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When Sara woke up, it was from a sneeze that stabbed her in the throat. Her lungs felt as though someone had carved into the inside of them with a spoon, and there was a lump that ached whenever she swallowed—which she had only done so out of habit. It was unnecessary, when the tip of her tongue to the backend of her guts had just as much moisture as the driest of deserts. It was as though all the water in her body had leaked out of her in her sleep, permeating through her skin and peppering the surface of her body in cold sweat. When she laid the back of her hand against her forehead, it was exceedingly warm and moist.
Even as the fog in her mind kept her thoughts lost and wandering, Sara could tell that she had fallen ill. That much was obvious.
It was 5:00am. Five minutes before she was due to get out of bed. Five minutes to pull herself together for the day ahead. Her body being ill mattered not when she could simply will herself into motion. Momentary weakness was not an excuse for a lapse in discipline.
5:03am—Sara supposed she should at least sit herself up and put away her futon. Her arms were as heavy as lead as she strained to push herself up, her body weight seemingly doubled overnight even though there were no visible changes to her body. Her throat strained in agony as she huffed and puffed, but it was the least of her worries. The austere general made a mental note to have her sweat-soaked futon washed some time before noon.
By the time Sara was satisfied with the state of her stained futon, it was 5:07am. Already it was a poor start to an otherwise ordinary morning.
The courtyard was a distance away from her room. She was used to the fact that she had to pass by the rooms of her adoptive brothers and father, as well as the kitchen and the entrance hall to reach it, but the distance seemed much further than usual today. Again, it was not an issue. The distance between her room and the courtyard today was the same as yesterday, and the day before. It has always been the same, and there was no reason for her to make a fuss over the inconvenience now.
The length of a nearby incense stick signified that it was 5:18am when Sara arrived at the courtyard, where she conducted her daily morning ritual. It was not unlike a ceremony that served to wake her body up, but even the weather seemed to be in disagreement today. A frigid wind bellowed against her and into the estate, as though ordering her to shut the shoji tightly lest the cold awakened the rest of the family. However, for someone like Kujou Sara, such temperament could not possibly pose a challenge against her self-imposed discipline. She simply stepped into the courtyard and shut the shoji behind her. The wooden flooring was chilly beneath her sock-covered feet.
The Kujou Clan, unlike its counterparts within the Yashiro Commision, was not one to fuss over a mere courtyard. It was a garden—filled with rocks, water and plants—that lacked finesse and intent in its design, as its function was only perfunctory. It was superficial at best, like a textbook diagram that had been printed over and over again to the point of being indiscernible. Even the wooden walkways around the courtyard and connected to the house itself served more purpose.
The bitter cold persisted as Sara took her usual stance, standing upright with her feet shoulder-width apart and her arms outstretched, with her fingers intertwined and palms facing outwards. She slowly— excruciatingly so—lifted her lead-ladened limbs upwards as she took her first deep breath. The gusts of wind invigorated her like fresh springwaters, the frost biting into her skin as the sleeves of her robe fell to her shoulders. Sara figured herself coming back alive and refreshed for the day as she continued taking four more breaths, until she all but coughed her lungs out from the terrible dry spell in her body.
Her mind was woozy, but Sara was not yet done. She began walking her first lap around the courtyard, then the second. On her third lap, she could barely tell her left foot from the right, and the floor seemed about to rush up at her every time she allowed herself to stop. On the fourth lap, well, she had no memory of the fourth lap. Nor the fifth.
When Sara woke up again, it was from a throbbing pain in her skull that stung at frequent intervals, from a pressure being applied onto her forehead—and it was the idea of an unknown person tending to her vulnerable state that startled her eyes open. However, her vision had smudged into a blur that left her blind to all but colour and shadows. The first she could conclude was that she was back in her room; the second she noticed was a figure knelt by her side, who seemed to have removed their hand from her face the moment her eyelids snapped open, but Sara could not tell who they were. One of the servants, perhaps?
She would have groaned from the agony in her head, but whenever she tried to make a sound, she could only hack and gag on the soreness in her throat. She also tried pushing herself up, but her arms no longer responded to her command, and her hands instead merely pressed weakly into the futon she laid on.
“At ease, General,” the figure commanded sternly. It confused Sara, very much so. She felt like she was in an alien land that resembled the home she was given, lying on a futon that should have been hung out to dry after a wash, and severely weakened before the last person that should ever see her in such a state. However, she was compelled to obey as she was told.
“My, my, General Kujou, what could have landed you in such a state?” A mirthful voice close by called out to the prone Sara, who attempted to lean away in the opposite direction by instinct. A tengu normally had no reason to fear a fox, but it was a different story altogether when one was reduced to an ill little finch, and the Guuji was not known for leniency. Even if she was smaller than she normally appeared.
“Please show more concern for yourself, Miss Kujou!” Sara recognised the voice’s owner, but not the tone it carried. It had a rather assertive, almost demanding attitude that she would have never associated with the demure daughter of the Kamisato Clan. When Sara shut her eyes to stave off another dizzy spell, she felt a cool hand gently caressing her forehead, carrying away the heat of her fever.
“Madam Kujou, please take these pills, here—swallow them.” Sara could feel herself being lifted by the torso to lean against a body that carried a faint scent of Naku Weed. Fingers prodded lightly at her lips, which she obediently parted so as to permit their entry. As little spherical, bitter pellets tumbled onto her tongue and down her throat—the extreme bitterness causing her to make a slight face in disgust—her caregiver explained what she was just fed, “I’ve specially procured them from Bubu Pharmacy in Liyue, and they’re known to be especially effective for colds. Here, have some water to wash it down.”
By the time Sara woke up again, it was 5:05pm, based on the angle of the sun’s rays welcoming itself into her room. To her surprise, her mind was as clear as it could be, as if she had never fallen ill. However, what was real and what was not? Had the Raiden Shogun truly descended from the Tenshukaku just to tend to one of her many servants? Why would Guuji Yae or Miss Kamisato ever pay her a visit in her own room? How would Shinobu have even known about her falling ill behind the Kujou Clan’s towering walls? As Sara fell into deep thought, there was a twinge in her chest, as her heart chased the ghosts of companionship from her fever dream.