“Sir--! sir. Misaki is alive! We just got a report--!”
The door to Mori Takahashi’s office swung open with force, banging against the wall in the process. A wide-eyed young man stood in the doorway with his hand still wrapped around the doorknob, his hair and suit both disheveled like he’d just untangled himself from someone downstairs. Mori had been looking over a stack of documents on his desk when he heard the thundering footsteps, a cigarette dangling from between his chapped lips. As soon as the words fell from the boy’s lips, he was shoving his chair back and rising to his feet, leaning on his hands placed on the desk.
“Where?” the man asked, his voice low as his eyes bore into the boy’s. When he hesitated, Mori came out from behind the desk and look long-legged strides to him, grabbing him by his color and shoving him against the wall just outside of his office. “Where?!” he demanded, barked, like a man half-mad.
“Doma,” the messenger replied, his eyes still as huge as saucers. “Working with the refugees and rebels on the reconstruction, in diplomacy, in battles-- she’s been non-stop.”
Mori’s heart was thundering in his chest. They’d been looking for her for nearly an entire cycle, with no valuable information. For the past six moons, he’d started to believe she was dead... but that didn’t sound right. Misaki wouldn’t go down without a fight they didn’t hear about. She had too much pride for it. She’d come too far in life from working too hard to just disappear into the night without a word, without a scream, without a burn that took everything crumbling down with her-- like the Castrum that she had escaped from. They knew she hadn’t died there, but after that... after that, lost, like she had never existed. Now, on that rainy afternoon, he’d been delivered divine providence. His angel, his dragon, his midnight jasmine, the most formidable foe he knew, disguised as a porcelain doll, was alive. She was in Doma. She was taking it by storm.
“Non-stop,” Mori breathed, staring down the boy before slowly letting go of his collar. “That’s her. That sounds like her. Go. Go!” he shouted, when the boy dared to hesitate again. The latter scurried off, and Mori slumped against the wall and, for the first time, allowed himself to breathe.
His body slid down the wall and he ran his hands through his overgrown hair, gripping it at the roots before exhaling. Fingers came to touch his sunken cheekbones, over the stubble that had grown on his cheeks and jaw. His eyes closed, and he let himself see her: raven black hair and dark eyes that told you I will do a thousand things to make this world brilliant and I won’t stop there. Her soft cheeks, round and rosy like rose buds, and her plush lips the same hue, the curves of her body and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. That expression she so often wore when she spoke with him, one of both contempt and satisfaction over knowing she had him wrapped around her finger.
“Misaki.” Mori breathed her name like it was more sacred than a prayer, putting a shaking hand over his lips. “The world is really gonna know your name, huh? Kugane’s blossom... what are you now? A diplomat? A soldier? Kami be praised. You’re alive. That’s my girl.”
The sea breeze was refreshing, even if it only added to the chill in the air. Black locks of hair swirled beneath a hood, brushing against lips reddened from the cold. Sea foam sprayed the back of the thick coat with hands sunken in deep, until they came to lift and draw the hood back once feet met with the dock.
Hair tumbled down her back and caught around her mouth as the breeze came again, and the young woman smiled to herself as she glanced up at the spirals of white stone in the distance. Behind her, the shiphands were carrying off the luggage of the ship’s passengers, and she idly watched her own trunk being handled before she started towards the end of the dock. Her body felt stiff in the cold, the wound that had been gashed into her torso still fresh and aching, but she moved through it, inhaling the salt in the air.
From the pocket of her coat, she withdrew a heavy piece of parchment that had been rolled and tied neatly with a red ribbon. She was directed to a courier when asked where one could send off their mail in Aleport, the young man looking down at her with big eyes as he accepted the letter.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he told her, like he couldn’t quite keep himself from saying it. A small smile curled the young woman’s lips.
“That’s kind of you. Is there a wagon coming by soon that would take one up to Limsa Lominsa? It’s a bit urgent.”
By the time you receive this, then by my guess, you’ll just be arriving in Doma. That’s good. They could always use more hands in the reconstruction. I ask that you continue to help them. As for me, I’ve left Doma already. I know how frustrating that must be for you. The boy who came looking for me told me that you had never stopped looking for me. And for that, I must thank you. When one lives in the uncertainty of whether or not they’re still alive in their homeland, to know that there are still people who are unrelenting in their search is comforting.
You will not find me until I want you to, however. The wounds are too fresh even now. I do not want to hate you when I see your face again, Mori. I ask that you give me what you have always wanted - more time. There will come a time when I come back to Hingashi and face the demons that I left behind, you included. It was a mistake, you didn’t mean to let it happen, you did everything you could to prevent it. I know. I know what you’re thinking, and what you’ll say to me. And for what it’s worth - I believe you. However, your best was not enough. Hana, Rei, Kumi, Sakura, Akira, Mai, Etsudo, Chihiro, Haru, and the woman whom I called Auntie but whose birth name was Katsumi, are all dead. Two of them were not any older than seven years old. Hana and Rei, my best friends, better than sisters, died in the escape from Doma. I awoke to their burning corpses.
Going to Doma was a step towards recovery. Now I must take a breath. Because, despite Doma being where I was tormented, it was Hingashi where I flourished. It is where I lived, laughed, made a name for myself, found a family and where my true family exists. I wonder if they searched, too. I wonder if they even knew that anything happened to me in the first place. These are, of course, questions that I know you have the answers to. I am not ready to ask them to your face. I am not ready to hear the answers. And you, Mori-- I am not ready to see you again. There will come a day where I stand on your doorstep and let you hug me, let you weep over seeing me. Maybe I’ll even be happy like that. I hope that I am. That’s why, for now, I stay away, and I let myself be angry. I let myself hate you. I work through it on a journey to forgive you.
Please do not follow me to this place I have found. Just know that I am safe, alive, and well, trying to pick up the pieces of me that broke and find the ones that I have lost or, better yet, fill them in with gold so that they shine anew. May you, too, learn to forgive yourself. Put the bottles down. The smoking will kill you. Rest, and sleep. Be a better leader now than you were then. I hope you are. You have good men who believe in you. I know they still do. Prove them right, Mori.
Mori stared down at the parchment in his hand, every word of it written in Hingan. The sound of hammers and voices and laughter came to fill his ears while he tried to make sense of the crushing sensation he felt in his gut. Misaki wasn’t here. She had left. She was one step ahead of him, again and again, on a journey... to forgive him. Even still, everyone he asked since his arrival knew her name. They smiled when they said it, more than happy to tell him the stories of her kindness, generosity, or of her leadership, her prowess in combat, or of her brilliance in understanding and solving difficult problems.
“Misaki Ito,” Mori breathed, slowly curling the parchment into his fist. “You’ll be the death of me yet. Damn it!”
Of course she’s angry. Of course she hates you. Of course she doesn’t want to see you. Her whole world was ripped away from her because of your incompetence. Did you really think she wouldn’t keep an ear to the ground and know your every movement, too? Idiot. Idiot! Did you chase her out of this place where she was doing good work because you’re addicted to her?
“Do we follow her, sir?” the man behind him asked, hands clasped behind his back. “Would you like us to track her down?”
“No,” Mori said heavily, turning on a heel. “No. No more chasing her.” The letter was ripped to shreds as his feet began to fall, back towards the dock their boat had come in to. Pieces of parchment fluttered behind him and fell to the ground.
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
