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My husband does not like me.
I can see it in the way he gazes at me. His deep, brown irises the color of burnished oak has a perpetual layer of frost in them.
I can see it in the way his lips curl. The thin, cherry blossom pink corners lift into a disdainful smirk whenever I pass him by as if my mere existence is a cruel joke played onto him by the gods.
I can hear it in the way he calls out to me. His elegant, velvety voice is edged with steel, the sound a means to cut me down in place of a blade.
I can feel it in the way he walks in front of me. His tall, formidable bearing is always a few steps ahead, emanating a steady coldness like the chill of winter, as if there is an invisible, impenetrable wall wordlessly cautioning me to keep my distance.
He does not like me. At best he tolerates my presence. And I embrace that iciness with a quiet grace befitting my station.
I am his lady wife, a noble princess born into a centuries-old clan with prestige, honor and wealth as vast as our territory.
A woman brought up with the knowledge that one day I am to be a lord’s wife. Silent, demure, and graceful I shall be, assisting from the sidelines, not to be seen nor heard. To bear heirs and manage the household is my duty, to take pride in those I must do.
I am a noble princess. I am a feudal lord’s wife. I am a wife he does not want. But a wife he had to marry in exchange for the power and military forces my clan holds.
He sees me as a chess piece, a bargaining chip he paid with his choice and freedom. I see him as the embodiment of my obligation. Whatever flights of fancy I may have had on our wedding night have long since faded with the fragrant spring wind. They have no place in a period of war, when rivers run red, when bodies lay broken and scattered amidst battlefields, when the air is filled with the scent of salt and smoke and ruin.
It matters not that he is the most handsome man I have ever seen.
It matters not that my heart sings whenever he is near.
It matters not that my fingers long to touch the silky strands that frame his sculpted face.
It matters not that I see his heart that bleeds for his people.
He does not see mine.
And I do not want him to. For mine is scarred beyond recognition. Riddled with scars mended a thousand times over, not with gold but the hidden tears borne from the burden of expectation.
I am not the perfect woman. My flaws have long been concealed beneath silken, wisteria-patterned kimonos and demure smiles. My shortcomings have long been cloaked behind the finest of jewelry and the most impeccable posture.
Eternally hiding, burying my shame…
To receive his disgust would be the cruelest of punishments. Better his indifference than his complete disdain.
And yet, there are days when my treacherous heart wavers in its resolve and my mind wanders towards futile hopes I’ve kept locked deep within.
How would it feel to be loved by him?
Would his eyes light up when he meets mine, their depths turning a honey brown hue the same way they did when he was around comrades?
Would his voice call out to me softly, its cadence caressing my name as if it was the most precious treasure?
Would his lips curl up into the most brilliant smile like the snow that melts under the spring sunshine when he catches a glimpse of me?
Would his rough and calloused hands hold mine so tenderly like the whisper of a bird’s wings, I’d never wish to let go?
Would he… would he… would he… My mind sings… but my soul laments for he never could and he never would.
That is more than alright. I embrace it. I take comfort in it. Even as fresh cracks begin to form in my heart.
Days pass, the seasons change, the colors shifting from vivid green to bright yellow. The yearning has turned into a dull ache. I choose to live my life with my head held high and without resentment festering from within, finding a routine that comes naturally as breathing. Oversee the servants. Manage the household. Ensure the fief and its residents live well. Day in and day out, from the moment the sun rises and sets in the horizon. Never faltering even with the threat of looming exhaustion. My husband has the battlefield. I have the household.
Over time my efforts and dedication are rewarded. What was once hostility mirroring their lord’s turn into admiration and respect. The servants and retainers bow their heads when I pass, greeting me with a courteous “milady”. I return their greetings with a gracious smile and my shoulders feel impossibly wider. My heart bursts with gratitude and genuine pride, and for the first time in my beautiful, gilded cage of a life I feel what it is like to be happy. To bask in the triumph of my own accomplishments.
It is blissful. And I wish not to let go. If I cannot have my husband’s affections, then I shall have his household’s. Silently, I pray to the gods to grant me at least this and let me bask in this new purpose I found for myself.
The muted hues of autumn fade into the serene paleness of winter. As the entire castle basks in the warmth of thicker clothes and strategically placed braziers, a different kind of warmth presents itself. One I hadn’t yet noticed before. Eyes that had once been pitch black in their iciness melt into twin molten pools of amber, following my every move with a barely concealed curiosity and the slightest hint of amusement. His scrutiny baffles me incredibly so that I find myself tripping over the folds of my kimono, closing my eyes in dread at the pain that is sure to follow. But the pain never comes, and instead I find myself in the safety of his embrace. “Are you alright, wife?” He asks, his tone low and soft, his breath ghosting over my cheeks. My face burns in embarrassment and I nimbly pull away.
“Y-yes of course. My apologies, Lord Kazuyuki. And my deepest thanks. I shall be on my way.”
“Take extra care not to trip again.” He remarks with a shockingly amused smirk. “It would not do you any good.” I watch with a mixture of mortification and confusion as he turns on his heel and goes on his merry way.
Yet it does not stop there. As the days grow colder, my husband becomes odder, popping up in places I would frequent, always with that glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk that leaves me utterly befuddled. I could not understand his motives nor could I fathom what brought the sudden change. I could not bring myself to ask him either as that would only risk inflaming his wrath and loathing towards me. Over time, those random encounters become more pronounced, turning into afternoon visits with an invitation for tea. The silence shifts into idle chatter, one he begins himself. Little by little, the ice that seemed to envelop my husband slowly thaws, showing a peek of the warmth that lay within. Pursed lips melt into gentle smiles. A menacing aura molds into comfort and serenity. He changes before my eyes, and I too notice a change in me. The hope that once withered seeks that sliver of sunlight, blindly, desperately. It scares me. Hope is dangerous. Hope that is met with disappointment is the greatest of heartbreaks. To hope once more for love is the death of duty.
Duty is the only thing I have left in me.
What comes next is a war of sorts. Lord Kazuyuki advances. I avoid and retreat. When he offers an invitation for tea, I politely decline coming up with an excuse about seeing to the castle’s affairs. When he bumps into me in the hallways, I bow to him in greeting then swiftly walk away, not even giving him a chance to respond. He strikes. I parry. He advances. I sidestep. Much like a fierce, unrelenting dance only we both know.
It’s exhausting. It tears at my composure and what little of my heart remains.
Sighing in frustration, I sit in the furthest courtyard from the main hall. An exquisite koto engraved with wisterias rests before me as my hands begin to pluck its strings. A soft melody fills the air bringing to mind the image of a picturesque, winter scenery and the crunching of snow beneath feet. Outside, the world is bathed in a blanket of white, white drifts falling from the sky.
“You have been avoiding me.”
My fingers falter and the melody jerks off-key. “You must cease this game at once, my lord. It is unbecoming.”
“What if it is not?” I hear the challenge in his voice. It makes the frustration in me rise like a surging tide. The bitterness bubbles quickly inside me, dangerously threatening to spill out of my mouth.
“Are you saying then that you feel something for me after all this time?” I could no longer hold back. An unbidden scoff comes out of me and I despise the way it reveals myself to him. “Why now? Why even bother?”
“Because you are not a woman meant to be ignored.”
My breath hitches and stills in my lungs. I feel him draw close and sit by my side, the heat of him tying my stomach in knots and bringing tears to my eyes.
Foolish, foolish heart.
“I was a fool blinded by his own rage and pride. How could I not see?” I hear his voice thicken with emotion, feel his calloused hands cup my face and gently turn it toward him. Amber meets honey. “The war is won but true victory lies not in the territories gained or armies amassed. It lies not in the revelry or finery. It is found in a comfortable home, a hearty meal and a warm bed. It is found in a wife gentle, brave, dignified and kind, with a heart of gold that could not be shaken.” I watch with bated breath as Kazuyuki lingers near and presses his forehead to mine. “It is found in you, my wife, my dearest Miho. A thousand apologies for taking too long.” His thumb ghosts over my cheek, his eyes searching my eyes filled with tears. “Am I too late? Will you allow me to love you?”
I let out a choked sob, biting my lip as I struggled to find the words to say. My heart fills with elation near to bursting, it is hard to breathe. “Do you know how long I have waited to hear you say such words? It feels like a lifetime has passed. But my lord.” My voice quivers and my hand shakes as I lay it softly upon his. “I am not perfect. I am not ideal. Within me are scars too horrid and too deep to be erased. They will not heal. Will you love me still?”
He smiles, his gaze searing into mine with the intensity of a thousand suns they see right through my soul. “I do not require a perfect wife. I do not need an ideal. What I want is a wife who smiles with the eternal beauty of wisteria blossoms. I want a wife whose patience and understanding runs as vast as the sea. I want a wife who never falters in the face of adversity, standing straight and tall as a warrior. I want a wife who sees my own imperfections and never resents me for it. I want you, Miho. Only you. You are that wife. I will love you because of your scars. I will love you because of who you are. I love you.”
My heart sings, the once withered sprout of hope burgeoning to life.
Lips whisper against lips and I declare in a single breath. “And I love you.”
My husband does not like me.
He loves me.
Silken kimonos, exquisite jewelry and scars.