny your aid, wouldn’t I?”

Oboro nodded and took Mitama’s hand, pulling her to her feet. Mitama clumsily stood and allowed her mother to lead her down one of the many long, portrait-adorned hallways of their mansion and down into their basement. Mother had used it for storage since she could never bother to throw anything out, but she had recently cleaned it and used it as a de facto barracks. Mitama knew what that meant. And she fought back the urge to fall to her knees and scream.

Stupidly, Mitama confirmed the horrid reality of the situation rather than run away. “Mother? Why am I here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Oboro beamed. “We’re going to spar, duh!”

Mitama placed her hands atop her head and dug her dull nails into her scalp. Maybe the gods truly did hate her. This was her punishment for being cross with them earlier. Such petty gods.

Mitama frowned and shook her head. “No, no, I will not / I simply will not do it / No, no, I will not.”

Oboro tapped her foot and placed a hand on her hip. “Mitama. Exercise is good for you. Getting my body moving helps me when I have bad thoughts, y’know? It may be what you need. Ever since the war ended, you’ve been stuck in bed; only moving back and forth for a meal or a trip to the book or fabric store. You’ll get fat if you keep up your lifestyle.”

She wasn’t. Mitama had inherited her mother’s fast metabolism, and she knew Oboro was just trying to scare her. However, it was the duty of a daughter to be flexible to her mother’s will. Even though she wished to protest, she simply nodded her head. Getting out of sparring would be a quixotic outcome.

“I will not get fat / But I digress, if I must / Sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh.”

Mitama donned puppy eyes, hoping her poem would get across the point that she was only training because she had to. She had hoped her mother would spare her a small amount of mercy. However, once she saw Oboro’s stony expression, Mitama knew there was no hope. With one last sigh, she sauntered around the basement and a stranded seal’s speed. She couldn’t help but gaze at all the various naginatas and lances her parents owned and had practically become family heirlooms at this point. Each of them had seen their fair share of battles; Mitama remembered a story or two about each of them.

When her eyes fell upon her own lance, however, Mitama couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. She was a poet and not a fighter, but the fact that she had, for better or for worse, inherited her mother’s ferocious elephant-like strength made her a valid and desired candidate to join the Hoshidan army. Every day of that damn war was hellish; Mitama would’ve rather been anywhere else than on that wretched battlefield. But she couldn’t help but couldn’t help but keep staring at her lance.

Mitama had plucked it off a Nohrian soldier’s corpse during the war and decorated it with a myriad of bells and tassels. Mostly because she thought they would intimidate the enemy—like she was a rattlesnake encroaching on its prey. Mitama had insisted on keeping it since, during the time, her poetry was going through a ‘death and despair’ phase and she had needed some inspiration. A poem about a weapon missing its owner and finding solace with a new one would do, she thought back then. To this day, it was still one of her favorite works.

She had better things to do than see how her lance fared. Like sleep. And she would almost certainly lose. But Mitama supposed the periodic parley of weapons with her dear mother wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Picking up her lance, Mitama gave it a little shake, causing the bells to jingle in a cacophonous chorus—a greeting to her. She whispered a ‘hello there’ back and ran a hand along the wooden shaft, like she was petting a cat. She had looked up at her mother, who had seen her do this countless times before and was stifling a laugh; Mitama smirked and rolled her eyes, spinning the lance with her fingers and pointing it at Oboro.

“To battle, Mother!” she exclaimed like a bloodthirsty general, wagging the lance around like a wand.

Oboro couldn’t help but burst into laughter at her daughter’s joke. And she continued to laugh as she dragged herself over to her prized steel naginata and took an appropriate yet unbalanced battle stance. That was what Mitama wanted! An opening!

Using all strength and no technique, she lunged forward, aiming for Oboro’s stomach. Despite her convivial condition, Oboro raised her naginata with both hands, effortlessly blocking her attack. Mitama stepped back, only catching her balance by steadying herself with her lance. She should’ve known better than to try an attack like that on her mother. But it was worth a shot.

The humor in her mother’s expression had vanished, replaced by a stark seriousness; her brutal gaze alone seemed like it could kill any enemy. Mitama was in for a battle. But she knew that the moment she went up against such a fierce fighter. Mitama took her usual battle stance and steadied her breathing—her eyes focused on her mother and attempting her ferocity with her own. She couldn’t, of course. Mitama was too naturally starry-eyed and whimsical to look as if she could even hurt a fly. But she tried.

After a quick stare-down, the women clashed weapons again and again. Every single one of Oboro’s strikes was surgical—and Mitama barely blocked in time. However, it didn’t take her long before she became a fierce combatant in her own right, parrying her mother’s strikes more easily and controlling the battle as she engaged, forcing her mother to fight on the defensive.

Mitama had forgotten how good she was with a lance. It was definitely in her blood, but she didn’t expect to fight so ferociously after neglecting her training for so long.

Riding her air of confidence, she continued on the offensive, pushing her mother further back into the makeshift arena made of chalk and worn-down books. Swing, swing, parry—swing. Fighting was like dancing for Mitama. Hell, it was probably like that for Oboro, too. She had crossed weapons more than they had danced together in their life, so Mitama supposed that this was their wild dance.

Right as she was about to deal one last strike on her mother, Oboro swept Mitama with a quick foot, causing her to lose her balance. Luckily, Mitama could catch herself again with her lance, but that was when Oboro used her naginata to vault into the air, soaring gracefully like a dove before landing behind her. Suddenly, Mitama was the one on the defensive; especially since the speed of Oboro’s already swift strikes picked up.

Mitama held off for as long as she could, but it was futile. A quick blow to her ribs with the shaft of her mother’s lance and a deft poke to her tummy with the back of it was enough to leave her on the floor, breathing as if she had just run miles after being chased by a Faceless. Defeat. It was what Mitama was expecting—but it didn’t make the outcome of the battle any less bitter.

Oboro extended her hand with a smile and Mitama decided she would be a good enough sport to take it. Now back on her feet again, she placed a hand on her hip and huffed.

“You should’ve fought like that the entire time if you could’ve, Mother.”

Oboro laughed. “Please. If I started like that, you would’ve gotten disheartened and given up. I had to let you know that you at least had it in you to win.”

If she was bested so easily, that already meant that she didn’t have it in her to win. But she understood her mother’s point. She could only achieve victory if she put in the effort and hard work like Oboro did every day. Still, Oboro was no ordinary beast—she was probably the best lancer in all of Hoshido. But she understood her point.

“Perhaps I will win one day, then,” Mitama said, before dropping her lance and wrapping her arms around her mother, squeezing her tightly.

Oboro blinked, but then wrapped her arms around Mitama, holding her just as tightly. Mitama swore she would tire of hugs like these. They were just so perfect in every way. And although their hugs were so tight, Mitama felt like she was being caressed by clouds.

“I love you so much, Mother,” Mitama said. “So, so, so much.”

Oboro’s response came instantly. “I love you, too, Mitama.”

The pair shared a hug for a little over two minutes—mostly because Mitama couldn’t bring herself to let go. Once the hug had ended, Oboro started up the conversation once again.

“Do you feel better?”

Mitama took a second to think up her answer. But ultimately, she nodded. “Yes. I didn’t expect it would be so, but the exercise has been quite refreshing. I didn’t know my spear skills were still up to par. I suppose it is… what do you call it, Mother? ‘Muscle memory’?”

“Mhm.” Oboro nodded a few times. “If you get a lot of practice, you can usually remember how to move your body the right way. If you enjoyed our spar, I wouldn’t mind it if we did it more often. It can be our routine. Some mother-daughter time.”

Routine. Mitama hated that word almost as much as she hated ‘should.’ Her schedule was always so irregular back in the Deeprealms and even though she had been living with her parents for a little over two years now, she hadn’t quite adjusted to the hustle and bustle of Hoshidan life. Working with her mother on clothing designs and helping her sew had kept her relatively rooted to somewhat of a routine, where she would get up and sleep at the same time as most people. But she still allowed herself the not-so-occasional cheat day where she would tell Oboro white lies about how much she worked and how she had a new ‘work in progress.’ Those days came at least three or four times a week—but she was trying to bring them down to two.

Still, she supposed she did have fun sparring with her mother. It was nice to swing her lance in a scenario that didn’t mean life or death for a change. And her ego egged her on to keep trying so she could one day defeat her mother. Her pained pride couldn’t settle for a zero-win record.

Tapping her cheek, Mitama said, “We can spar… biweekly, I suppose. The ‘once every two weeks’ biweekly. Not the ‘twice a week’ biweekly. That would be far too much. I am a lover, not a fighter.”

Oboro’s expression turned serious, and she delivered her next words in an ice-cold, deadpan manner. “No. We’re going to do the ‘twice a week’ biweekly. Exercise is good for you, Mitama. I’m going to make sure you get it.”

“But Mother,” she whined like a child being dragged through the market. “I will get exercise! It would just be once every two weeks instead of twice a week! That’ll be more than enough for me to maintain my figure, won’t it? Please?”

Oboro closed her eyes and hummed. It seemed like she was actually considering it, which was more than what Mitama was expecting. So, she crossed her fingers behind her back and prayed to the gods which she had slandered in her head so many times already today that she could have her favored outcome.

“Once a week and we’ll work up to doing it more,” Oboro said in a serious tone with a small shrug. “Final offer. If I notice you really hate doing it that much, we’ll work something out. Deal?”

It sure was the final offer considering Mitama couldn’t turn it down even if she wanted to. This was one of those moments where her mother’s word was law. Still, she was at least willing to compromise. Even though she hadn’t gotten what she had wanted, that sentence was something to celebrate rather than mourn, she supposed.

“Alright, Mother,” Mitama said, her voice somewhat dispirited. “If that’s what you wish. My new grim routine / Oboro says once a week / Bearable, I guess…”

“Mitama,” Oboro started, huffing afterward. “It’ll be more than bearable. C’mon, we’ll have fun like we did today. All I’m asking is that you try it. And if you really don’t like it, we’ll stop. I promise.”

There was a weighty sincerity in Oboro’s voice. Mitama had known that her mother had meant what she had said before, but now that she had promised, she felt somewhat guilty that she had called Oboro’s proposal just ‘bearable.’ She did have fun, so she supposed she could get a little more excited about sparring with her mother once a week. She just needed to find a way.

Regardless, Mitama nodded a few times. “I’ll try it, Mother. I will. I’ll try to get out of bed early once a week for you so we can spar.” She then paused and made a face akin to that of someone getting stabbed in the gut. “I-I promise…”

Commitment. One of the world’s biggest evils. Mitama never promised to do anything seriously before without crossing her fingers. So, making a promise with Oboro caused a foreign feeling to bubble up in her stomach, causing it to growl like a vicious beast.

Oboro laughed out loud. “Does making promises really make you hungry, dear? How interesting. I should get you to promise to do things more. Maybe it would pull you away from your poetry enough to enjoy lunch and dinner with me and your father.”

Oh, she was hungry. That’s what it was. Well, that made sense—she hadn’t had breakfast yet. She still didn’t like making promises, though.

Mitama wasn’t sure whether to frown in embarrassment or scoff at Oboro’s joke. So, she settled for a middle ground, turning her head away and folding her arms while frowning. “Hmph! If you simply wanted me to come to have dinner with you, you should just ask. I would come running!”

That was probably one of the worst bold-faced lies that Mitama ever told in her life. Once Mitama was locked away in her room, whisked away in the whimsical world of her poems, it took a team of soldiers to get her out. Or Oboro saying she had to leave and threatening to take away her poem books. Both worked well on multiple occasions.

Oboro snickered. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Mitama. Now, let’s go have breakfast, dear.”

Sitting cross-legged on the gray zabuton at the table, Mitama incessantly chanted, ‘Pancakes, pancakes!’ while her mother cooked. Oboro replied with half-hearted grunts and sighs. Mother hated Nohrian food—and she had no clue how to make half of the dishes that Mitama had requested—but she always tried her best for her daughter.

Mitama watched as her mother scrambled around the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off. Father was the cook of the family, so it was always a comedy show when her mother cooked. Despite that, nothing Oboro made was ever bad. Even if something tasted average, she could always taste the love inside. And that only made her more excited for her pancakes.

After twenty minutes of Oboro flipping the pan rather than the batter inside and running around the kitchen like it was a war camp getting invaded, she came to the table with Mitama’s breakfast. The pancakes Oboro made weren’t anything like the ones Felicia and Rhajat made. Oboro had made two of them, taller and thinner than the pancakes she was used to, and they jiggled like gelatin. Mitama didn’t mind, though. She would eat anything with syrup on it—and Mother’s pancakes were bathed in it.

As she placed the plate and a pair of chopsticks onto the glass table, Oboro exhaled as if she had just run a marathon. “I hope they turned out okay. I tried to use the recipe that Felicia”—her face turned sour uttering that name—“gave you. Hopefully it’s good.”

Just looking at Oboro’s nightmarish mien was enough to make the hairs on the back of Mitama’s neck stand up. Her mother could really be like the monster out of a fairy tale sometimes. But Mitama knew she only really made those faces on purpose if it was to scare her into doing her chores.

“Breathe, Mother,” Mitama started. “Remember your happy place. Here with your daughter / No Nohrians can hurt you / You are safe with me.”

Oboro nodded and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to calm down before sitting on the opposite side of the table. “Thank you, Mitama. I was making my ‘I hate Nohrians’ face again, wasn’t I?”

Mitama chuckled. Oboro had called it that for her when she was younger, hoping it would scare her less. It did—and it brought Mitama amusement every time she heard such silly words slip from her mother’s lips.

“You were.” Mitama nodded a few times. “But… it is understandable. I cannot fault you for your prejudices, considering the stories you’ve told me. My poor grandparents…” She paused for a moment, folding her hands into fists against her thighs. “I understand. And I apologize if my friendships cause you pain, Mother.”

Wide-eyed, Oboro shook her head. “No, dear. Don’t think like that. This is my problem. Nothing to do with you, Felicia, or Rhajat. If you think it’s unfair to have a friend because it makes me uncomfortable, I think it’s more unfair to you that I can even make you feel that way. I may not like Norhians, but I’m happy Rhajat makes you happy. And I’m happy you can go to Felicia’s to see her and know that my daughter will be in good hands. I… suppose I just wish we could be better friends. I mean, our girls have regular play dates. We should be able to have a couple of heart to hearts as mothers about it. Mom time.”

“Mother!” Mitama whined with the expression of an animal in danger. “We do not have play dates! I’m nineteen! We simply have regular outings! I’m no longer a child, Mother!”

Oboro chuckled. “Pssh. You’ll always be my little girl, Mitama. Even when you’re old and gray, you’ll still be my little girl. Always.”

“Mother!” Mitama huffed, her cheeks burning red. “I-I,” she paused, then sighed, “I love you… I love you so much.”

Even though Oboro wanted to seem angry, her mother’s sweet words had gotten the better of her. She was happy that she could always be Mother’s ‘little girl,’ as embarrassing as it was. When she lived in the Deeprealms away from her mother, Mitama was so lonely—and she had lost precious years that she could’ve spent by her side. Nothing could reclaim those years, but knowing that Oboro could pamper her and be there for her like she was a child again brought an odd but welcome sense of comfort.

“I love you, too, Mitama. Now, c’mon, eat breakfast.” Oboro beamed. “I want to know how well I did.”

Mitama nodded and went to eat her breakfast. However, she wasn’t exactly sure how she could. She tried to pick a pancake up with her chopsticks, but the thick cylindrical shape just would not cooperate with her. So, she had to pick up the pancakes with her hand. After taking a bite out of the middle, Mitama slowly chewed.

The taste was odd. The syrup must’ve been a hallucination because even though the pancakes were dripping with it, it tasted like plain oatmeal. She took another bite out of the middle again; then the pancakes tasted sweet. Odd. But Mitama couldn’t say she didn’t like it.

“Hm, they’re fine, Mother,” Mitama said.

Oboro winced. Were her words an unanticipated insult? “Just fine?”

“Just fine,” Mitama repeated with a small nod. “There’s nothing wrong with it being fine.” Then she giggled. “I can taste the love in it. And the sweat from running around the kitchen, now that the taste has settled in my mouth. But mostly the love. They’re lovely, Mother. Thank you.”

With a little smile, Oboro huffed, then plopped onto the floor as if her body were made of stone. She sat at first, but soon gave into the heaviness of her body and ended up laying down, staring up at the thatch roof. Mitama paid her no mind as she ate—but after she finished her pancake and noticed her mother still staring like an effigy, she engaged her.

“Mother,” she started, “is something wrong?”

It took Oboro a second to respond, but she turned her head toward her and gave a bleary smile. “Hm? Oh, I’m just tired. I just got a tall order to fill. I designed a lot of the clothes last night while you were sleeping, but if I’m being honest, it’s taking a bit of a toll on me. Designing was hard enough; I imagine I won’t have much of an easier time sewing.”

That explained it. Seeing Oboro stressed about work was nothing new. Making clothes was hard; as Oboro’s apprentice, she understood that struggle well since she, too, had to suffer through many sleepless nights with her. They were usually proud of what they created come morning, but that didn’t stop them from feeling like they had gained a gray hair or ten.

“Ah, I see.” Mitama leaned her head against the hand she hadn’t been eating with. “That’s quite troubling, isn’t it? Well, who are you making clothes for?”

“Orphans who lost their parents in the war,” Oboro said.

Just like that, the air in the room seemed to turn cold. Mitama was no stranger to the horrors of bygone war. Sometimes, she felt like she was straight up apathetic toward them. But that word—orphan—struck a chord with her. It was a word she despised considering that many times she had come close to fitting the description. She was lucky to leave the war with both parents alive, but the reminder that many Hoshidan children weren’t that lucky was more frightening and haunting than any apparition ever could be.

Despite that, seriousness overtook Mitama’s expression, and pain and pity lit a flame of passion that fueled her newfound resolve. “Let me help, Mother. I want to help you make clothing for those children. They deserve it.”

Oboro, a little taken aback by what she just heard, blinked a couple times. “Are you sure? I thought you weren’t feeling all that well.”

Mitama paused. “Well, I suppose I’m not… But I do want to help out. The thoughts of those poor children call me to action. Those children deserve the loveliest clothes we can make as soon as possible.” She smirked. “And two sets of hands are better than one.”

Humming, Oboro tapped her chin, then smiled. “Some daughter I have, hm? We are quite the tailor duo, hm?”

“Truly!” Mitama said while beaming. “Strong family ties / Stitched with our sewing machines / I love you, Mother!”

“D’aww.” Oboro rose, and she plopped down next to her daughter, throwing her arms around her, pulling her into an aggressive bear hug. Of course, Mitama leaned into that hug; she would never pass up one of her mother’s great hugs. “I love you, too, dear.” Then she paused, her lips stretched into a concern frown. “But are you sure that you’re ready for this? It’s not going to be too much for you to work today?”

Mitama didn’t know if she was ready for a long day and probably equally long night of working. At that moment, her head told her she probably couldn’t and that she should crawl back into bed and sleep the day away, but her heart argued differently. Regardless, there was only one correct option in her mind. Even if it felt like she had slogged through mud to pick that option, she was staying up and she was working, no matter what. If her affliction threatened to steal away her artistry and time, the least she could do was rebel. Try to take back some agency in her life. For those orphans.

Mitama didn’t see any need to lie. So she shook her head. “I don’t, Mother. I don’t know. But I won’t know until I try. I know in my heart that I want to help and nothing will stop me from at least trying it. My heart compels me.”

“‘Your heart compels you’?” Oboro repeated, chuckling to herself. With a grin, she then placed her hand firmly atop Mitama’s head and ruffled her hair. Mitama squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, looking up at her beaming mother. “As cheesy as that was, I’m proud of you. If you trust your heart, I will, too. But if you need a break, don’t be afraid to ask, okay? I’m always here for you.”

“I know, Mother.” Mitama’s lips stretched into a confident smirk, and she threw her arms around her mother. “I know you’ll always be here for me, Mother. And I’m thankful for that. I’ll be here for you, too… I love you so much.”

Oboro returned the hug, and with a gentle sigh, she said, “I love you, too, Mitama.”