The flute had been with her from the very beginning. Just like how she was once innocent, it was once pristine, not lined with cracks like now—courtesy of having been brought into the heat of many battles.
Shoukaku could still recall her past self, learning note by note and enduring ridicule from her elders until she could finally produce a coherent melody. In a way, with her sister around to listen and to encourage her to keep playing, it was an escape from the world around her. She certainly preferred it more than having to hear the blistering rants of high-strung commanders and delusional doctrines, more than having to figure out where to swing her sword to end someone's life or using it to prevent the same fate from befalling her.
Such was the monotony of her young life—very much unlike the many musical variations she could come up with.
Then came the war. And it continued to rage for years. Their enemies seemed to be unlimited in number, and theirs kept dwindling. But they fought on, fearing no death.
That was when her music became a sorrowful cry that she could not otherwise show. A sendoff for those who had no illusion they would return—those who would scatter like withered flowers, yet unsung.
One that she would eventually play for herself and her sister.
She already did for the latter. Shoukaku didn't know when her turn would come. Knowing her sister, though, she would most likely tell her not to join her just yet.
And now she would certainly agree.
Around her, the bush warblers had begun singing their distinct song, telling people of the arrival of spring, staying out of sight as they did. It had been too long since she last heard it, and she had forgotten how hopeful it was. Now she remembered.
Another gust blew past her again, bringing more stray petals from places unknown.
Some said the cherry blossom petals were the souls of fallen warriors. If that were true, she mused, then they were now free. They were jubilant.
Shoukaku raised the flute toward her lips. As broken as it was, she was confident it could still produce a tune. Nobody should be celebrating without musical accompaniment, and for the first time in years, she found the inspiration for new music.
But this will no longer be her sorrow. It will be her hope, and just like the kind bush warblers who freely sing unseen, she will let the wind carry it to the fallen and the people of this land she so loved.