Disclaimer: Magi The Labyrinth of Magic belongs to Shinobu Ohtaka.
PORTRAIT
Crimson are their robes, crimson is their hair; a painter has come to blend them into a single dawning red.
"What's going on?" Kouha asks the approaching courtier. From behind him, another redhead bobs up in surprise. Kougyoku half glances up, half hides from view, careful not to let go of the silky locks in her fingers. Her brother has invited her to braid his hair for the first time, and she is very, very careful to get the pattern right.
The messenger clears his throat. "His Majesty the Emperor summons you to the palace."
"The Emperor does? Why?" the third prince inquires with an air of nonchalance.
"As you may have heard, His Majesty has commissioned a portrait of his children-" his gaze settles on Kougyoku, who takes cover behind her shorter sibling, "All of them. Master Orochi has just arrived at the capital. By order of His Imperial Highness, all princes and princesses of his lineage of shall appear in the royal hall an hour hence."
With a bow, the man is gone. The maids descend upon the almost twins and whisk them away to be drowned in so many layers of soap, bath oils, and robes.
Kougyoku latches onto raspberry strands like a safe haven, suddenly scared at the thought of meeting her other siblings. But the maids pry away her fingers and drag her along, leaving the unraveling braid to dangle behind Kouha's back.
It was the first time her brother let her style his hair, and she never got to finish.
The hallway that leads to the throne room is very, very long. Too long for tiny shoes, new and stiff, that cramp her feet like everything else. Her nervous shuffling can't match the dainty rhythm that sings from her sisters' feet. Instead she stretches her legs to match Kouen's dignified stride.
She might as well have tried walking on stilts. What is graceful on him looks ungainly on her. His footsteps are too big.
Whatever she does, she is not her sisters and she she is not her brothers. They are blazing suns; she is simply a girl buried under robes that pool around her feet too much.
Don't trip. Don't trip. Don't trip.
Alas! Her foot catches on the hem of the fabric, sending her crashing into her sister's shoulder.
Kouhana halts to rub her offended shoulder with a hiss. Her eyes speak murder, but not a single word leaves her lips. Kougyoku knows their code. Don't speak to the concubine's daughter.
An attendant clears his throat, urging them onward. Three pairs of guards stand guard over the golden phoenix and dragon emblems on the final pair of doors. They open, at last, for the Emperor's hard gaze to suck them into an illusion of sun. The siblings file in, with Kougyoku at the end of the line. Her feet have grown stiff, the room seems so cold, and all she wants is to trade places with the wind outside.
"Presenting crown prince Ren Kouen, second prince Ren Koumei, third prince Ren Kouha, and the seven princesses: Koutsuki, Koueri, Kounami, Kouhana, Kouka, Kourin, and Kougyoku."
"Greetings, Your Majesty the Emperor." They bow in unison. Kougyoku takes a deep, calming breath, and stops wishing Ka Koubun were here to reassure her. For now, his words will have to do.
Never let them see you panic. Prove to the emperor that you are a princess worthy of your title. I know you will make me proud!
It's those words she clings to as their father's voice booms down the hall. "My brother, the late emperor, had a portrait taken of his family a year before he passed away. Now is our turn."
He returns to his seat, apparently pleased by their lack of response.
Kouha sticks his tongue out.
"Why is that girl even in the picture?"
The cruel remark cuts through the air, the culprit unnoticed behind red waves of hair and cloth. It could have been Koutsuki. Kougyoku's so-called sisters' voices are unfamiliar.
Ten siblings are in the royal gardens, seated in two rows side by side, and smiling for dear life. The artist, clothed in plum and dandelion and an unrelenting scowl, gives a nod and begins to work under mottled blue sky.
All goes well for half an hour.
Half an hour is not enough to finish a painting.
"Awwwwwww!"
A swash of crimson ripples to the left at the sound of Kourin's pained scream.
"It bit me! It bit me!" the poor girl wails, referring to a parade of red ants plaguing her skirts. The trail up her sleeves reveals stolen sweets that look suspiciously similar to Hakuei's missing sweetbread.
Everyone unfreezes. For minutes, all that can be heard are squeals and the sound of feet stomping or beating cloth.
"Your Highnesses, please!" For all his talents, the artist has lost his patience. His masterpiece in the making is in danger of being ruined, and he isn't pleased.
They settle down, but now Koueri and Kounami have switched places. Kourin's teary face is a wrinkle short of a grimace.
The stroke of brush on canvas calms them down, but not for long. Quarter of a sundial notch later, something drops on Kougyoku's sleeve. Like a raindrop...or drool...from a half-asleep Koumei.
"Ewwwww!" says Kouha, too young and too crazy to restrain himself.
Kouen knocks his brother awake.
"Both of you, behave. That is our duty," he commands, effectively cutting off their protests.
Another half hour passes without further disruptions. Until a certain magi decides to disturb the peace, sporting a yellow boa around his neck. He seems extremely distressed by the arrangement, yet too scared to get rid of his unusual ornament.
The ever-mischievous Kouha breaks into a grin, wider than she thought humanly possible. Judal glares at him, but remains frozen because the snake has decided it likes slithering down his left arm. Kouha sticks his tongue out and is promptly reprimanded by Kouen.
"Stop it. That's improper, undignified, disgraceful conduct for a prince."
The younger boy's expression sours. And the snake keeps moving, inch by scaly inch.
"Judal-chan, are you okay?"
"Why is the oracle shaking so badly?" remarks Koumei, who has given up on his midday nap.
"BECAUSE!"
The tremble of Judal's fingers is obvious now, but no one helps the poor magi. His eyes are wide with very visible, and very real terror, Kougyoku notices. Any second now...
"Thag Al-"
The tip of the serpent's head disappears into folds of cloth. Judal pales tenfold and goes completely still.
"Judal-chan..." she calls out, alarmed by the blankness overtaking his eyes.
He jerks.
Light shoots out from his wand, zapping canvas and blades of grass into nothingness.
What remains is an inch-deep crater on bare ground.
The easel is gone.
The paintbrush survived.
The artist ran away.
It takes a whole year before they decide to have a repeat of this experience, and even then they call themselves extremely lucky to succeed.
13 years later...
Red and black, three paintings hang side by side to tell the tale of the dead or the forgotten. By now, a war has come and gone, defining her life by before and after. Ruby and obsidian are the last colors she sees before the ringing in her ears takes over the battlefield, and the first to greet her when she regains consciousness, in the form of bleeding head wounds and thick smoke from funeral pyres. Death has stolen the two people dearest to her, and isn't longer before she loses everything else.
Kouha and Kouen, do any of their soldiers remember? There's Hakuei and Hakuryuu, lost to them. Then the picture of Judal, and not quite him. For Kou may span a hundred suns but could never encompass the entirety of this black-loving magi. Even now, he is a stranger.
Where are you now, Judal-chan? Everybody's everywhere else, and all I can do is wonder.
"Something bothers you, Your Majesty."
The owner of the voice is both familiar and a stranger. His hair has been cut short and the bulge of his muscles are a welcome improvement, but the absence of the scent of sweat on metal reminds her that he can't be Kouen.
Kougyoku sighs. "Please don't address me so formally, Koumei onii-sama."
"It's only fitting. You are the empress."
Only because of circumstances. Only because all of you were gone.
That brings back memories of a bitter three years of shadows gone missing. Roughened handholds of sepia doors testify to too many nights being opened to imaginary voices. If it weren't for the help of her dearest friend, she'd still be stuck in a thicket of blank space. Now only gray whispers haunt her waking hours - still echoing nevertheless.
"Alibaba-chan should have arrived in Balbadd by now," she says.
Koumei's droopy eyes flicker with regret. Whether the mention of Alibaba's name reminds him of something, or he's sorry for the enslaving policies he had implemented, she isn't sure. When he speaks, his tone is somber with experience. "That place must be very different from the country he once called home."
Her brother has gone through a lot.
From what she's heard, exile has tamed Kouha and stolen Kouen's youthful vigor. She herself has cried a hundred tears too many.
But there's a picture where everyone looks happy. Their smiles may have been stretched too wide, their eyes may have been seething with irritation towards the artist for taking way too long, but for all its flaws, it's their story, once upon a forgotten time.
They've come a long way since then. These days, Kougyoku's more than just a bubble of noise ignored by the world. And the sum of Koumei's scars is greater than the huge mark on his chest. Back then, they didn't know a tiny island nation called Sindria would be their downfall. Back then, there were no metal vessels, no civil wars that tore your family apart and left you to suffocate in the cracks. And no crappy political marriages for the sake of international treaties.
"Your Majesty, an emissary from Reim requests your presence."
Koumei dismisses the servant with a wave of his hand. "We shall be there shortly."
"Empress? Shall we go?" With one hand, he raises his fan to hide his face a little more. With the other, he motions to the open door. He hides his anxiety well. That's something she has to work on so the next time Alibaba comes by he won't find a fountain on the floor. Maybe he can teach her sometime.
Kougyoku smiles. She's not Kouen, but he treats her with the same respect he always displayed towards his older brother. Likewise, this brother standing by her side may not be Kouen, but he's no less worthy of her adoration.
The two siblings prepare to walk out the door and into whatever awaits them outside.
Outside is a view of marigold streaking across lilac on the loom of the heavens, rising above butter-embossed hills and the cinnamon haze of her cities. But this cramped, semi-lit room holds a sight far more precious.
It's her brother Koumei, really and truly here. Not Kouen, not Kouha, but here, armed with a promise not to abandon her. In the flickering glow, in the whirlpool of shadows, his form is more solid than three years of fossilized self-loathing. With it comes the reassurance she needs to be empress yet another day.
She takes a deep breath.
Don't trip. Don't trip.
Her brothers' younger faces are the last thing she sees before the doors close and the brilliant scarlet of Judal is swallowed by candlelit hallways.
Life has taught her other colors. Blue forgiveness, in the form of a travelling magician boy. Violet hate for a man she calls monster, yellow hope of daisy centers - but she will always be searching the horizon for where midnight and sunrise collide.
Until then, she waits.
A/N: For those who may wonder, these portraits are the same ones Alibaba peruses in my other fic These Broken Roads.