Butterfly
of day
It transforms in the moonlight
Pale maiden of war
- S. Hikaru, 113th Clan Head
Blade of Grass
Her name is Kazuhi. She is quiet like calm water, but as flexible as a blade of grass that bends under the wind. She likes the decorum of the tea ceremony, the soft hiss of the whisk as the green brew is prepared, and the way her brother's eyes gentle distantly although his body is close.
Kazuhi is sixteen years old. She is wise enough to know the intricate weavings between a million mechanical parts that will work together and bring a metal warrior to life. She is wiser still in knowing how to care and repair each of them, although, sometimes, she rather be able to heal her brother's broken arm, but the nature of living things are still beyond her. She is old enough to know this, but young enough to believe that the knowledge will not be beyond her for much longer.
"Kazuhi."
His voice startles her. Yu's hand shakes with effort as he steadies the bowl before her. The other arm is kept close to his body. She thinks it would be better if he had agreed to the cast, instead of the makeshift bandages, but she keeps this to herself and accepts the offered drink with downcast eyes. Her fingers brush his accidentally, and he starts, but she pretends not to notice.
She is sixteen years old, and her brother is her idol.
Kazuhi senses her brother settling on the mat. He moves in such a way so that he can tuck the folds of his yukata without the use of hands, with only the smooth motions of his body. Other things are tucked away, dark flitting things that look bright and gleam against the sable of his eyes, framed beneath a fringe of ebony hair. When Yu looks up again, his gaze is no longer gentle, but flat and determined.
"Nii-sama," she whispers, in a tone reverent and hushed. Kazuhi offers the bowl, and he takes it with his good hand, and drinks. At last, the ceramic falls with a heavy thud against the floor; it does not crack, but Yu's face does.
There is a moment of intensity. A moment of hurt.
Yu winces and shelters his arm, and Kazuhi moves behind him to rest a slim hand on his shoulder.
"I have to be stronger," he whispers.
"You will be," she says.
"There are people left. People to save from Victim," he labors to continue.
"Yes there are," she says.
"You can't bring back ghosts. Revenge is a petty motive," he intones, struggling for self-hypnosis. She stays silent, and he speaks once again, "There's no one left, Kazuhi." He fails and half-sobs, broken.
At last, she can truly speak, so the gathered words spill in a flood. "But there's you and me. We are the last of the Hikura clan, but we will carry on its legacy. We will be honorable and protect those who need protection, just as you have sheltered me, Nii-sama," she says, gaze earnest and affectionate.
"Yes, Kazuhi. I'll protect you." His voice is rough, but he lifts a hand to rest it gently on the one over his shoulder. Carefully, she moves to her brother's side, a shadow finally achieving substance. She sits rigidly, because he is taller than her, but the slope of her shoulders is soft, and he leans gratefully against it.
Her name is Kazuhi Hikura. She is sixteen, likes green tea, and idolizes her brother. There is only one thing she wants.
"Nii-sama. Tomorrow, teach me how to prepare the tea."
There is a fluttery movement of sleepy acquiescence…and she is happy.
Owari