"Oh, do tell, Honda-san," the lady Shonagon called from behind the screen.
Japan could hear her eager curiosity, but only through long friendship; to the others, he was sure that it came across as polite interest. He knelt politely outside of her quarters, not entirely sure whom he was addressing on the other side of the screen—for a moment he hesitated, knowing that the lady was better at these court games than he had ever been. He'd been a simple fisherman for centuries; the development of court life left him unsteady, wishing for the days spent quietly on his boat.
"Have you heard of anyone who has taken up the pursuit of writing?" he asked, hoping that it would be indirect enough. He heard another laugh that he recognized—the woman nicknamed Lady Murasaki. Japan felt himself flush with embarrassment; he had read Lady Murasaki's writings himself, and suddenly his question felt too direct.
"Oh, I might have," Lady Shonagon said, hardly hiding the amusement in her voice. Lady Murasaki laughed again, and he realized that it was only the two of them in the room beyond the screen. The both of them were court ladies who served the imperial family; the lady Shonagon was in her early forties, while the lady Murasaki was in her mid-thirties. Their rivalry was well known throughout the court. "I have heard that you have thought of such pastimes as well, Honda-san."
"No, not I," Japan replied, suddenly flustered. "I merely..."
"Oh, it's all right," Lady Shonagon said, sliding the screen open slightly. Japan looked away, thoroughly embarrassed by the impropriety. "The night will fall soon. Let's go moongazing again."
Japan nodded, glancing around to be sure that they were alone before joining them in the room.
"And what might it be that brings two women such as yourselves..." Japan trailed off, swallowing as he slid the screen shut behind him. His face was surely scarlet; he looked away from the ladies, who knelt delicately across from him.
"Oh, Lady Shonagon and I are quite close," Lady Murasaki said, but Japan saw her eyes flash. "I caught her writing."
"Nothing of any import," Lady Shonagon said dismissively. "We were discussing times gone by. You who have not changed—we spoke of you, as well."
Japan looked up at that.
"Oh, I am nobody of any consequence," Japan hastened to say, but the words died in his throat. He swallowed once. "My back grows weary with age, while the two of you remain as beautiful as the day that we met."
"All things in their season," Lady Murasaki said quietly. Lady Shonagon seemed to agree, but looked loathe to admit it. She was much easier to read than Lady Murasaki, perhaps because her age granted her a few more liberties, or perhaps because Japan had known her for three decades. "In autumn, the trees swell with color, and we do not mourn the leaves that are lost."
"In autumn, the evenings are the most beautiful," Lady Shonagon said, sliding the outer door to let in the cool, evening air—the sunset burnished the autumn leaves with gold. Lady Shonagon continued in her most poetic tone, "when the glittering sun sinks close to the edge of the hills, and the crows fly back to their nests in threes and fours and twos; more charming still is a file of wild geese, like specks in the distant sky. When the sun has set, one's heart is moved by the sound of the wind and the hum of the insects."
Lady Murasaki's eyes seemed to burn.
"In winter the early mornings," she replied easily. Anger flashed in Lady Shonagon's eyes. Japan followed Lady Murasaki's gaze and spotted a single white hair on Lady Shonagon's head, near the back, where it would be easy to miss. "It is beautiful indeed when snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is white with frost; or even when there is no snow or frost, but it is simply very cold and the attendants hurry from room to room stirring up the fires and bringing charcoal, how well this fits the season's mood! But as noon approaches and the cold wears off, no one bothers to keep the braziers alight, and soon nothing remains but piles of white ashes."
The words were plainly not Lady Murasaki's; she and Lady Shonagon locked eyes for a minute, having a silent conversation that is beyond Japan's ability to interpret. He had played these court games for only a century or two, since sometime after Buddhism had reached his shores; although he had been learning from Lady Shonagon, they are not yet on the same level. Finally, they seem to come to a silent accord, and Lady Shonagon rounds on Japan.
"Do tell, Honda-san," she says again, although he is no longer sure what she wants him to tell her. "Although we would both like to age with the seasons, we wish to know the secret of the never-ending spring."
Japan looked away again. Only the Emperor knew his true identity, and he had been forbidden from revealing himself to the others of the court. But Japan knew in his heart that neither woman had more than a decade left to her; when he saw his people, he could see their lives stretch from beginning to end before him—vague enough to reassure him that nothing was set in stone, but solid enough that he wavered before them.
"Tell me," Japan said, his mouth suddenly dry as his heart pounded in his chest. "Are—" The words lodged in his throat. He remembered being a fisherman, being able to tell any and all of his people about his identity. Though the emperor claimed a long ancestry, his lineage was not nearly as long as he claimed. Japan might grow used to having an emperor in another few centuries, but not yet. Not quite.
The ladies exchanged a look of surprise. It was Lady Murasaki who prompted him.
"There are things one may not mention in polite company," she said, more directly than she ordinarily would have; it was something that should have gone without saying. "But we are old friends who known more about one another than we often admit. You may speak freely with us."
"I am Japan," Japan said quietly. Both women hid their reactions behind the sleeve of their kimono, sharing a brief glance. "It is the truth. I will exist as long as our country remains."
"When our dust has been swept away by the wind, you will remain," Lady Shonagon said, hesitating only slightly. "What a sad existence, forever losing one's friends."
Lady Murasaki looked affronted, but Lady Shonagon quickly slipped out the door to gaze up at the sky, which was quickly growing dark.
"Pay her no mind," Lady Murasaki began, but Japan shook his head.
"It is the truth," Japan said softly. He thought of the commoners and aristocrats that he had met, befriended, and outlived.
"Aware," Lady Shonagon sighed, gazing up at the moon. It was a feeling that was hard to express with true words. "Come. Sit. Let us gaze at the moon."
They knelt on the veranda, gazing up at the moon.
"This moon will exist long after we have passed away," Lady Shonagon said bluntly. When you look at this moon, think of us, and remember that once, for at least a moment in the eternity you shall endure, you shared this moon. History may well forget us, but we will remain if you take up our part after our passing."
"I do not like to think of it," Japan said, although he knew it was too direct, and his hands shook. "But I will remember this moon as surely as history will remember tales of you."
"Then I will confide in you," Lady Shonagon said, slipping back into the room for a moment. Japan looked up at the sky, watching as the stars became visible and the full moon rose into the sky. When Lady Shonagon returned, she pressed a scroll into his hands. "I store this in my pillow," Lady Shonagon said seriously, searching Japan's eyes. "Let me not vanish entirely, Honda-san. Someone must know that it exists."
"Someone other than I must know, she means to say," Lady Murasaki said, still gazing at the moon. Japan nodded slowly.
"Keep it," Lady Shonagon said. "I have finished with it. The others remain in my pillow for now."
Japan took the scroll and slid it into his sleeve, then looked back up at the moon.
"When I look at the moon, I will see your gentle faces," Japan said softly. "Thank you for this evening."
"We should compose poetry," Lady Shonagon said delightedly. Japan smiled, suddenly, then managed to hide it behind his sleeve.
"Certainly," he said, and they composed poetry under the light of the moon.
((Author's Notes:
* Aware is hard to explain. There are definitions for it if you look up mono no aware, though.
* During this period, there were many occasions for poetry jam sessions, so to speak. I would love to write something like that if I didn't fail terribly at writing poetry.))