i.
Afterwards, he tells her that they'd met before.
They were children at the time, dressed in gossamer clothes that tore easily by reckless grace.
She took his hand and ran into the garden, pulling him towards a masterpiece of green, then let go of him without his notice, and turned her attention the a nearby rosebush. Without the slightest shred of concern, she pulled free a flower and its thorn, and set upon the task of plucking the red petals apart.
She'd made him hold every single petal, and he did, because he was afraid, and he was obedient, and he didn't know what else to do but try and remember that this peculiar smiling girl could one day be queen and listen. She commanded him to wait until the sun was at its most radiant—only then could he let go, and raise his arms to the sky.
She shoved her hands on top of his, tossing the depetalled rose away from them, and together they waited with trembling palms until the moment was right.
And suddenly there was nothing but red, red petals scattering and soaring around them, lifted by the warm wind and the sound of her laughter, his.
He asks her in a quiet voice if she remembered.
Karin doesn't reply, staring out the window.
He continues, telling her that he was surprised to see her at the market—slave market, Karin adds, silently, bitterly—shackled in chains. No one had known who she was.
There had been no word of her and her family since the uprising, all of them considered dead after the fire. The rebellion had left many dead in its wake, and the world had moved on.
Yet there she stood, glowering defiantly at them all.
Absently, Karin rubs her wrists. There are sore red marks under her fingers, mistaken for angry shadows at this angle. The pressure stings her skin, the hurt burns her pride. She can still feel the metal on the hollow of her bones, the weight of rust dragging across her skin as they pulled her to the centre of display and sold to the highest bidder. It's not something that she's going to forget.
Freedom wasn't meant to be like this.
"Princess." The noble says, asking her again, softer still. "Do you remember?"
His name is Hitsugaya Toushirou.
Karin looks at him at last, taking in the colour of his eyes, the colour of his combed-back hair, the colour of shadows that sweep across of his face. There was a careful uncertainty about him when he turned the key to unlock her manacles and told her in a gruff voice that she was free and helps her into his carriage.
His name is Hitsugaya Toushirou. Did she remember him?
"No." Karin says, her voice a practised monotone, hardened by ashes and blood, fear and hate, and stares through him.
She doesn't remember him at all.