oblivions

“Can’t be any different for you,” he says, like a sigh but not slurred. “We’re the ones doing this together for a reason.” He can feel her eyes on him, brief as they are, but he doesn’t disturb the glance with one from his end. She’s in his memory anyway, and even if it doesn’t hurt to seize what you can while it’s still there, something tells him to let her have this one for herself. Instead, he undoes his vest and some buttons on his dress shirt, shrugging off the former and laying it carefully between them on the perch. There’s something about the air that feels inescapable, history and heat having nothing to do with it this time around.

The future, maybe, and how it’ll be here but not the way anyone would expect.

He closes his eyes and takes it all in, braving its must. Allows himself to slouch, hands clasped together in his lap. One leg sticks out, the other one bent at the knee. Rolling his neck, he takes his time with this and everything else that follows. “How do you really feel?”

He says for a reason like there's no greater weight to it, a casual submission to what’s ultimately a cause out of their hands. She quiets then, as if on the verge of coming to an admission of her own, only for it to be an absent hum. It’d be selfish of her otherwise.

Instead, Asana turns, gaze direct and even as she studies him. Her imagination can only go so far. She’d let it run rampant in the days leading up to tonight, helpless to the grief of circumstance, the pulse of want. Searching for a face she hasn’t held in what feels like a whole lifetime, and might not ever see again. 

Even now, there’s a tepid hesitation to cross that threshold right away. Her eyes fall to the line of his shoulders, then drop to his hands, the ring with its dull glint in the low light. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Like this, how they are. How they will be if that’s even a possibility. 

“How I really feel?” Asana repeats with an exhale. It wouldn’t be Ozen to not ask a loaded question. She glances away for a moment, then looks at him again, heavy with consideration. After some time, she decides at last. “I feel like we’re losing something.”

for some. yui raises her eyebrows, quite taken with the directness. everyone’s thinking it, but she’s surprised to hear even an insinuation coming from asana. 

strangely sincere, from what she can tell. the hand atop hers encourages her reading of the moment as sympathetic. she’s still frustratingly tense. it’s been this way for years, and she sees no way for it to be absolved in the near future. 

“it could be an opportunity for you too. i like to think something good could come out of all this.” something. undefined and improbable. she sways between naive optimism and being unforgivably jaded so freely, as if neither has her genuinely convinced. “i don’t mean to pry into your personal motivations though, i’m just trying to look ahead.”

and how is that working out? not too well. yui shakes her head. even as she hears herself, it just sounds confused. too sentimental, and confused. she finally moves to pick up the tea cup, stopping herself just before it touches her bottom lip. 

“oh, and another thing.” grasping at straws maybe, but that’s alright. they have years of shared experiences in common to draw on for lighter topics. “i hope it doesn’t sound like i’m excited for the funeral service, but it’s going to be nice to see everyone together again. it must’ve been years since last.” and what years they have been.  

the tea is still quite hot when she gets to it. and the more she thinks about it, quite familiar too– like a scent from a memory, sometime long ago. 

Yui means well, without question, and yet the notion makes her take pause, but not in the way of consideration. Asana gives it a breath, waits for the sharpness of the feeling to subside before she says anything at all. It’s almost something worthy of shame, that it can’t be helped. There’s the constant scrutiny of the court to thank for that one, maybe. Ill-intentioned and otherwise.

“You wouldn’t take me to be the type, would you?” She smiles ruefully, a hint of a good-natured tease. Despite the lighter pretenses, the future looms overhead, deep and uncertain. Beyond the wisp of steam and the careful rustling of skirts, there’s a feeling of premonition that hangs, spiritlike, ever-drifting. 

The hand lifts away. A quiet shiver runs through her spine despite herself. Asana doesn’t indulge in it any further. Another sip, and it’s another thought laid to rest. 

It takes two to tango. Happy feet if you want it to be something to remember down the road. This instance is equal parts relenting and a pain in the neck, but even if Asana’s got some buzz in her, Ozen can’t find it in him to complain. Just foolishness if he’d turned her down. Thankfully nothing else for the rest of the night would serve him a greater pleasure. Then again, when does anything ever compare?

If her hand is to stay around his wrist, so be it. It’s something. He follows her wordlessly, a moth drawn to a flame. Outside, it is what it is: all theirs, even if guards might be lingering around gates. They aren’t close enough to disturb anything, though. So it stays.

The way of the wind in the trees is missed, but it seems vacation-esque, wishing for that during any time here at home. It’s weird being here, what more with her. Maybe this just hasn’t sunken in yet. It probably won’t, at least not for a while. Money moment pending and aside… what else is there to think about?

Nothing, he elects. They’ve already cleared all their good graces for the time to come as a new kind of duo out of their systems, a silent hope that there aren’t any bad ones. Carefully, Ozen slips away from Asana’s grasp and opts for being at her side, hands to himself. Tired, he still manages a grin even if he’s not looking at her to share it. It doesn’t come difficult with you. “Long day, huh?”

A breath is all it takes: barely-there then deep through the swell of her lungs; easy does it, and gives way to how she's never felt freer. 

Together, they pad over the expanse of the lawn. There's a warm hum in the air, deceptively calm, but it's enough to keep the gravity of the situation at bay. Asana stops to perch on one of the lower garden walls. One hand reaches down to tug at her feet, left then right, and a pair of thin stilettos fall into a heap onto the grass below. 

"Something like that," she sighs, palms over the slate ledge, leaning back. After some consideration: "You handled it pretty well." Her mind turns over the details, from here to a time that doesn't feel quite like theirs like it might have once. Distant. Removed. A ghost of a smile graces her lips to match. "You're used to that kind of attention, aren't you." Getting fussed over. 

asana rattles her without any effort. even when she (probably) doesn’t mean to; even when she’s giving her more credit than yui gives herself. 

worrying doesn’t help. another i’m sorry hangs in the back of her head, but yui keeps it quiet. i’m sorry for being sorry. for lying about being sorry. only a child would want sympathy for their own missteps. 

“of course.” means you’re right, and i’m sorry, and everything in-between. an acknowledgement that she’s fumbling, as if it’s not telegraphed clearly enough by how she squirms in her seat. there is some respite to be had in the brief interruption that follows. pouring tea is such an outwardly menial task, but it settles her down. even to watch, just to wait.  

“yes, i understand.” life isn’t that easy: for people to all want the same thing. yui wanted out at some point, and that only got her right back to where she started. “i wish i could help in some way, but i’m afraid i won’t be of much use.” regrettably, thankfully. “you should talk to my brother if you need anything. he’ll make time.” 

her hand grazes over the handle of the cup, holding off for just a little longer. 

“it might get better with time. people can’t focus when they’re still in shock.” assuming nothing else happens to further upset them. “or maybe i’m wrong. i wouldn’t really know, but i hope it gets a little easier. i hate to see you so stressed. all of you.”

“It’s an opportunity for some.” Any and all names remain unspoken for. More time would only allow opportunity to morph into something tangible. Incontrollable. She can only hope they have enough in their arsenal to stop it from ever reaching that point. 

Except hope requires conviction, and hope alone can never match up to the way that blind fury commands and drives momentum to the brink. It's a hard pill to swallow, harder to go against the unshakeable hunger for vengeance that has them possessed. Deep down, an age-old fear resurfaces. That after this, there’s no turning back. 

sachun’s room has never seemed grimmer. granted, it showed promise in the past, when heartbreak struck (in unsurprising multitudes, with his brother’s track record) and left him sobbing while draped over his velvet chaise and chunhee sitting by with pitiful backrubs. the past few days haven’t been much different—easy to tell by the clumps of balled up tissues discarded here and there. red-rimmed eyes and pink nose.

between them now is no mere heartache. nothing short of something dismal. 

between them hangs the wet smell of death. windchill that prickles the skin at night and keeps them wound tight. the more plausible than ever now notion of their collective demise. 

there’s no saying there won’t be any other attempts on royal lives.

chunhee for the most part sits impartial in between the two, a delicate balance of work-oriented and emotion-driven. his gaze ove over to sachun to his left, busying himself with finding whatever it was in his closet, and back to sana on his right, eyes fixed on official documents, before settling on the pile of used tissues before him, releasing a small exasperated sigh.

“didn’t someone come by to clean your room, sachi?” chunhee extends his leg, hooking his foot around the rim of the bin and sliding it over to sweep the tissues off the table’s surface. vaguely, he tries to recollect the current time. it is uncomfortably early in the day; having woken up earlier to prepare. mentally and physically. preparation that is required more for some than himself. though chunhee can’t say he’s been too preoccupied with his own grievings when he’s spent the better of the last few days catering to sachun’s.

he twists his tongue in his mouth, pushing against his cheek in thought. there’s a particular question that weighs heavy on his mind. what better time than to ask now that they were all here? “what did mom say about what happens next?” he glances over to his sister, brow arched.

what is the appropriate turnaround time between one’s death and another’s usurping of the throne? 

She's not sure which she wants more: temporary amnesia, a stiff drink, or the deluge that is found in both. Distractions of any sort now would be welcome, only those of their—her—rank are the last people on earth to afford such a privilege. Later in the day, there will be a public procession in honor of Lord Ishan, and she's here up hours in advance, dark hair pulled in a tight chignon and in full funeral attire, reviewing the latest proposal to impose sanctions.

Asana slips the page back into the envelope without another word, and crosses her arms. Directs her gaze to the window, where the sky is overcast, the morning calm in the air more somber than it is meant to soothe. Chunhee's question is posed casually, but she takes a second longer to gather her thoughts. These days, even the mere urgency of language seems to fail her. 

"Same thing you've heard. Burial will be later at night on the ancestral grounds, so don't change out of your clothes." She turns from the window to direct a wary glance at Sachun's unsuspecting back, before it lands on the youngest. There’s no denying Chunhee’s keen perception; she’d be a fool to think he isn’t referring to anything more beyond the present mourning rites. The palace walls too, wait with bated breath for what’s to come. For who will have the role at last. 

as instructed, she sits.

or rather, sinks listlessly into the chair opposite asana, and immediately finds herself at a bit of an impasse. she doesn’t want to lie, nor does she care to be questioned when she only came here to act as a proxy for her brother. whatever comes to mind. how well that all worked out for her.  

“hardly. but i’ve heard from a few friends that they’re doing alright.” she wishes she’d had the time and dedication to see it through. these little relationships she’s cultivated, across boarders, still so fragile in their infancy– all pushed aside. she can only hope that they’re still doing well, or try not too think about it too much. “i have other commitments right now. i’m sorry.”

yui lowers her gaze. the apology is a little too grand in scope to make sense. 

“this might be a bad time to ask,” and yet she still asks. preoccupied or not, there are still some concerns for the future that linger in her mind. whether or not asana will be able to give a concise answer matters less than the cathartic nature of the discussion itself.  “do you know what’s going to happen to the academy? will it be absolved, or do you think the coalition will be permitted to return to republic city?”

Alright, well, alright summons the start of more questions, a smoke thick enough to evade clarity as a concept at all. But it's not Yui's place to make the call, neither is it Asana's to assess her for it. However immediate, the relaxing sink of her shoulders is not relief, but it makes the logistics of the situation easier to approach for later. 

“You should only apologize for things you’re responsible for,” she says, voice soft but firm. “This was out of everyone’s hands.” Better that they’re around—alive. Small graces that double as a springboard for damage control and not the unimaginable.

(Collateral? They wouldn’t, would they?)

A knock on the door allows them pause. Entering the room is a maid with a teapot and two cups, which she pours out evenly. Jasmine fills the air with the rising steam, warm and fragrant, and she bows out. Slowly, Asana takes a sip, but any ease there is only momentary. The cup is set down with a clink. Her eyes fall on Yui once more, the considerations that she sifts through bleaker than the next. 

Clockwork. The second hand never stops. Ominous ticking that counts down to the soon(er or later) demise of his war battered life. Less dramatically, it’s the countdown to the inevitable return to the Ryujin residence, where penance is expected for his shortcomings. Their shortcomings. 

But Dorjee would rather it was him.

Till then, it’s a waiting game. 

Till General Nao himself summons him, Dorjee remains in a position he’s always known himself to be—shoulders squared, spine straight—a now war worn, but nonetheless, effective guard dog. 

And he’ll wait—end of the day—for her as long as it takes.

As it was, it wasn’t as long as he had anticipated. Although Dorjee can tell by the soured (however minuscule is the twitch in her brows, clench in her jaw, he has studied Asana Kasai long enough to know them all) look on her face that it hadn’t gone well. Expected. With the Sages being how they are.

“Alright.” It’s more spoken to himself, she’s already a couple of feet ahead before Dorjee pivots to follow, taking everything from the velocity in which Asana moved to the way she force put into stepping against stone; each and every click of her heels echoing in the deserted walkway. 

To his credit, he catches up quick, almost comical timing-wise with the way Asana stumbles mid-stride and Dorjee reacts, years of reflex rather than abiding to proper boundaries now (strictly) implemented by the difference in status. “Careful—” His grip on her elbow is firm, other hand winded around thin shoulders to steady her.

“Are you alright?” 

Just like that, they fall into place, assuming form and solemnity that is demanded from it. Normalcy, or an attempt at it, really. Only it's been long thwarted by his absence,  marked from the most recent weeks to the most distant of years. The memories retain their clarity, possessed by the steady pulse of emotion—endless nights awake, spilled ink, all those letters to nowhere. 

She’s no stranger to the waiting game, either. But she can only have so much grace. Forgiveness. At this very second, it is dangerously close to running thin, what with the way they’re now a balancing act held precariously thin. Two months of every glance, plea to speak with her vehemently ignored, denied, only to have him trail after her movements so faithfully in the here and now only worsens the burn of humiliation, has Asana pick up the pace as they near the exit. 

In her haste, she’s unaware of how the pencil tip of her heel wedges into a crack in the pavement until she near-trips in the next step with a gasp, only to be pulled back from the weight of the fall by—of course. Of course. 

She might’ve seized this moment once, let her gaze linger a little longer and whatever thoughts of possibility would bloom bright in the back of her mind. Now it’s nothing more but stunned silence as she stares at him, incredulous. 

the sun comes out for the first time in days, when seon catches news of her brother’s return. her father answers the all too-heavy question in a simple nod when she finally manages to muster the courage to ask. it’s complicated, should have been happy, she should have been ecstatic, overjoyed, absolutely thrilled. and she was. ( is ? will be ? ). seon had expected that things would turn out this way, she had tried to make her peace with it, but perhaps she got too hopeful as one year stretched into two, two into three and then the almost-beginnings of four. 

most frustrating of all, who should she hate for it all? her father? (difficult, it was he that put her at asana’s side after-all). her brother? (she didn’t even know if she could convince her heart to begin to). or asana?  (the epicenter of it all; seon wished she could, if only to rid herself of the helplessness of it all).

“oh,” and damn it all, this unfortunate affection. “asana.” seon almost chokes on the name, works hard to swallow it through a too-tight throat. “i’m, um, sure you’ve already heard.” it hangs heavy, the implication. she continues onward without seeing the need to discuss the specifics.

“i’ve gone ahead and started a small list of some outstanding matters that i had yet to take care of.” there’s the sound of dry laughter (her own, seon distantly notices). “though, knowing him, he’ll have probably gotten to it on his first day back, list or no list. but, y’know, peace of mind and such.”

Changes in routine have become increasingly rare, the usual agenda relegating her to the same key sites and set of duties. She can't say she minds—keeps her busy, and in matters that concern her attention, the keyword has always been progress and its upkeep rather than the fulfillment. It’s only appropriate when lives and livelihood are involved and intertwined, after all. 

Still, there’s no denying that it gets lonely. Many a moment of solitude where there’s no sound but the disquiet of her own thoughts and the cogs that keep turning, incessant. Seon, with her presence alone, at least, is enough to keep the thick of the feeling at bay. 

A light breeze sweeps through the propped balcony doors, lifts the sheer curtains in soft suspension. Muted jazz croons from the record table. In the middle is the steady start and stop of a pen scratching on paper. It’s the most at ease she’s felt at any time, anywhere in nearly weeks. 

Asana’s eyes remain on the page. “Someone will come by with a reminder, at one point or another,” she replies, part sarcasm, part amused. Better that than risking the chance of it slipping her mind entirely, be it the matters of this past morning or the ones yet to be attended to. 

The file is closed with an exhale, the pen clicked into place. She meets her eyes with a rueful grin. “Always ten steps ahead, aren’t you, Seon?” It’s meant with grown fondness, of her constant presence over these past few years.

The mention of him, on the other hand, raises a brow. “I wouldn’t know.” There’s a hint of annoyance, reserved for none other but the only other constant in her life. 

(Little does she know that there is an entirely different presence involved here, one that will always, always bring an ache.) 

yui shifts her gaze, scarcely catches a glimpse of asana as she emerges from her chambers. 

“yes, of course.” falling back on excuses and explanations, while comfortable, would be undue given the circumstances. she moves forward silently, without unnecessary pretence of submission. 

the room is huge by any standard, but feels particularly daunting when it’s just the two of them. she skirts the wall, opts to stop within a few paces of the door. just being in here carries an air of foreboding– like she’s trespassing. 

so, yui clears her throat, takes the floor (figuratively speaking) and makes a dear attempt at not looking so dower.

“i know it must be hard– and i don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this.” it’s not much, but it’s all she has to offer. asana may not find any great enjoyment in her company, but they’ve known each other for as long as yui has lived, which must count for something. 

“if you want to talk, i’m here.” her lips are drawn into a slight smile, and she brushes some stray hairs back from her temples – reminiscing about something or other. “whatever comes to mind. i promise you i have time.”

It's a different spiel of the same sentiment that has been presented ad nauseam—language, for all it can do, does little under these circumstances. It's no different with the shell-shock and how it holds all hostage. 

So in the end, Asana caves to the benefit of the doubt, mouth curving slow in a wordless thank you. Nevermind that it takes deliberate effort, barely reaching her eyes, and that the silence extends for a beat longer than it should until she says, “You should sit first.” A nod to the table by the wide bay window completes the gesture. 

She takes up the chair opposite to the one intended for her guest, positioned so that they can speak face to face. Any confessions left to be made are pointless here, not when all’s been said and done. Not when the questions of consequence weigh heavy on the brain.