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    Summary

    After their fight Shinobu had come to her with flowers in her hair and clad in nothing else, and they’d bathed in a hidden hot spring together once Mitsuri shed all her clothes as well; they suddenly seemed heavy, too much, too weighty to care for. Their Nichirin blades were left by the wayside, not entirely out of sight but enough so they’d forget why they were there. The warmth of the spring and the solitude of the two under the gleaming moonlight was enough.

    “The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it,” Shinobu had said.

    And then she was reduced to putty in her hands, like bread dough in her hands, all big and strong in the right places, Shinobu said, and she’d felt so free and unashamed of her own unfeminine body, and she’d said so; and Shinobu, swimming circles around her and touching her, said, “you’re perfect the way you are; I’d dreamed of being like you, once upon a time, wishing I could keep pace with the men,” and looking down at her reflection in the limpid water, lit sultry and low by the moon, Mitsuri believed her.

    And what do I have left to believe in.

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