Nekeeta, Nekeeta…I haven't written anything for you in so long…
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Whose the fairest kitty of them all?
Slender, a windpipe blown in from china, the pink sand bristles in upwards thrusts. She is as much a daughter of the jungle as her brother is a soldier with a spear and sense of pride. Pride that breaks barriers. It cuts and whooshes through solid oppression.
She breathes. And hears the single jigger of a silver minor; her people are sharpening their knives on reeds and stones. War is always coming. They can smell it.
Her eyes narrow and ears flick back. Porcelain set in rock, beauty damasked by cunning rage as it grips and twists facial muscles. She is a ripple, ever caught between emotion number one and instinct number two. They swirl, switch and mix…but she will not run, bound with limbs outstretched into the primitive jaunt of the lonely. She has things to lose.
She will not run. It is not her. And besides, she loves the memories.
Her throat twitches, exotic scent of wildflower and hard-backed leaves stirring at her bosom. Her robe is stained with the same trail her ancestors took, clawed hands scrabbling against fear and death. It is a rockslide that has pushed her back. She must learn to leap without caution.
The green amulet nestles beneath the warmth of her bloodstream, shaped by the parched hollow of her throat. It lets out no sound but it is cold, cold…fit for a princess.
Wear your vanity round your neck.
Who? Not you dear queen.
Now the claws crawl forth and she is struck by the unsettling gleam in their moonlight-razored source. Is this what madness looks like?
For she can feel it. It is claiming the tongues of her people as they yowl out into the darkness. She watches the gold in their eyes and the flames of their bravery licking the edge of whipped pupils. It is a dance they have danced through before.
She feels a chill and reaches down to clasp her amulet. The shudder still comes, arching it's way through supple flesh and fur that has never been stroked in matrimony.
Remember, remember, the life of December…snow and raindrops that blanket the greenery and a warm, warm smile.
The claws almost scratch the surface and she gasps.
A gift, precious one. A gift from someone who cannot be brought or hailed from a collection of mud huts and sticks. It hurts to know that you do not matter.
But it is time for fighting. And he is not here, he is not here.
Her. Them. Her people.
Who then? Tell me!
Boys like girls. Pretty girls. It hurts. She has almost the same tint in her body as that girl has in her cheeks. She saw a photo. Lovely thing. Lovely, lucky thing.
But metal cannot capture the fire she has burning in her organs. She didn't look or pry but she saw that wishful expression in those eyes, she did. And she identified to the nearest thing that would make sense: envy.
That is one thing she will never have to wear in the same format. Her amulet steals her body warmth…that girl steals Chiro's.
Funny how the name stirs a nameless pit inside her. It has gone so long with a voice to hold the syllables together that she half-wondered if his hair was that exact shade, if he had only merged into a late night dream. But that name…the details rush back and she knows he is real, permanent and unique in his own brand of ink.
Tomorrow, if she is still alive, she will write him a letter. She will make promises and friendly commitments. And she will find an excuse to bring him here.
The rope has never worn thin and his visits have not frayed just yet. There is kind sentimentality and his smile does not waver when they talk nonsense. For that is all there will ever be under her planet's romantic moon and velvet sky that glances off into an arch of promises and winking potential as they talk under the stars…nonsense.
Unlike Jinmay, she is not a little girl. And this is enough.
You are as fair, as fair can be…
But there is still one fairer that I can see…
War is ugly, war is cruel. But who didn't know that? She fights because she knows she has to, body weaving, claws striking before she understands how or why or when. She blames the blood inside her, framed by his actions and need to please…it saves her life.
What are they even lunging against? Another form of tyrant? She has forgotten.
Her brother would not forget. But he still fights and she is both proud and ashamed. Oh, her teeth are numb and gnash, enclosed in bitter temperatures, and she wants the fire and the milk to coat her comforts…she wants promises that are not there for the taking.
She wants a life where she can fight for more than just territory and the spittle of her neighbours. She watches it slide over their chins, escaping into the fray and cobs of ripened corn. They shine in a opal of silver and yellow, a thin paste that echoes with light.
She has only looked in the mirror twice and cried for her scars. They mar her and the conventional role of the pretty little optimist. But she has grown. Her beauty is more taunt now, wise in it's knowing and developing grace as a performer in this huge life cycle. She doesn't understand how Jinmay can bear to iron out her scratches.
That doesn't stop her from sleeping with the scent of catnip tucked under her pillow though. A long time tradition that her brother snuck in fresh from the mildew.
I see you, my pretty one…
It is only the rustle that saves her. These creatures are unused to the ground frame by wide panels on nature. They prefer edges of concrete, made to match and fit.
She spins and tears. The blackness sticks to her paws and she snarls with a pitifulness from her kitten hood. Then eyes widen as the monster reforms - she did not strike properly, not as he taught her too.
Paws frozen together in a blend of dark soup - it blocks out the moonlight and leaves her staring into fear. She cannot even view her reflection or taste the failure. She is numb and does not want to think past this point. And so she does not cover, even when the claws ache up into the sky that has pushed her into kissing a boy who pulled the stars down with him.
Down…
He ran away.
Down…
He stared and ran away. And she did nothing.
Closer…
Why?
Closer…
No time to brace.
Then a whip of ebony streaked green and the figure trembles and is strewn into a collision of trees and whittled bark. She gasps at him, watching his pants roll off his chest as he holds a grimy leaf, pointed a the end and welded like a rapier.
He smiles uncertainly.
"Your planet's leaves…they make good umbrellas you know."
She is startled more so when he whips it round suddenly to splatter against an incoming hail of blackness. He grins and waves at other colours emerging into the night and she knows they are safe.
He turns and stares, eyes trailing over her slight lines of tiredness and pink, washed away and down by grime and mud. They hover on the green stone, colour of the envy she holds. He took care to make sure it had nothing to do with the tone of Jinmay's eyes.
"You kept it then?"
She nods.
"It's…very nice. It comforts me. I haven't taken it off since I got it with your last letter. It was very thoughtful of you. Thank you."
She bows and he looks pained; her appreciation always strikes him. He does not feel noble.
We cannot see ourselves as others do. We embrace the limelight as an alternative to the spots they drag us into to glare us with praise. He is always glazed by hers. It is milky-white.
"You don't have to do that."
She looks confused.
"Yes I do. Please don't ask me to honour you any less."
He coughs, a sputter against the wind.
"It was first-class."
She smiles secretively.
"It is alright Chiro. I understand."
He shakes his head.
"No it isn't."
There is a brief silence, a lull before the victory. She can hear the whirl of metal and the gleam of oil. It is heavy, musks the oxygen and stabilises reality.
It is raining formless.
He smiles hopefully.
"Wanna take cover?"
It is more than that but he still raises the dripping leaf above his head, letting it conform into a shaky platform that bristles in the crisp atmosphere. It is more closely related to Mother Nature and all her workings after all.
Her eyes raise to the roof he is offering: stability, comfort, a house. All the things she dreamed of in kittenhood…all the things her mother told her to marry for.
She squeals and dives forward and his face is lost in the bristles of her tongue. She is just as enthusiastic as the day they met. He laughs and does not notice how the sunrise paints the sky with a new beginning or how the soldiers gingerly creep away from the miracles that have seen in the reds and golds. He does not care.
There is only her, the leaf and their promise.
He doesn't forget. He tells her she is pretty, pretty, soft, gentle, graceful…and 'beautiful' is on the tip of the list. It rolls through his vocal cords, unused and new to the world. It has never been said to anyone else before.
And as it petters out, she grasps him all the more tightly. And tells him, tells him all her promises and hopes painted out in the sky above the umbrella. The leaf seals them off with finality. It is going to happen.
And there is only him, the promises, her beauty and the umbrella. And it stretches, stretches…and then there is tenderness and rain.
Mirror, mirror, on my wall.
I'm the fairest one of all.
For those of you confused, an umbrella is a traditional Japanese symbol or concept for romance. A couple depicted sharing an umbrella is seen as being in love. In this case, the umbrella is a leaf so yeeeeah…
I have only two words to say now: Snow. White.