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Her father had loved snowflakes.
It’s a metaphor for life, a wish for her to grow up as the marvelous, poetic flowers winter brings with the snow. Kazahana doesn’t realize she’s following his steps until her arms shield Sakura from the danger.
The dogs bark, loud and ferocious but she doesn’t go down.
And the action is unquestionable. She’s ready to be harmed for the simplicity of not letting any malevolent intent touch Sakura. It dawns later, under Mikoto’s firm but gentle scowling, her father had fallen and served Sumeragi with the resolution she wished to prove to Sakura. Memories are vague of him and veterans speak up fondly of her father and his courage.
She doesn’t notice the silence around her before Sakura takes her hand and squeezes it.
A purpose.
For Sakura —
(Death wouldn’t be scary, if it’s for her.)
The wooden sword is knocked out from her hands and he stands there, calmly staring back.
“I got you! Hana, you got careless—” Tsubaki laughs, an irritating grin on his face.
She huffs at him. “That was cheating!”
“Nonsense, it’s only strategy.”
Years have passed. Mourning her father is distant as the childhood left, his legacy floating over hers. But she has moved on — carrying her duty with the utmost loyalty. Guarding Sakura takes her every movement and each breath is meant for her liege.
“Are you sure you gave it your all, Hana?” Tsubaki says, his ponytail swinging as he speaks. In the aftermath of training, Hana finds herself, not for the first time, wishing to wipe away his annoying, smug grin. The curl in his lips provokes her to abandon her sword ship and learn the use of fists in combat.
She stands eye-to-eye contact and bits back a retort. “Like you can talk.”
“Oh? So easily offended, Hana?”
Her height falls a head shorter than Tsubaki’s. It’s useless to confront him eye-to-eye. At most, Kazahana can see him from eye-to-chest.
“They do say that over-exertion leads to exhaustion, and that exhaustion may lead to not filling with one’s potential. You haven’t pushed yourself too hard to keep up with me, have you?”
She frowns and doesn’t cover her bitterness, a hand sweeping away the sweat in her forehead. His disapproval is rejected with a glare. Her modals aren’t befitting of a royal retainer; she cares less to none about the opinion of others — Sakura is far more important, if there’s a trouble with the attitude she carries, Kazahana would have heard it from her. And the intent must show on her eyes as Tsubaki sighs dramatically, a hand on his hip.
He looks nothing like the first time she posed her eyes on him. But his chin, the mischievous glint in his eyes, the fluidity of his movements; almost everything, she realizes, has become distracting. Traces of his boyish face are disappearing, if he was already taller, it’s clear Tsubaki will look down on her worse soon. Her only comfort is he’s as irritating as ever. (“Hana, I’m afraid you’re shrinking! Wait, could it be I’m getting taller?”)
This is their routine, Hana thinks. Tsubaki’s disapproval and her retorts biting back, the unmistakable sensation of verbal brawl in the air. Hinata encourages it whenever he’s around, Oboro glaring at him — and then lord Takumi drags them away. Usually, Sakura acts as the mediator, remembering them to behave and it’s not complicated to go with her wishes. But when she isn’t around, Tsubaki’s lighthearted remarks clash against her bite, dissolving until one gives up – or Sakura finds them in that position.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Hana says as her fingers curl around into a clenched fist, her grip firm.
Her gaze raises up to meet Tsubaki’s. That infuriating grin is still on his face.
“I could have sworn I heard you mutter under your breath.” Tsubaki hums, his gaze even and the smile adorning his features is irksome. “Penny for your thoughts, Hana?” His fingers graze over his wooden sword, retaining his placid, cheeky expression.
“Do you purposely seek out to bother me?” Hana utters, her eyes narrowing as she pulls away a few strands of hair.
“None at all. But you make it effortlessly simple,” Tsubaki admits, swinging the fake sword. “Any problems with that, Kazahana?”
She squints her eyes. “Shut up.” His connotation on her name isn’t lost. Very few say it, Sakura being part of the privileged ones and she sticks around it with gentle, polite care. When Tsubaki lets it out, it’s not difficult to notice the echoes of teasing. His smug behavior doesn’t end neither there. Why would he? He has never been one to back away from pocking at others. “Not everyone has an ego inflated as yours.”
His eyes glint, and Kazahana wants to punch him. Tsubaki’s steps are light, elegant as he walks to retrieve her practice sword. “Are you sure you aren’t being bitter on purpose, Hana?” He gives her a tranquil smile.
“No.” Hana doesn’t bother continuing with the game. She’s exhausted, her legs are sore and the ache in her hands will cause calluses. Her cheeks refuse flushing from humiliation, Tsubaki isn’t worth it. “I know better than to lie to myself.”
Tsubaki tilts his head, an innocent gesture that Hana wants to punch off.
“If you say so, Kazahana.”
The clash of blades is infuriating and Hana tastes the blood in her mouth.
War had broken sooner than anticipated, the traitor siding with Nohr. Empty apologies had been tossed at the wind, the rumors claiming Sakura’s sibling hadn’t known of the planned assault to Mikoto but Kazahana didn’t have to listen longer. Her katana immediately became another part of her body, ready to strike enemies.
“I won’t ever forgive you!” She lets out the words with harsh intent.
Tears threaten to fall but she keeps her stance. Sakura’s grieving face as more comrades fell down to their deaths on the front is a painful, heart-wrenching memory — the traitor can’t understand it. After all those years lost, Sakura’s hopeful, timid smile at the simplicity of bonding with someone she couldn’t remember had been distracting. And that dream had shattered too soon. Her grip tightens on her katana, body tense as she readies herself. Words of disconcert from the traitor pass through her ears, it’s utter nonsense in the hate-filled air. Kazahana narrows her eyes, snarling and she runs, ready to decapitate at a careless slip.
Mercy is a word for fools.
—
The prison’s coldness is a dull memory — too ruthless. All the hatred in the air and the unspoken treats. It’s a fresh wound to the pride; the ones from the battle are suffocating but those can heal, disappear and it’s not the same. To remember being trapped and the helpless sensation pitting in her trembling hands is nauseating. Her hands can’t stop shaking and the samurai’s code is chanted on her head like a mantra, into a what-if and she hates how easy it will be to confront the loss and escape the humiliation.
Sakura nor Hoshido, and less of all her self-value were protected.
If others believe not killing them is merciful, they’re wrong.
Monsters wearing human skin. Yukimura’s words never stop their resonance in the corners of her mind and the aftermath of the invasion is meant for happiness to be taken without overthinking it. What a lie. It’s shameful. That’s what it is. The disgrace is shameful and wrong in some many levels. Tricks have been offered—and nothing was prevented from spiraling further to chaos. Nohr rejoices and Hoshido mourns. And there’s not falling for the false sense of serenity but the bone-crushing hold of the people grieving.
The outside mocks her, a reminder of surviving a war due to the enemy’s compassion. Failure, failure, failure. She doesn’t deserve being alive when the ground gets scattered with ashes, the soil humid and fresh from rushed-up burials.
Facing the graves is equal as facing Sakura. Everyone mourns their losses but she can’t share the grief of a torn apart family — her father’s death wasn’t catastrophic, his duty had been first over raising her. Hoshido lost members of the royal family but Sakura lost her brothers, it’s a distinguished line of difference.
Her fists clench and Hana steps into the sunlight, swallowing a cry when Tsubaki places a hand on her shoulder.
The coronation ceremony is bitter.
Sakura stands up, eyes not looking over anyone. Yukimura is at her side, a crestfallen expression as Hinoka speaks up, the speech echoing in the halls. No one dares to look over the people from Nohr, their movements show they are conscious of the bitterness. But the queen silences every opposition with a fierce stare, a mot ready to become as marvelous as the brightness of a candle. Hinoka speaks for the fallen, the gone and the living. Hatred won’t be tolerated in the halls, the same stained in blood and muffled screams — it won’t bring anyone back from the grave.
Each word out resonates and they gravitate, open up the wounds and forcibly patch them.
The speech doesn’t last longer after that. The banquet commences and the guests scatter around the palace. Kazahana stays in her place, unsure of whether to lose herself in the sea of people but a stare is given to Sakura’s retreating, polite figure. Years of friendship murmur her to go and guard her from those near that can harm her. The war is over but not the conflict. No one speaks up about that.
Her first instinct to observe and get to know the territory. It makes her uneasy to get to rediscover the place she grew up accustomed to but her gaze doesn’t go far. She sees him, guarding Sakura with enough place for decorum and respect. It doesn’t come across Hana she’s reaching for him, steps light and hurried before Tsubaki turns his head.
No words are exchanged but she understands those aren’t needed. Cultivating patience is harder than what she’d thought. And still —
“We aren’t needed anymore.”
Hana stares and strolls towards him. “That won’t work.”
Tsubaki’s gaze is quiet, restless and Kazahana feels his anxiety, the overwhelming pain and the feeling of failure he is suppressing. “We can’t be the same, we can’t go back to before.” His left hand twitches and she hates prying him out of his self-loathing. “As much as we want to, we can’t.”
She doesn’t know how to lead, her role has always been to serve as Sakura’s shield and keep her away from harm. But Tsubaki is the same, she can preach how different they are and push aside their similarities, the truth is they are more similar than what she likes to think.
A look at him and she sees her own self-pity.
Her hand reaches for his wrist and she tugs him away from what he’s thinking. The attempt is weak, she’s sure but it’s better than nothing and Hana realizes that’s what matters.
“Let’s go. Sakura is waiting for us.”
Tsubaki doesn’t say anything but his fingers squeeze hers and she gives him a half-hearted smile.
“And that’s how you swing a sword!”
The children gasp with excitement, clapping at her movements. For an audience, Hana finds no fault in them and their joy is contagious. The festival is doing wonders to everyone and the war doesn’t seem to have come over Hoshido. Seasons have come and go, unaware of the years that have passed. But Kazahana knows better than to forget the dead.
Her father has been buried for a long time now. The company of those fallen in the latest war being the first change when she goes to pay her respects to him and superficially, the grave looks as the first year it was installed — clean and honorable for who served his liege to the last breath.
Kazahana understands her father hadn’t breathed for life without his king. Understanding means doing the same will be harmful for Sakura, the finality of sacrificing herself for an existence of dishonor and lack of purpose. She is learning to not give up her life and live along Sakura and not for her. The possibility of her father disapproving doesn’t torn her apart and the dead can’t do anything, only observe over those still living, grieving and existing.
Life moves on and she does, as well.
“Who wants to see some backflips?” She calls out for the children, giving them a beaming smile.
Turns are made, the children making a circle around her as she twirls them around, pretending to chase them. After the struggles of fighting, this is the closest Hana feels she’s doing something worthwhile for her country. The children born after the war won’t have to deal with the looming treat of the enemy or losing their parents with a rash suddenness.
She can’t envy them nor she wants to.
Anger and hatred tend to blind and she finds the veil hasn’t been uplifted entirely, war has taken far too much but Hana finds the resentment off. Absent from fueling the hot blood in her veins. Was it strange, for her to not let her youth’s bitterness swallow her up? A few laughs are shared, the enthusiasm of the crowd turning her cheeks rosy.
Hana lets the small hands go as she bids them goodbye, promising them to play later. She glances over Tsubaki and beams him a smile, fingertips tingling from letting go but she doesn’t let it bother her.
“When did you get here?”
“Lady Sakura sent me to look for you.” Tsubaki tilts his head, the lanterns’ lights emphasizing his ponytail. “I’ve never seen you around children before.”
“I thought it would be nice to make them happy.”
Tsubaki chuckles lightly. “I can tell you did, you’re very capable with them.”
“I only did what I’ve seen parents do. My father used to play with me when he had the time.”
“Are you interested in doing the same someday?”
Hana stops her steps and her lack of understanding must show since Tsubaki chuckles again, the sound of his throat almost touching her skin. She feels his scrutinizing gaze and feels its turn softer, delicate, respecting her space.
“Would you like to be? A mother, I mean.”
Hana blinks. Her eyes dart back momentarily at the children before landing on Tsubaki. The idea of marriage sounds silly, at times, she’s never been feminine or graceful but Tsubaki’s voice is gentle, curious and his words don’t have the prodding he carries. He sounds serene, understanding and his eyes are soft, with the usual glint of mischief she’s used to.
It’s comforting, she realizes. Being here without the shadows of prior years lurking over them, the festival’s lights illuminating the streets and the scent of food hanging in the humid, warm air. Tomorrow, they can go back to their verbal-brawl but today —
She beams a gentle smile at him.
“Maybe. One day, for sure. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
—
The festival is lively in every corner and Hana loses herself in the vibrant colors. Sakura had let her roam around and Hinoka’s shadow near her younger sister had told her enough to comply with the petition. Occasions like those are for the people and to remember it’s not a crime to be alive when others aren’t.
Tsubaki walks to her side. He charms everyone who speaks to him, that peculiar hair bouncing with his every movement and Hana smiles from behind her manjuu. Under the lanterns, the streets irradiate light and a refreshing feeling and she isn’t sure if it’s the few cups of sake she had in one of the places they visited but the liquor makes her stop walking. As by record, Tsubaki stops on his tracks and waits for her to resume.
She smiles ruefully, the gesture hurting her cheeks. “... Do you think he would be proud of me?”
“Hana.” Tsubaki sounds far away but so gentle it scorches.
It’s too late to stop. The words collide against her throat and she spills out a half-choked sob. “How can I make him proud when I couldn’t follow his steps?” The alcohol frees her tongue from all she has kept for years. “How can I—”
“Kazahana.”
Her hands curl into fists, breathing turning swallow and raspy with each word getting out. Any sense of decency of crying in a street is out and the shame pours over her, opening up her self-patched wounds.
“I’m not even a good daughter—!”
“Kazahana!”
Tsubaki’s hands are placed on her shoulders, the touch firm and gentle and the proximity cuts off her monologue. His eyes are hard but not judging, the concern hidden into a quiet, silent anger and Hana can only stare back, vision blurring with another second passing. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out with the exception of a cry and after a shocking silence, another gets out.
Tsubaki doesn’t move his hands but encircles them against her and her walls crumble.
She doesn’t let anything inside and her cries turn louder and louder. People walk near them but Tsubaki holds her, distracting her from unwanted attention and her hands grip on his chest, tears falling over the fabric. Apologies aren’t asked but she mutters them to her father, to Sakura and to herself for not being enough. Tsubaki doesn’t say anything and keeps holding her, his fingers wiping away the tears threatening to fall from her chin.
Tsubaki lets her cry. The silence stretching across them with the exception of her sobs.
It’s spring when snowflakes flicker outside, and it’s spring when cherry blossoms twirl in the chill, placid air from the window.
“Mommy! Look! Look! It’s snowing!”
She squeezes Matoi’s small hand and takes them outside. She hears her daughter gasp as the scenario unfolds from the garden.
Fingers tug once, twice — the excitement hands in the atmosphere. It reminds her of a long gone childhood. One day, she will tell Matoi everything. What happened before she was born, of the war, of her grandfather.
And —
How flowers can bloom in winter.