PLUMAGE
Fish princess, they call her. Little koi girl, in memory of the day she plunged headfirst into a pool of carp.
Kougyoku stares at the sunset shapes swishing idly over mossy stone. Beneath ripples and floating lily pads, scales shimmer like unreflecting mirrors burnished red and gold as she dribbles her fingers in the shallows. She likes the small ones best, those clustered together like a colony of cowrie shells. Round and round they go, perfectly content in their tiny world. The thing with fish is they never fly. It's this shared understanding of the sky's limits that draws her to them.
"Are you feeding the fish, My Lady?"
She bolts up at the ladylike voice. A waterfall of raven tresses and a musical smile fill her vision. It's the first princess, Hakuei, sister of Hakuryuu, oldest remaining child of the late Emperor. Her cousin, now stepsister. As if she didn't have enough half-siblings already.
The taller princess' gaze drifts to the ball of rice in Kougyoku's hand. She tucks it behind her, guiltily, for she has just been caught wasting breakfast, and if ever Ka Koubun finds out, he'll give her a scolding till her ears turn to roses.
"I was just...uh...um..." What to say? What to say? She'll tell, she'll tell, she'll tell!
Hakuei doesn't seem affected by her lack of decent response. "Here, let me help you," she offers, reaching for Kougyoku's hand as gently as a mother would. Or should. Kougyoku doesn't know.
She does know of Hakuei's fondness for birds. Everyday she tends to a living rainbow of parakeets that chirp the wind's secret lullabies to the inhabitants of the palace. They speak two languages, avian and human, but it's only Hakuei who seems to understands the lyrics of birdsong. It's to her they offer odes of adoration, enticed by the bright sky reflected in her eyes.
But, if Hakuei's a bird, Kougyoku's a fish. Her fins bristle at the slightest touch.
Hakuei smooths her hanfu, sits on the edge of the pool, and peers into the dark water. "Hello, little koi. You must be hungry today. Look what Princess Kougyoku brought you!" She sprinkles little bits of of food on the water's surface. A dozen hungry mouths react at once; in an instant every last piece has been gobbled up.
Hakuei charms the fish with the same grace as she does the birds. Now Kougyoku's solitary delight doesn't seem hers anymore.
She shouldn't be surprised. Her cousin has always been nearly perfect at everything. Compassionate, brave, strong as an eagle midflight, graceful as the richness of autumn's perfume. What if she could be more like Hakuei, the younger princess wonders, what if her hair mirrored the night instead, what if her distinctive strands weren't the color of koi scales?
"Look at this baby! I wonder which one is its mother," Hakuei remarks, distracting her.
Then she remembers her cousin is half an orphan, just like she is.
"Did you name them?" Hakuei asks.
"Yes, I have." It's the first time Kougyoku speaks during the entire conversation.
Hakuei listens patiently as her cousin lists names one by one, some based on colors, some on flowers, and still others decided in whatever fit of imagination she had at the moment. The exchange of words rambles on, eventually digressing into a discussion on the Kou brother's pets.
Kouha has a fierce-looking iguana he caught foraying among broken crockery in the wee hours of one morning. He hasn't killed it yet. He claims he's waiting for it to strike first.
Kouen tried falconry, and succeeded. At first he would carry it everywhere, striking fear among the court-goers. All except the bravest generals kept their distance. Thankfully, someone found the heart to admonish him. No, you don't bring birds of prey into the library. No don't expect us to act unafraid.
Somewhere along, Koumei squeezes his bony figure into their midst with a pigeon perched on the nest of reddish mahogany atop his head.
There could be bird droppings on his skull. Or eggs. It's too messy to tell. Kougyoku hopes for neither.
Hakuei is the first to react. "What a cute bird!"
"Hato."
The two princesses share a blink.
Yes, pigeon. They already know that. Young scholar eyes, feathers the color of swords, and a crest that stands out as much as Koumei's unkempt mane - features unmistakably pigeon.
"Hato," he repeats, confusing them.
"Pardon?"
"That's its name."
"Hato?" How queer. What person names his pigeon "Pigeon"?
"Hello there, Hato-chan!" greets Hakuei.
The feathered creature begins to coo, obviously pleased by the gentleness in her voice.
"Wanna say hi to Koumei-dono's bird?" the coal-haired princess suggests.
Kougyoku blinks at the bird. The bird blinks back.
"Hello, Hato."
Hakuei tries to coax it down, but the pigeon merely flaps its wings to fan dust at her, stubbornly refusing to leave its perch.
"Aw...it likes you, Koumei-dono!" exclaims Hakuei, and the smile in her voice is beautiful.
Koumei says nothing, but his cheeks appear to be pasted with apple skins. His face wasn't half as red earlier. Maybe it's the effect of the sun. But under cloud cover as gray as the pigeon's eyes? Not likely.
For now it seems her brother's unexplained reaction is another puzzle she'd best leave to Ka Koubun.
"It's a mysterious disorder," her trusted attendant explains.
"A disorder?"
"Yes. And a very common one. Some refer to it as the disease that makes men blind. Not to worry, however. The symptoms at their worst are often temporary. Your brother is in no grave danger, I assure you."
"What's it called?"
Ka Koubun stares at the ceiling quite awhile, as if he's not familiar with this sickness or its effects defy explanation. "Falling," he says at last.
"Falling?" The familiar words turn a bitter taste in her tongue. For a dreadful malady, it sounds so terrifyingly possible. "Like when I fell in with the fish last month? Is that how you catch this sickness? Is it contagious? Will I get sick, too?"
"You won't! I assure you, Princess, I shall do everything within my power to keep you in perfect health, safe from the clutches of this horrible, horrible disease!"
The next day Kougyoku passes by Koumei and Hakuei feeding pigeons. Curiosity carries her feet towards the scene.
"Princess Kougyoku! Care to join us?"
Hakuei's smile is too inviting to resist. "I'll help!"
Kougyoku slides onto a bench and helps tear the slice of loaf into crumbs. Her elder siblings chat away this time, and Koumei sits up straighter and looks more lively than she's ever seen him. Kougyoku is mostly silent save for the occasional "yes" or "no" or an over-eager nod of her head. For the span of an afternoon, amid rapid wingbeats and the incessant hovering around of dragonflies, they have found peace.
They're a strange bunch, people think. (They never say it out loud, but eyes speak louder than words.) A brother who wears acne signposts on his face, who can't think of a proper name for a pet bird, who buries himself in scrolls as indecipherable as the belly of the sea. A sister delicate and sturdy as the wind, who sings in all the colors of a colorless breeze, who loves sparrows and cockatoos and talks to everything with feathers. And she, a girl who watches fish and watches water and watches the dark.
They grow up, of course. The cycles of shadow on sundial make them a little more respected, a little less strange. And infinitely more powerful. When they come back from the dungeons with scales, wings, and talons of their own, the mystified stares of the past are finally replaced by the stunned applause of the present.
Not a single jest is heard.