Work Text:
It was a calm, lazy morning. A cup of tencha steamed beside the paints and pigments Ryōshū had strewn about the old end table beside her. It had become a canvas in its own right; covered in three generations of spills, scratches, and sketches that all told their own story. Her favorites were the painted handprints that adorned the edge of the table. Her father, herself, and Yuzuki all left their marks here in a beautiful crimson. She reached across them to take a sip of her tea. It was comfortably warm, just like she had remembered her father's hugs, and its sweet aftertaste reminded her of the scent of the clovers that grew beside her house.
She let go of a content breath as she looked over her easel. She had been painting a scene from the past spring from memory the best she could. Cherry blossoms blew in the breeze at the end of a bike trail she enjoyed taking, while the sunset reflected in beautiful hues of orange and vermillion off the river beside her. She couldn't remember if she could hear or see birds there, but something else had felt missing. Maybe it was the people on the path? She didn't feel that they belonged in these scene though. It was far more serene when she wasn't sharing it with pedestrians.
"Mommy! Mommy look!" Ryōshū almost jumped out of her seat as Yuzuki burst through the door with all the joy and energy a young child should have. She turned around in the blink of an eye, worried that the urgency in Yuzuki's voice was because she had hurt herself. Her child was beaming with joy though, so she sighed in relief. "Look mommy," she exclaimed as she held something out to her mother in both hands.
"What is it, dear?" She set aside the tea to free her hands while she knelt to eye-level with her excited daughter. Yuzuki opened her hands, revealing a beautiful butterfly. It slowly opened its wings, revealing them to show a gorgeous, firey shade of orange, almost as bright as her daughter's proud smile. "It's lovely, Yuzuki," she said while her own loving smile grew to complement her daughter's. The delicate bug began to flap its wings and take flight. Yuzuki watched in wonder as it fluttered around the room, but Ryōshū had something far more precious to commit to memory. Eventually it landed on Yuzuki's nose, though it took flight again after she began to giggle. The child was still too short to watch it fly out the window into the yard, so Ryōshū picked her up and they watched it fade into the forest it came from. "Say goodbye, Yuzuki," she instructed as she waved to the vanishing bug. Her heart welled with love and pride as her daughter joined her, bidding it farewell with the same kindness she showed anyone else.
"Do you think it will come back?" Her mother couldn't hold back her smile at the weight in her innocent voice. It was as though that butterfly was one of the most important things in the world.
"Yes, dear. I'm sure it'll come back soon." She set her daughter down and returned to the stool beside her easel.
She could hardly hear the old stool groan under her weight before her ever so curious daughter asked, "Mommy, what are you painting?"
"The bike path, dear," she patted her lap and helped Yuzuki crawl up to get a better view of it.
"I wanna paint too! Can I paint?"
"Of course, let's get you started." While one arm wrapped around her daughter like a seat belt, the other stretched out to grab a brush. With her daughter eagerly waiting to begin, Ryōshū reached out again for her palette. "What do you want to paint?"
"A butterfly!"
Ryōshū had become accustomed to letting her daughter add her touch to paintings as she saw fit. It wasn't that she let her paint over her hard work unsupervised, however. There was something endearing about the way her little aspiring amateur added whatever came to mind to things. Sometimes it was wild animals and bugs in landscapes. Other times it was stick figures in cities or in domestic scenes. Here the little orange butterfly was immortalized flying amongst the fallen petals scattered in the wind. While she guided Yuzuki's hand, Ryōshū realized exactly how she wanted to finish her painting. After Yuzuki proudly put her finishing touches on her new favorite insect, Ryōshū gently took her brush and got to work. Dark brushstrokes blended into each other, revealing the silhouette of a mother and her daughter walking down the path.
~~~~~~~
"Fie upon that wave!" Ryōshū wearily woke up, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as her dream faded away. They were still on the boat, slowly sailing towards their next destination after another bough retrieved. Ryōshū looked up through the window to find Don drenched in seawater beside a perfectly dry Ishmael and Sinclair. She scowled at her. If Don hadn't yelled, she would still be in a world where she was with her daughter. She took herself and her cigarettes and stomped off to the other end of the ship. She didn't notice how she had roused Dante, or her fellow sinners, though she wouldn't have cared if she had known that anyways.
She lit a cigarette, and took a long drag before leaning over the aft of the ship. For the first time, Ryōshū noticed just how beautiful it was. Shades of orange and vermillion reflected off the water, just like they had so many years ago. She paused. From the front of the ship she heard a distant giggling and laughter– just like Yuzuki. The sunset and sea became blurry. Her chest tightened. Just how long had it been since they painted together? Laughed together? Made memories? Ryōshū fumbled through her wallet, surely she hadn't burned the picture of Yuzuki's first picture too. It had to be there, she had to have something to remember her by. A teardrop stained her wallet. Then another, and another. It wasn't there.
"Ryōshū." Vergilius' unmistakably gruff and authoritative voice sounded out behind her. She looked away, desperately trying to hide her pain.
"W.D.Y.W?" She lacked the patience for words, but the venom in her voice carried through all the same.
"It's not like you to become emotional like this, Ryōshū." The stern, no-nonsense guide propped himself up by his elbows beside the sinner. She ignored him. "Maybe it's not like me to come out and console the sinners either."
"W. D. Y. W." she reiterated, stabbing each letter with the pain in her heart.
"I used to tend to an orphanage." He paused. It still wasn't something he could talk about easily. In fact, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to talk about it easily, but he needed to continue. "It was Chirstmas Day. Denver, Rikako, Lan Yen," he paused again, but he held the pain in his memories from showing in his voice, "and Nanseul, all bought gifts I could give to the children there. They had even put together a Red Sack costume for me."
Ryōshū let out a strained breath. Memories of Yuzuki playing in the snow invited themselves into her consciousness. They had made snow men and snow angels together during the winter after she learned how to walk. They rarely got the treat of a white Christmas, but that year the snow made it up to Yuzuki's waist and–
The weight of Vergilius' hand shook her from her haunting memories. Tears fell like rain, dampening her sleeves and the deck alike. What hurt the most was not that her time had passed, it's that she was beginning to forget Yuzuki. She couldn't remember her last words to her before what had happened. It pained her to think that they were of something utterly inconsequential, not "I love you." She scarcely remembered their last hug, or their last kiss. Her head dropped into her arms, muffling her sobs, and Vergilius stood firm beside her.
He had been there too once. Nobody noticed the brief pain in his sigh as he remembered his children too. They laughed, they celebrated, they mourned, and they cried too, just like the sinners he guided now. In moments like this, the best thing to do was to be there for them. He couldn't bear the pain for them, but he could make sure they wouldn't have to bear it alone. Ryōshū's breath steadied under the rhythmic path he traced along her back with his hand. It was always like this. He was well accustomed to the way their shuddering sobs passed, just like a storm. Then they would stay in silence for a while, wipe the last tears away, straighten up, and pretend it didn't happen. He knew she was too proud to let any of the sinners know what had just happened, but he already knew about it.
He began with a deep breath, as they looked out into the shades of orange and purple painting the sky and reflecting in the waves. "I've been there too, Ryōshū. I know how hard it is. They say it gets easier, but it never does. We just grow around it. We can never truly forget." She remained silent, not even the familiar flavor of a cigarette had any appeal right now. With a pat on her back he left for the main cabin again. He had said his piece and done his best, but this was her road to walk. She was left with the same burning hole in her heart that she had before, but at least the pain had faded from an inferno to smoldering embers.
A faint star caught her eye. The moon was out, and she began to recall that cold night when she took Yuzuki stargazing. By a stroke of luck, Ryōshū was able to show Yuzuki her first shooting star that night, and she still remembered how she gasped at the sight of it. Only now, rather than sorrow, she felt gratitude. Not a single moment she shared with her daughter had any grief or sadness. She had always been a happy child while she raised her. Maybe knowing that was enough for Ryōshū.
