Warnings: Historical AU, minor discussions of violence/gore, slow-build, slow-burn, minor character death.
Author's Note: This is a work of fiction, very, very loosely based on true historical events. However, names, characters, places and incidents have been changed to avoid offense or controversy (AKA the author AKA, me, does not want to get arrested by her government for writing anime fanfiction), and are either products of the author's imagination or elements belonging to Tite Kubo's BLEACH.
You, the reader, might recognize the cultural references, movies, and books this is based on, and if you do, that's great! If you don't, there will be an appendix at the end of each chapter to help you out! Suspension of disbelief is widely appreciated because factual inaccuracies can sometimes be dubious at best, hilariously off-base at worst. This fic contains darker themes of setting-typical violence, generational trauma, war, and flawed characters making flawed decisions that might be unsettling to certain readers. Rated 'M' for explicit content.
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Prologue
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Kazui Kurosaki was nervous.
The road to Jinzen was long and winding, a smooth path crowded in by rolling green hills and the occasional mist. He'd been driving since five that morning, stopping once for breakfast and then again to take a few pictures of the sprawling scenery and stretch his legs. The farther he drove, the higher the roads ascended, and when the first glint of golden sun began breaking through the fog, he found it hard to breathe at this altitude. It was almost like he was an interloper among the clouds.
Yet, scattered along the passing scene were idle cows, laborers that hummed along as they worked, children squealing in laughter as they cut ahead of him on their bicycles. Despite living this high up, trudging through a colonial government, a war, and the fiercest winters in the nation year round, it seemed as though the people of Jinzen's spirits were unbroken, their heads held high. At every check post, he'd spot the national flag fluttering in quiet peace, a strange feeling coming over him. Kazui found it a fitting ancestral home for a woman he once knew — a woman with a similarly indomitable spirit, and an inexhaustible kindness to boot.
His mother.
Pulling over by the edge of a steep cliff, Kazui grabbed his messenger bag and swallowed nervously — once, twice — before exiting his car and stalking up to one of the vegetable vendors that sat on the sidewalk. The air was cold, biting cold, but the man simply breathed into his woolen shawl, eyes twinkling in curiosity, first at Kazui's car, then at his clothes, and then at Kazui himself. It was obvious enough to anyone looking over that the young boy was from out of town.
"Excuse me," said Kazui politely, bowing his head to the vendor. "I'm looking for the Arisawa house?" The lady he was supposed to meet had told him the location wouldn't show on his phone and that he'd have to ask the locals themselves, which he supposed was fairly obvious. The roads from here on were narrow, and there were houses crammed into every slim edge of the hill, a beehive of activity.
"Ah." The old man peered up in interest, his accent thick as he pointed northwest to a beaten path that curved away from the rest of the houses and further down the hill. "You'd have to walk there, my boy. I doubt the road is good enough to take your car."
Kazui scratched his head, confused. "Is that safe?"
"Probably." The old man's eyes flicked to Kazui's tweed bag and then he smiled. "I could escort you there, if you want."
Kazui beamed, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket to gather a few bills for his unofficial tour guide. "Lead the way!"
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The Arisawa house was a wide and homely place, barricaded by vibrant green orchards and fences on all sides. As they trudged up the cobblestone pathway, Kazui caught the strong scent of apples in the air and was immediately flooded with a memory; himself and his mother in the kitchen, her hand warm on his head as she fed him an apple slice.
He wondered now if this place was why her eyes were fond and wistful, if this apple orchard was an important memory to her. He was hungry for knowledge of the life she'd lived, of the girl she'd been when she lived here — for that girl would go on to do many things, meet many people, change many lives. It was hard to imagine that that girl came from somewhere so...quaint. The Orihime Kurosaki he knew was a robust, buoyant woman who had a smile for every occasion — a loving mother, an affectionate wife, a kind and tender spirit that took joy from the simple things in life and ruled their world with a firm but gentle hand. He was often likened to her in his childhood, a fact that seemed to please his father and therefore, by some sort of proxy, also pleased him. Most of his memories of those days were happy; he was an only child, given unfiltered attention by two parents who loved him dearly. However, few knew that the story of his birth was far more complicated than the events that succeeded it. Hell, he was still trying to put the pieces together himself. Two broken nations, war, a political conspiracy, and somehow at the center of it all, his mother—Orihime Kurosaki née Inoue.
So much of this story was still a mystery, and somehow, he figured if that story had to begin anywhere, it would be here, in Jinzen.
"Thank you for escorting me," Kazui said, nodding at the man as he caught the sight of a woman arriving at the gate. "I hope your daughter gets better soon."
"Ah, you're too kind." The old man slapped his back. "I hope you find success with your book."
The weight of the manuscript in his messenger bag almost grew heavier, as if reminding him of the gravity this situation held to him.
"Th-thank you!" Kazui flushed, and they shook hands once more before the man began hunkering back up the hill again. Kazui's eyes followed his retreating figure, palms damp with anticipation and anxiety.
"Well, I'll be…you're the spitting image of her."
He turned on his heel, eyes widening in surprise as he came face-to-face with a woman his height, her eyes wrinkled around the corners, short hair dark with wisps of gray.
"Aunt Tatsuki," he breathed, because even though he had never met her in person before, he just knew. No further introductions seemed necessary.
"Kazui." She looked weary when she smiled, and it hit him for the first time that the look in her eyes was grief— that she wasn't looking at him, but at a mirror to the past, to a girl she once knew and had long outlived.
For once, he seemed to be at a sudden loss for words.
"Kazui...why don't you come inside?"
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Two tea cups clunked on the table in front of him.
"So," Tatsuki exhaled, sitting down across from Kazui on a mat. "Did she suffer?"
Kazui put away his phone, feeling antsy. Tatsuki Arisawa seemed like the type of person who appreciated a direct and honest answer without any of the niceties that other people in her situation might have expected. In his emails to her, he had mentioned his mother's dementia briefly — the doctor's version of it. In her last few days, Orihime had flitted in and out of consciousness, forgetting names and places, her bright eyes dimmed from rapidly fading memories. Kazui and his father knew; they had been prepared, and it was still hard to watch.
But she hadn't suffered.
"She was fairly okay," Kazui explained, fiddling with the teacup handle, thinking about his dad. "She knew it was her time. During the—in the end, I mean. I was afraid she was going to start forgetting us too, but she was stubborn like that."
"How could I ever forget you?" she'd whispered to his forehead after teasing Dad that if anything, he was more likely to forget names and faces than she was, dementia notwithstanding.
Tatsuki chuckled wryly. "That sounds like my Orihime."
Kazui smiled. They drank their tea over small talk, discussing his drive here, her retirement from the karate school she taught at, the weather. Despite her cool image, his aunt was warm and honest— the kind of person he knew his mother tended to like. In fact, it was Kazui's father who had suggested he speak to her while he was preparing the initial draft for his book, telling him how the two girls had grown up together and were close, almost like sisters, until his mother crossed the border to be wedded off to his father.
"I suppose you'll want to ask me about her," Tatsuki said eventually, crossing her arms. There was a faraway look in her eyes when they landed on a black-and-white portrait by the low table — Tatsuki with her arm around his teenaged mother in pigtails. "She wasn't a hero or anything, you know."
Kazui looked up sharply, startled at the pain in her tone.
"She wasn't." Tatsuki sighed. "She was just a kid. We played seven stones together and made fun of those stupid perverts over at the boys dormitory. She and her brother were simple, hard-working people. I know she's — what are they calling her now, 'a thorn inside a beautiful flower?' " — Tatsuki snorted and Kazui's eyes rounded in sympathy. "I know what the papers say about her. I know what she means to this country now. I know she's supposed to be some kind of beguiling war hero. But she was always just Orihime to me." She broke off with a sniff, and Kazui wasn't surprised to see her eyes watering when she met his gaze. "She was such a goddamn dumbass, and I'm so proud of her for everything she did with her life. I want you to know that. I want you to make that clear in your book."
Kazui nodded. He had talked to a very many people about his mother before this, prompted by her death to look into her life. To some, she was a friend and confidant. To others, she was a respected colleague. To a few, like his father and their loved ones, she was the very heart of their lives, an irreplaceable center that grounded them.
To most of the world at large, however, she was the spy that ended a war without firing a single bullet.
"Tell me everything you knew about her," Kazui said.
