Chapter Text
A few weeks into spring, one early morning, you step outside and realize you no longer need a shawl.
The sharp chill has lessened, and your eyes slip shut as sunshine warms your cheeks. The last pinks and reds making up the sunrise have faded to a bright blue. Sweet cherry blossom tickles your nose, and the serenity of the moment brings the lingering desire to crawl back to bed full force.
Sleepy eyes pop wide open.
You are so fucking late.
“Don’t you have an important meeting this morning?” Your head snaps to the right, where your father sits on a stone bench, smiling softly. He raises a brow, hands braced atop his wooden cane.
You smile sheepishly. “With the matchmaker,” you confirm. “Although, it’s more of an appointment to sign my life away.”
Your father laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “You’re an hour late already. Go. Before your mother has my head for keeping you any longer.”
“Quiet, composed, graceful,” you mutter, staring at the cheat sheet sprawled along your forearm. Notes on how to be “the perfect wife.” You roll your eyes, leaping down both steps leading from the porch to the ground.
“Polite, delicate, refined,” your father continues, tone teasing and light.
You grin. “And poised!” You pick up the pace as you stride towards the wooden front gates.
He raises his voice to be heard. “What are you forgetting?”
“Punctual!” You call over your shoulder, raising your hand in imitation of a lazy wave.
Surprisingly, your small village is already bustling this morning. You pass by a mother scolding her daughter, telling her not to play in the mud because “it isn’t ladylike,” and the words make it seem as if a hand has reached into your chest and squeezed your heart.
Your own mother’s, and grandmother’s, voices ring in your head. They promise that if you marry into a respectable family, if you play the part of a dutiful and loving wife, it’ll bring the highest honor to your own.
That it will honor your father and the sacrifices he’s made.
A rush of guilt surges, crashing like the waves of an ocean storm with the bitterness in your heart, culminating as one large knot in your throat. The world awaiting you, the one expecting you to pop out children— as if your life means nothing otherwise, is the same world your father risked his life to keep intact.
It’s an unbearable fate. One that sits heavy like stone on your shoulders.
When you spot your mother, her arms are crossed. Her lightly wrinkled face twists in exasperation once she notices you. She’s tapping her foot.
She only taps her foot when she’s angry.
“Where have you been?” She whisper shouts, gripping your sleeve and yanking. “Now we only have 15 minutes to make you presentable for the matchmaker!”
“I’m sorry!” You stumble as she tugs you forward, leading you to where her helpers are waiting. “Mother! Ow!” You complain, a bit over exaggerated, as your big toe hits a rock and pain splinters up your shin.
Once inside the building you’re freed. Your mother spins to face you, shaking her head. It’s quiet for a moment as she gathers herself. She closes her eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath, and lets her lashes flutter open. “Dear,” she says tenderly, cradling your face. “You have to know your father and I only want what’s best for you. My greatest wish is for you to live a happy life. A safe life.”
“And bring honor to the family,” you mumble bitterly, leaning into the familiar warmth of her touch.
She pats your cheek fondly. “Yes. Mostly, though, your father and I want you to be happy. Please tell me you understand.”
You choose to remain silent, swallowing the words you want to lash out with. “I understand,” you say softly, resigned.
“There’s my beautiful granddaughter!” Your grandmother calls, smiling. Then she narrows her eyes and sets her hands on her hips. “You’re late.”
You share an amused look with your mother. You step around her, arms outstretched for the impending hug. “And Mother already gave me a lecture on it. So please spare me,” you tease.
She laughs and steps closer, wrapping you up tight in her arms. Soft, sweet notes of jasmine tickle your nose, reminding you of sun warmed petals. “Then I suppose that’s punishment enough.” She pulls back and squeezes your biceps, looking at you with fondness. “Come now, let’s get you dolled up.”
The bath water is lukewarm, leaning towards cool and on the path to chilly. It’s uncomfortable. Goosebumps line your arms as you complain, scowling when your grandmother jokingly scolds, “If you’d shown up on time it’d be warm.”
You’re primped and prodded to your family’s satisfaction, until you barely recognize yourself. There’s layers of makeup coating your skin, painting you into something resembling a doll. Fragile and obedient, crafted to please. An illusion meant to promise you’ll fulfill the whims of others without single complaint, that you can be twisted and molded by a man because he assumes it’s his right.
That’s the point, you suppose, to sell a version of yourself that doesn’t truly exist. To obtain the highest bidder and secure a spot at the top.
Despite this, at the very least, most of the outfit is bearable.
Corsets, however, are sent from the devil himself. Your mother tightens the last couple laces and you wheeze. You’re unable to draw in a full breath, ribs aching like an echo chamber.
“Is this really necessary?” You fidget with the corset, shoving your fingers below the hem, trying to press it away from your ribs. The stiff material gives an inch and you suck in a sharp breath.
Your mother smacks your hands. “Of course it is! Stop messing with it.”
“Men love a woman with a small waist. The smaller, the better!” Your grandmother chimes in. Your face twists with disgust and your mother rolls her eyes.
When you finally join the group of women lining up before the matchmakers, your fingers tremble with anticipation. You curl them into tight fists at your sides.
It’s just your luck to be called in first.
One of the matchmaker’s eyebrows has been singed off by the time your appointment ends. She chases you out the front door screaming, “You’ll never be a good wife because you’re hardly a woman! You bring dishonor to your family and your ancestors would be ashamed!”
Humiliation wells up hot in your chest and throat, scorching the tips of your ears. The crushed look on your mother’s face is gut wrenching. You can’t stomach it. She reaches for you but you dart past, slipping between the split crowd and running in the direction of your home. Tears well up and blur your vision, burning like hot coals as they streak down your cheeks.
Your dress sleeves are long enough to trip over, and one snags on a piece of wood sticking out near the handle of your gate. You yank until the material rips, uncaring of ruined silk.
The familiar cherry blossom aroma soothes the ache in your stomach. You drop down onto a stone bench below the nearest tree, its cool surface bleeding through your dress and onto your skin. The sob you’d been desperately keeping at bay wracks your shoulders, chest caving in around the raw sound.
Cutting off the flow of tears proves difficult. Wiping them away repeatedly, only for them to waterfall a second later. Your sleeves are absolutely soaked in tears and snot, and you’re frustrated with yourself for being so upset over this quite expected outcome.
The bench shifts as someone sits beside you, the small jolt drawing your attention. Your father is there, solid and familiar, your rock. As he’s always been. He offers a comforting smile, lifting a hand to tuck a fallen cherry blossom behind your ear.
“I assume the meeting didn’t go so well,” he says gently.
You rub your nose, wincing at the cold fabric, and shake your head from side to side. You sniffle, voice scratchy as you reply, “Not so much, no.”
“Look at me,” he urges, waiting for you to meet his gaze. His eyes shine with sympathy as he catches a stray tear with his thumb and cups your cheek. “Sometimes, the last flower to bloom is the brightest of them all, my dear.” You smile, a small and delicate thing, bringing a hand up to cover his.
Drums thunder outside the gates, mimicking the hoofbeats of an oncoming stampede. Gravel trembles near your feet, and you meet your father’s panicked look.
You both hurry to the gates, peeking through the slats to see villagers gathered around several soldiers. They’ve ridden in on horses, carrying an intimidating and demanding aura.
“Stay here,” Your father orders, opening the gate with authority.
“But father—,”
His cutting glare silences you.
Your father steps outside, past where your mother and grandmother are huddled near the entrance. Your grandmother gestures you closer.
“Citizens!” A high pitched nasally voice booms. He’s dressed differently from the others, and you assume he’s in charge. “I’m afraid I have terrible news. The country has been invaded, and I’ve come with orders from the Emperor! One man from each family must serve in the army.”
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd and your mother’s hand lands heavy on your shoulder. It’s like being dumped into an ice bath. Cold shock seizes your lungs and numbs your fingers, leaving you lightheaded.
This spells certain death for your father.
The sudden call of your family’s name cuts through the haze, and your mother’s sharp inhale rattles you. She grabs your shoulder and her knuckles go white, as if she read your mind about causing a scene. A smart move on her part, it’s the only thing anchoring you in place.
She accepts the cane from your father with her free hand.
Your father limps forward with his head held high, shoulders squared. “It would be an honor to serve my country,” he declares, stopping before the leader with an outstretched hand.
You jolt your shoulder and shake free of your mother’s grip, scrambling to your father’s side. “Father no! You can’t go!” You look to the leader, desperation written on your face. “Please sir.” Your hands shake as you speak. “My Father, he’s already fought bravely once before!”
The old man jabs an angry finger at you, a sneer marring his wrinkled, leathery face. “Silence! How dare you, a woman,” he spits. “Speak directly to me.” His disgusted gaze rounds on your father. “You’d do well to teach your daughter to hold her tongue in a man’s presence.”
Murmurs rise from the other villagers. You glance at your father, imploring him to look at you. He refuses, lowering his head in shame. “You dishonor me.”
It shakes the foundation of your admiration for him. He’s never spoken to you this way before. You pinch your tongue between your teeth, fisting the fabric of your dress. Your mother appears at your side, guiding you away with a gentle hand.
You watch, in lung crushing grief, as your father accepts his scroll. The leader instructs him to report to camp the following morning. When your father limps past you, he keeps eyes set straight ahead, features cold and hard with determination.
He disappears into the gates of your family home without a single glance spared your way.
Dinner that evening is suffocating. You barely eat, and when the tension pushes the threshold of overwhelming, you explode. You yell your protests, slamming your hands on the table in a desperate attempt to get through to your father.
It comes to a head.
“So you’ll die for honor?” You ask, voice wobbling with anger.
“I will be doing what’s right.”
“But you’ll—,”
“I know my place!” He shouts, fed up with your disrespect. Then, he lowers his voice into something deadly calm, a complete contrast to the fiery situation. “It is time you learned yours.” He leaves no room for argument, returning to his meal.
Your mother and grandmother are distraught, staring at their own meals with empty eyes. They ignore your silent pleading. The table shakes as you jump to your feet and run from the room, chest hollow as if your father had carved out the inside.
Hurt hardens into anger, blood boiling with frustration. If your father dies, there’s no one left to care for your mother and grandmother. No one to guard the home your family has lived in for generations.
You refuse to let your father walk readily into the arms of death. His life is far from over.
Yours, however? It’s only a matter of time before you’ll be giving your life away, devoted to a strange man you’ve never met. You might as well sign it over to the Emperor.
Under the cover of night, you sneak into your father’s armor room. One by one, you slide the pieces of his suit into place, a pinch of worry becoming known with how entirely it engulfs you. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before you lift your father’s sword and slice through your hair, cutting through it like butter. You tie up what remains the way most men do.
By candlelight, you stare at your reflection in the gleaming blade. Undeniably feminine, but man enough to fool a few people, especially with short hair.
Moments later, you stand by the gates with a handful of items stuffed into an old bag found in your room. Spirit, your favorite horse, stays close to your side as you sneak away from the only home you’ve ever known. You don’t allow yourself to look back until you’re certain everything’s faded to small blurry shapes in the background.
There’s a hastily written note nestled on your father’s bedside table explaining your decision.
It’s does not ask for forgiveness.