A/N: you can really tell Washi hates the Hanzo situation so deeply and decidedly more than Karasu does and I wanted to explore that. A lot of this language is probably not necessarily period appropriate and is that lame? Yes. She's a literal god though. Also, kinda surprising there aren't individual tags for the sisters. I guess there was speculation for a long time on names, but they're decidedly set in stone so I've created them (if you remember the yukami days you deserve a veterans' discount)
Before Sariatu was bad, she was worse.
The problem, the one who lingers a touch longer. Lost in the music of wind or the glance of a nobleman's wife. The one with a wandering eye and a smile perhaps a touch too mischievous. The middle of three girls and the one who slips into the day with far more ease. She, who is scrutinized endlessly and yet her absence is hardly felt.
Here, she is clumsy. She laughs too loud. She ashes her pipe on cosmic silk and is unruly, unpunctual, imperfect. Imperfect as a god can be, she supposes. This is all there is, what mortals dream of. It is moreso a gilded cage than an eternal paradise. They pray to her father, and she imagines that they wouldn't if they got to know the man.
And down there, in that shithole, they like her. They like her in their own fucked up little way with her purple lips and the scars down her back. They beckon her into their villages and their beds and who is she to refuse? She sits among them and pretends to know what tea is, she laughs with them and dances among them. She charms their sisters and wives and ignores the rumors that drip into the celestial court like midnight rain.
It is not like Father will notice. What happens in the light of the sun and what becomes of his middle daughter is of little concern to him. Insolent daughters are not the most pressing of matters when you have insolent samurai to keep an eye on.
This was her life; Was, past tense, much richer and more fulfilling than what the moon has to offer.
Those days are long gone now. They are gone in the blink of an eye and in the birth of a bastard child. There is no sex, no sake, no stray cats to drown her sorrows in, only midnight feathered capes and Father's wrath, the sourness of mourning the living and the bitterness of revenge. Careless days spent on earth, substituted with the admittedly unpleasant business of pulling eyes out of sockets and performing long-unused curses on samurai.
And though she should not, she longs for it. It is her vice, and she craves it. The taste of geisha is still raw on her tongue, the scent of smoke and sheets and sweat what it surely must feel like to truly live so fresh in her mind. Beyond her reach and yet so goddamn close.
She is an excellent lover, and she knows that she is. How, possibly could she not, with millenia under her belt (and above it for that matter)? And it is surely the deepest of shames that such prowess go to waste. This vice, it is substituted with the twisted virtue of slaying in the night and being home before sun-up or else.
So instead, she will sit amongst the stars and shudder at the thought of it, the memory of skin on her skin and breathing beneath her. The thought of her mouth between legs again, it is enough to destroy her. Destroy what is left of her. The husk of a goddess and the rage of a warrior clothed in spite.
She has ruined him, and she will ruin her for what she has stolen from her. For happiness drowned in a decade of tears. She is not supposed to cry, and she knows this. But it is the only way left that she can defy her father and not suffer the fate of her sister.
It will be her life again, even if it will destroy her.