#tmithc

You were ten, then. Back when time crawled furtively under the serveil of adagio. Back when the be all and end all were ensuring your yellow sticker workbooks were primly filled with crayon scribbles led by your hand—not hooking a finger around the trigger of a rifle.

The skies had draped itself across the horizon in the form of a perfect blue sheet, so perfectly bright and clear, mottled with cotton puff of clouds that swirled around the sun.

It was March, a period of time when war came to a pause. Diplomacy, at that time, between the Reich and the Empire was much needed for reconstruction for either countries. In Japan, the heart and sole of the walls, flowers blossomed then, able to breathe within this caesure; trees grew lush, it's folialge bush-like, rustling above as it's bark stood erect, lining up as rows across the pathway of the park, and the wind that drew by was was sweetly crisp, bringing forth the air of Spring. 

Dressed in a cream colored dress yourself, the hem fluttered around your knees as you jogged, white mary janes clomping across the granite path. Pink petals wafted around along with the bubbles blooming from children’s wands. Little cretins, all flushly cheeked and wide grins, squealing as they ran. Your hair, once primly swept back, were now disheveled from hours of play in the playground, sticking to your forehead in strands with sweat.

In your arms you clutched a bundle of books to your chest, panting. They were exambooks. On the laminated covers were red markings with a large capitalized A on each of them. Every step on the path sent a jolt to your throat. You were exhilerated, so much so that your chest swelled in the form fireworks about to launch.

And, it did.

A policeman whistled, guiding a dawdling motorcar that blocked the zebra crossing to the right parking spot. Weaving through the crossing, muttering 'excuse me's' and 'pardon's. You ducked below a man’s arms, and squeezed right out between two couples, who gasped.

It was then the cafe came into view. A dainty, teal green little thing tucked on the cornerside of the street, webbed across with black cords intervoven repeatedly, tangled from concrete power lines as dark bold stripes. Right beside the large paneled window, where the name of the establishment was printed across the surface in large curved letters, was your mother's table. 

She was donned in a silk kimono, the color of plums, smiling to herself, at the pages a book she was occupied with. A cup of coffee—expresso—at on the right hand side of her arm. Steamed swirled above the surface. Black with sugar. No milk. Just as she liked it. Calmly, she looked up as your eager little clomps approached — her little girl, eyes wide and sparkling, with a grin that held her entire universe. 

You finished school, it seemed.

"Yuki," She said, closing the book and setting it aside. Yuki, snow. A teasing moniker she often referred to you, Snow, because she birthed you during winter. When the war was at it's peak, and she was wailing because you were so, so cold in her arms,. A block of ice to against her already frigid heart. Everyone, the nurses and including your brother and father had huddled close to transfer enough warmth to keep your pulse beating. 

A drop of snow amongst a field of grass.

And since then—Snow. Your mother's birth. Your mother’s winter. Dawn of eve.

"Mama!" You said breathlessly, almost running into the table. 

She stopped you in time, her hands gentle on the knobs of your shoulders, “Easy, now sweetheart.”

"I did it!" You bounced on your heels, pushing against her palms, “I finally did it!”

The afternoon inception was not without it's usual clamor. The tongs of bells sounded from moving stalls, keen for customers. Wagons bustling with cardboards and scraps creaked, hauled upon pavements, continuining forth its lumber. Business men and students alike, pooled out from their respective gates, chattering away. Some young women sauntered to nearby stalls—elbows around each other, giggling—for hasty lunches, eager to return to their studies; some young men lounged on the steps of the school, laughing over the rim of their books.

A cycle passed, the bell tinkling.

She raised her eyebrows, "Oh? What did you do?"'

"Passed the exams!" You stumbled over your words, rambling off fervently, "In literature, and—and mathematics, and geography. I did it all in one go, the teacher said it was difficult but I did it anyways— in one minute, and after I rushed out and—"

"Deep breathes, honey,” She spoke, “Deep breathes.”

You opened your mouth, eager to elaborate, but you learned it was not proper to speak over elders. So, instead you said, "Okay, Mama," and scrambled on to seat on the chair adjacent to your mother.

She gathered the books from your arms and laid it on the table."I knew you were a smart apple," She said, caressing your hair, tucking one sticky strand over your ear, "Did you tell your papa yet? Noriaki would be glad to hear it."

"I want to tell you first," You wiggled in your seat, kicking your feet below— a habit she tried to discourage, but your knee did not like being still. Not at all. And so it goes in fluttering kicks. "Does that mean he gets to stay?" You looked up to her, eyes wide.

The hand on your head paused, Michiko regarded your gaze, slightly taken off-kilter by the sudden question. Each word spoken out of your mouth was strange. She recovered herself gracefully, saying slowly,"What do you mean, honey?"

"Noriaki," Your eagerness was palpable, "The— the empire said, said they won't take away people who study good. I study good. I get all A’s. The emperor is happy—and, if he is does that mean they wont take brother away?”

The empire declared any indiciduals with exemplary behavior in their studues were exempt from conscription—and then, were considered for intelligence. This proposition were mainly for older men, and rich young scholars who could not, or did not, want to physically serve. Noriaki was fit, young—a royal of all person. Deploying him to the army was a simple case of boosting morale. They had to. If a prince served alongside his men to the frontlines, then why couldn’t they?

She stilled, processing what you've said for a moment. And then, a wistful expression swept over.You didn’t understand, not when you were looking up to her with such guileless hope that destroying it, melting the paunchof snow you’d hold up to her, would make her wilt. So, instead, she said, "Yes. They won't take him away,” after a moment, she added cautiously, “But what happens if they do? Sometimes, the empire doesn’t listen sweetheart."

You blinked, confused, “Why not.”

“Well, if you look at it this way, can you tell me why you don’t listen to me, sometimes?”

“Because,” You said, “Because sweets are too good not to eat.”

“And like them, they also like good things.”

You puckered your lips and your face crumpled so adorably into that of a defiant child, "Then I wont let them." You firmed, tightening your little fists, "I'll hide Noriaki in my bed."

She smiled, the stinging tears drying away, "In your bed?"

"Under," You nodded, so sagely for someone chubby with baby cheeks and fat, "I'll hide him there."

"But your bed is small, how will he fit?"

You thought for a hard moment, your brows furrowed. then you look back up, said flatly, "Then he needs to stop eating so much."

Michiko laughed, a warm hurtle of breaths in her chest, and hauled her daughter into her arms. You went along with a squeal and wrapped your little arms around her neck. She held you close, her cheek on the crown of your forehead—inhaling the sweet scent of her daughter, strawberries and sweat. 

In the hearth, as the fire kindles low, Michiko was willing to hold the clasp of snow to her chest, away from the licks of the fire. If that was what kept you close to her heart, then she would burn first.

"I know you can do it," She whispered, "I know you can do anything, my little snow."

And from a distance the petal disentangles itself from a cloak of pink, and slowly, slowly drowns. Michiko hugs her daughter a little tighter. 

.

THROUGH THE windows, several miles beyond the Royal Tagomi estate and several more, trailing through a mudpath that meandered towards an enclosed forest—was the Hayashi Cottage. A typical wartime cottage, it huddled snugly between brambled bushes and was harbored under the shadeful canopies of trees.

Glints of the sun’s rays blistered through the crack of the rustling leaves, allowing the sparkles to move.On the soil, right beside the post, a pail stuck out at an angle, shrouded with vines and moss that weaved over one another, sinking it into the loam. 

The cottage itself was well groomed: gardeners kept the grass trimmed and the flowers blooming; and the interior, managed by the cleaners, ensured it was swept of dirt, mopped and dried—even when the floorboards were not often entertained with footsteps and the gleam of the overhead bulb, alight. They cleaned often in the weekends, which meant on the weekdays, it was vacant. 

There was no life, and yet—there was so much.

Within this silent stillness, Kotomichi knocked his heel against the door, slamming it open. The interior was alighted bright by the sun. The potent smell of birch wood shrouded your nose. You were slung on his side as he held you—an arm around your waist, guiding you to limp, the carpet soft under your boots. The hallway led to the living room, an oval space with two windows bolstered on the walls behind the sofa. 

You were not heavy, but with pain, you curled into yourself, and it took quite a while to to haul you across the rug. He laid you on the cushions. Wincing in pain, you caught sight of the old wartime radio—your father often listened to—on the table.

Usually, during silent nights he would. Tuning it mellow, the sound of jazz swirled from the speakers and you would sleep to it, snoring softly with your head in his lap. And he would smile. It has been there for years, when fingers first toggled the antennas to now, collecting dust on the surface.

You closed your eyes. 

Picture frames littered the walls. You made the cleaners turn it around. What use are they if the dwellers weren’t present? Straing through the eyes that belong to those who no longer walked this world You tried to keep your eyes drifting to a minmium. If you weren’t careful, the memories will come rushing back like unspooled threads around a knob.

So, deliriously, you kept it to the ceiling instead, focusing on the searing pain in your torso, your arms—your entire body. The pain felt like an ache in your chest.

Kotomichi laid your hat on the rug, along with your rifle, then he disappeared to the other rooms. For a moment you panicked, wondering if he truly left— then, it came to you, in muddled thoughts, that there was no use leaving you here. He was your mentor, wasn’t he?

You heard his footsteps padding around the floorboards. Surely to ensure they were the only ones here. Several minutes later, he returned to the living room and drew the curtains close, not fully— enough for a sliver of sunray to light the room aglow. He then knelt before the cabinet near the hearth. He pulled the drawer and plucked out a box. 

The first aid kit.

“Any bleeding, denka?” He knelt before you.

“I—” You shook your head, panting, feeling a cold chill up your spine “No—no, I don’t know. But i think my leg—it— burns.”

“Ah,” He looked down. It was difficult to tell, at least at first, from a glance. On closer inspection the crusted fabric smelt of iron. You were bleeding.

“I will have to touch you, denka,” He said.

“You have my permission.”

He slipped on his gloves. With a shear, he carefully snipped around the scabbed fabric, slowly peeling it off. You felt every sting. The cloth was crusted to your wound, after all. Eventually, when he drew the fabric aside, it revealed an bloody gash across your calf. 

“How does it look?” You kept your eyes to the ceiling, a little hesitant to look down. You were nearing the edge of unconciousness again, and perhaps, if you did swivel—that just might be the last addition.

“You were reckless, your highness,” Even in times of admonishment he sounded gentle. He uncapped the alcohol bottle and poured some onto a white cloth. “Reckless than usual.”

Of course you were. You were almost caught by the Kempeitai and you were in the temporary custody of an underground rebel, having to escape through the window and manuever grimey alleyways. How he found you was a means beyond your ability. Kotomichi found you slumped against the wall behind the dumpster, swept you in the motorcar before any patrol stumbled upon them. 

Reckless was a deserving referral.

“He will not compromise my position,” You said quietly.

“Under his terms, yes?” He gently dabbed your calf. You gritted your teeth, steeling in the painful sound through your molars.

Money isn’t so diffult to accumulate with your position. The only problem is where you’ll be aquiring them. As of now, the blackmarket is currently scrutinized by the Kempeitai.

“He is fighting for his place as much as i am fighting for mine,” You closed your eyes, vision swimming from the peircing pain, “As long as he is fighting, then he will not be idle enough to interfere.”

You have never encountered his community—which you assumed would be the Resistance—firsthand. And, perhaps, you've already had gotten a glimpse of their character through his own. Well-meaning, at times brash, but honest. However uncouth, even when the cause he fought wasn’t yours, you will always respect and admire those who act. Words will never have meaning. Silence maintained conformity. Violence, you believed, will always be the gear for change, the sole reason why you agreed to his proposal for arms. If there were many more causing revolts across the city—how else would the empire deal with them, if not to draw their soldiers from the frontlines to maintain peace? 

“Putting your trust in Wyatt Price and his organization will be something i will not implore you to do or the fact otherwise,” He said, “It is yours. I am simply the medium who will guide your decisions.”

You glanced to the rifle, Wyatt’s words echoing in your head, 

“Would they not find out it is you, sensei?” You leaned forward, concerned, “As we speak, the Kempeitai are going through the records of the battalion, those who survived—they will locate their housings, Kotomichi. And then they will find you.”

And when they do, you will protect him just as he did, to you.

“Then they will find a dead man,” He said.

You frowned, confused, “And what of the man that isn’t?”

Kotomichi looked up and smiled, “He goes by a different name, now doesn’t he?”

It took you a moment, your eyes scanning his own, “Kotomichi isn’t your name?” You asked, quietly,

“It is my grandfather’s,” He said, “My real name is gone. I have a new life, now, and i will live by this name. No matter how sparse it meant to me.”

You glanced to your lap, thinking about his family—the two sons and his wife he lost in the war,“You should not have to forgo the name your parents gave you. It was a name your wife called you by.”

“She would be glad to know i am alive,” He smiled. “It is my choice, denka. And it is your choice as well, to proceed as how you usually would.”

“I am proceeding just fine,” You said, a little defensively.

“Then realize your rebellion in this other life will be consequential,” He said, looking up, “You may revolt however you like in this suit, wearing a hat with your scarf around your face. But remember, when you are a Princess—you may be previleged enough to not suffer the usual consequences, but when the future draws near…”

“I cannot be desentisized, Kotomichi.” You said quietly.

“Even if you cannot bear to see those who lay their heart for the wrong cause,” He bandaged the cloth around your leg, “at least know that everyone is implicated in the war, even if you refused the Empire’s embrace. Sometimes, they simply desire the illusion of a normal life because it provided them so.”

“Then what about those people who died?” You said desperately, “Dont they want to live as well? An illusion where the ordinary was normal? Wives, husbands, children— don’t you think they want it as well?”

Hina would. Hina would want a simple stroll in the park donning that pretty yellow dress much too overbearing for their waller, the hem fluttering around her ankles as she walked. She had wanted to open a shop to support her artistry—she loved painting. But the war thinned our their savings and despite her amibitions, above it all, she loved him. So she applied to work at the garment factory as a seamstress. The first day she went to work was the day the shelling began.

“Yes,” He said quietly, “Yes, they do.”

Then, the doors of the cottage bursted open, startling you. You were too slow to register the assesment of the disturbance but Kotomichi did, holding up a hand just as you reached for your rifle. It was Yukiko—your personal attendant—who fluttered in. She had ran here, this girl, panting, her cheeks flushed and hair askew. In her arms were peach colored silks. A kimono, ones you recognized that are only used for formal occasions. When a high ranking guest would visit.

“Tagomi-sama is proceeding with the marriage, denka!” She cried, “Obersgrüppenfuherer and Chief Inspector Kido is currenly at the estate!”