Simple Past


by llamajoy


too many years fighting back tears,
why can't the past just die?
wishing you were somehow here again
knowing we must say goodbye
try to forgive, teach me to live, give me the strength to try
no more memories, no more silent tears,
no more gazing across the wasted years,
help me say goodbye

Phantom of the Opera


Her door was not quite closed. Chichiri paused as he walked by, curiosity like a small flickering candleflame in the coming darkness. It was getting late; the night-watch servants were lighting the first torches and the crickets beyond the palace walls were just taking up their evening song. Few people spoke, those that passed each other in the carpeted halls nodded their greetings and padded quickly on. Chichiri himself was headed for his chambers, to peel out of travel-dirty clothing and prepare for the day's-end celebration. The air was full of late summer silence, of waiting.

And the Empress' door was not quite closed.

He should have knocked, or shaken his staff to announce his arrival. Instead, he leaned the staff against the wall with a muted jingle. Too many years of silence lay heavy on his hands, and he pushed open her thick carved door without a sound.

At first he thought she was asleep, sitting by her bed with her head inclined slightly. The lamplight was a golden sheen on her still face, on her long elegant hair. Then he saw that her eyes were open, concentrating on something balanced on her knees. He moved half a step closer. It was an embroidery panel, her slim fingers working diligently at her needle, interweaving strands of pearlescent silk thread.

She lifted a hand to push back the thick indigo fall of her hair, and in that moment Chichiri saw a mirrored image of someone else-- A younger girl, her eyes just so, her face perched thus gracefully above her slender shoulders, the unselfconscious arc of her reaching arm like the neck of a sleeping crane. Kouran could never have afforded such fancy clothing, but Hikou had always loved to buy her silks and necklaces, and his taste for such things was the finest in the province. Such thoughts caused memories long-forgotten to surface, like giant carp rising towards their reflections in the water, then turning to festival kites and flying weightlessly away.

How long had it been since he allowed himself to think on such things?

But this figure before him, head bent so intently over her needlepoint, had the finest lines of age tightening around her lips, and the depth of years shimmering in her seachange eyes.

Would Kouran have looked this way?

He shook himself. Of course Kouran would not have looked so. Kouran had always hated embroidery.

"Suzaku!" the Empress of Konan swore quietly, casting the panel into a thready mess in her lap. "Enough of that."

Chichiri, surprising even himself, laughed.

She did not flinch, but her eyes were a little wide as she looked up at him. "Chichiri-sama," she spoke as if she were not entirely sure he was real. "You certainly-- move silently."

He raised a hand to his mouth, biting his lip to stall more laughter. "Forgive me, heika. I did not mean to startle you, no da. Tasuki and I made it back in time for the holiday-- or at least what's left of it."

Her imperial poise never faltered as she rose from her chair like a much younger woman and rushed across the room to him, her abandoned sewing fluttering to the floor. "I am glad," she said into his neck, grasping both his hands tightly. "I am very glad. Boushin was despondent, without you two around to cause trouble. His princess doesn't know what to do with him, I'm afraid."

He nodded sagely to the mischief in her eyes. "Aa. We found the Emperor, just as he was asking his Minister of the Right if he could swing a tessen or ride a horse bareback on a mountainside." She moaned in mock-dismay, and he waved a hand. "Tasuki rescued him before it was too late-- and by 'him,' I mean, of course, the Minister. I believe Tasuki has taken your son into town, to see what may be left at the holiday tents. I know one shichiseishi who has a particular weakness for sweetened tofu, no da."

"I know of two," she said, and her cheek was warm against his shoulder. She did not ask him why he had not gone into the city with his lover, why he had opened her door. "Maybe Tasuki-sama will bring some sweets back for you, ne?"

He leaned his face against her hair, which was soft, and smelled of willow trees in sunlight and sweet ginger. "And you, heika?" he said to break the stillness, speaking against her forehead. "Have your days been so hopelessly dull without us?"

"I don't see," she said primly, breaking their embrace to step back and look at him sharply, "what is so enticing about a mountain full of bandits." There was a girlish brightness to her eyes. "What does the exotic Mount Reikaku have that the Imperial Palace has not?"

"Aa, I see, no da," Chichiri pursed his lips. "You missed your daily conjugations, ne?"

Her smile was no different than that of a fisherman's daughter on a carnival day. "I have NOT," she said emphatically, ticking points off with her fingers. "I have learned your perfect, pluperfect, future perfect, and your simple past. My handwriting is better than yours. I thought you were to be Boushin's tutor, Chichiri-sama, no da?"

He spread his hands. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. ...Though I think my penmanship is still superior, no da."

The Empress sank gracefully onto her bed, conceding defeat. "As you say, Chichiri-sama." Her glance caught the fallen needlework on the floor, and her expression changed. He stepped towards her half a pace too quickly, stooped to retrieve her handiwork. What stitching she had already done on the small panel depicted a young woman with rich black hair and knotted glass-dark eyes. Chichiri recognized the Princess Liu, recognized the beginnings of crimson and ivory and gold, a glory of bridal trappings spilling around that perfect young face. And because he himself wore a mask, he saw the layer beneath, the purple thread that had been meticulously picked and discarded from her detailed work. This year's bride had hair the shade of midnight, not of grape-twilight. Suzaku knew, the last Imperial wedding had been hurried enough, and he should not have been surprised to find such a small thing unfinished from all those years ago.

The Empress was re-stitching her own discarded wedding image for her son's bride.

He opened his mouth to speak comfort to her, but she averted her eyes. "Needlework to fill the time," she said lightly. "I had thought that you would not make it back today."

He looked apologetically at his dusty feet, the slightest grey footprints left on the thick-piled rugs. "We rode hard, heika, that we might not miss your celebration."

Still not looking at him, she said faintly, "My celebration. They will forget my day, soon enough, when Boushin has his-- celebration." Her eyes were intense, drinking the dusk hanging beyond her silk-curtained window. "But," she whispered, "that is as it should be. A royal wedding is not..." Her voice trailed off, her hands holding tightly to one another on her lap, as lovers soon to be separated.

"Heika," he said, trying not to sound entreating. The night outside was turning richer, deepening like aging rice wine. Soon the stars would sing through, one by one, and the fireworks would begin. "Today Konan is rejoicing in the Empress' birthday, and we shall--"

"The Empress," she said distantly, and in the darkly-layered formal court dialect she used, 'empress' sounded merely like 'king's second consort,' "is tired."

Reflexively, he bowed, the sharpness of her language enough to command respect. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I will go--"

"Don't--"

He did not turn back, lingering in her doorway. "As the Empress wishes," he said carefully, reaching for his shakujo.

"Chichiri." Something in her tone made him turn, then, and he saw her eyes closed tightly and her small hands lifted to her mouth. Her voice was steadier when she spoke again. "It has been a long day," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "I-- I have missed my evening game of chess with you, Chichiri-sama." Underneath her simple words, her inflection was all respectful apology.

"You needn't," he began, flustered. The distance from the door to her bedside surrendered to his stride. "I am not--"

She silenced him with a look, her eyes too bright in the wavering lamp-thrown light. "Konan will always have some Empress or another," she said, as if answering some unspoken question. "And we're all dreadfully alike, I'm afraid. Though Boushin's Liu is certainly a delight." Her smile looked frail. "When Boushin marries I shall no longer be Empress in truth. I am only a country girl, a very long way from home. My serving-ladies will be the only ones to lift their cups to my health."

Chichiri tilted his face to the open window and smiled patiently, enigmatically. "Do you really think that? You must know your reputation precedes you, Your Majesty-- your generous heart, your kind hand. The people of Konan think very highly of you, no da." His smile turned teasing. "Is it not enough that two shichiseishi adore you?"

There was a wistfulness to the set of his chin, and the Empress bit her lip, her face slightly flushed. "Just two?" Her voice sounded so young in its hopefulness that Chichiri closed his eye. "Iie," he said, hearing the sound of her breathing change. "All of us-- hold you very dear, even now. Your husband misses you, no da."

"Oh," she whispered, arms wrapping unconsciously around herself.

Hesitantly, he rested a hand on her slight shoulder, feeling her shake beneath his touch. "I would have said so earlier, Houki, had I known you needed so badly to hear it."

At the use of her given name, she gasped a little, the affectionate sound surprising a few tears into falling. But she shook her head and wiped them away, laughing ruefully to herself. He relinquished his grasp and she straightened, with a sort of freedom now in her regal bearing, not the heaviness she had worn before. Formally, with barely a tremor in her voice, she said, "I would have asked, Chichiri-sama, if I had known how much I needed to hear my name."

He didn't quite smile, bowing his head politely. "Are those at court too respectful to you, heika? You must miss your brothers, no da."

"They came in-city for the day," she admitted, and her fingers curled wistfully around each other, as if wishing for something to hold onto. "But they call me 'Your Majesty' even more than you do." Her smile tilted, fondness taking wing and alighting in her eyes. "It was very good to see them. But they wanted to ride back home to the provinces before night fell, so..." Her eyes turned playful. "...I have no one to accompany me to my own fireworks."



with this power, and with this life, i wish to protect you
the water mirror rests in the regretful shadow of my heart
that love may also be one's good fortune
for the sake of everything of importance to me
i won't avert my eye from the burning ache

--mizu kagami


"If Tasuki knew we were doing this," she whispered conspiratorially, resting her hand on his proffered arm. Chichiri pretended to wince, lowering his head closer to hers. "He'd never let me hear the end of it, no da," he said, not looking distressed in the least.

There was an end-of-summer edge to the air; older people tugged their cloaks closer, and laughing young couples held tightly to each other. The cup of rice wine that had been poured full, and full again, must have been a heat in his blood, for he felt young and ridiculous and not cold in the slightest.

The fireworks had been more beautiful than anyone had imagined; like painting fire calligraphy in the sky.

A rumble sounded, somewhere beneath the noise of the powder explosions, and brightness flashed in the clouds beyond even the highest of fireworks. The throng of festival-goers around them murmured mild anticipation; there was the rustle of cloaks being unfolded, of belongings tucked safely away from the oncoming rain. Chichiri suppressed a shiver, hand tightening unconsciously on his shakujo. There was nothing unusual about a summer thunderstorm, he told himself. The ground is thirsty; the crops will thrive. It is only rain.

But some things never change.

The light from the holiday-lamps cast odd patterns on the wet rice screens, lines intertwining like some ancient inscrutable script. It did nothing to allay his uneasiness. The hills beyond were brown-dark like unhealing wounds, echoing with the coming thunder. The storm began to blow through, as if in slow motion. And though the humid air, thick with the tingling scent of lightning and fireworks, he felt eyes, watching.

The Empress at his shoulder looked like a fading flower, her delicate hair-ornaments dripping silver in the rain. When she turned to face him, she was smiling, speaking something that he could not hear over the sound of the storm. There was no panic in the stream of people rushing by, only single-minded determination to make it home safe and dry. Still, watching her lips move and hearing only rain, he felt something rising beneath his heart, making it hard to breathe.

"Houki," he said urgently, and, before she could drift away with the flooding crowd, he caught her hand.

The disbanding festival rushed on without them, spilling around them like an oddly silent river. The look in her violetflower eyes was one of surprise, looking down at their joined hands in wonderment. "The rainwater makes your hands so light," she said, her voice rich with the overtones of rainfall. "Such brightness in the palm of your hand."

Chichiri forgot how to speak, aching and too full of memory. His scar felt new, his very vision raw. Though her hand was slick and wet and cold, it was real, and he could feel the pulse beneath her skin. There were no words, and he was suddenly afraid to look at her-- seeking to grasp what had already flown away, seeking always to keep what was not his to hold--

And then, with a little sigh, she slid closer to him and took his other hand. "Did you think I would melt away, too, Chichiri-sama?" Before he could manage a reply, feeling her warm heartbeat against his chest, she went on, "I do understand. The past is never simple, ne? Still I think you have strength enough to hold me, Houjun."

He could not tell if he were weeping into her hair, or if it was only the steady pour from the opened skies. With her smile pressed close to his heart, the falling rain sounded like laughter, or freedom. And maybe it was the rice wine, or maybe it was his own long-forgotten youth, but the Empress did not protest when his arms circled tight around her and he tilted down his head to meet her lips.


~o~





b i s h o n e n i n k