monachopsis (aka PAIN 8) )
the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
They knew, of course, they’d always known. Oh, sure, it was burried under layers of ‘oh, but they love you,’ and ‘keeping quiet is safer’ and a few of ‘shut up, and he doesn’t hit you,’ but they knew. They knew how chestnut hair looked like some sort of dying breed in Nohr, how the cold had killed them from the start, as if they were some misplaced chrysanthemum, so unused to it all that it shriveled and near died; an uprooted plant, kept in soil far away from the rest of the flowers, that’s all they were. As they got older, it could’ve become more clear, but memories are pressed behind a wall so thick, and they simply accept the lies that were silver-spoon fed to them. No matter how often they’d look themself over in the mirror, and note that their eyes were just too different, that their hair was too straight, that they were just too small to be related, they’d let it go. It wasn’t as if anyone said anything; certainly, they were just overreacting.
Kotaru wonders if they were willingly blind.
It seemed the only viable truth; they ignored all signs, like some sort of mindless doe, being lead to slaughter. They would shut their eyes and imagine it all wasn’t suspicious, didn’t question anything that seemed odd, their dreams of a land with sakura blossoms, a father smiling brightly when they took a liking to the sword, and an infant sister dutifully taken care of by a mother dearest and a little brother, following them like a lost duckling, a big sister who adored them so, but never too much; oh, and a big brother, who always seemed loving. It was all so clear when they slept, but they were hesitant to bring it up. My siblings are in Nohr, I’m just deluding myself. They called it some longing for an actual father, a mother, for ever-present siblings, for warmth, for comfort, for something, but never for a family lost.
Posing for family portraits, especially, seemed to single them out. Being still for hours at a time, seated right between Leon and Camilla, it gave them time to think, to sit and ponder. It didn’t help, of course, that the painters would always whisper to a nearby maid “ what do I do about their eyes? ” oh, sure, they was vague enough, but the question always seemed pointed, as if there was a descriptor the painter left out.
Vaguely, they remember Marx shifting and making a motion with his hands, and the painter would fall silent. A sort of ‘kotaru heard you, shut up.’ kind of thing, so it seems. Kotaru had jerked their head over towards him, just to see, and promptly was told to “ turn back around, I’m having a hard enough time already. ”
Camilla made some aside, “ Oh, what a rude man. ” as if no one could hear. It seemed Kotaru heard everything, though, and kept it tucked away in their pocket, within the layers of denial.
No wonder Hoshido felt like home. It was home.
It was instant, like the moment they’d stepped into the palace, a sense of “ if anything bad happens, at least I would have died at home. ” Being at peace with execution, their siblings would’ve laughed. Or maybe, they would’ve cried; Kotaru found themself so open to calling Mikoto ‘mother,’ so pleased with being Ryoma’s little sibling ( their hair even looked similar, even if his was rather long. )
Though, some things do not come back easily. Takumi practically lost it, near howling with laughter, when they made the realization that the most they could do with chopsticks was fumble around and drop perfectly good food on the floor. Promptly hushing one child, and placing a hand on Kotaru’s knee, Mikoto gave a soft smile, “ You’ve been gone from home so long, no wonder you’ve forgotten. ”
Everyone was, of course, reassuring about it, saying that it was no problem, Hinoka politely informing them that she would start reteaching them right away. It was fine, everyone said, they’ll become more used to it as time goes on. After all, they’d be staying here, at home, no worries about some fake family taking them away.
Silk was more becoming of them than the steel armor, they noticed, when trying on clothes with their mother. More fitting of such a tiny frame, more welcoming, fitting so perfectly with honest, clear eyes of scarlet.
They didn’t know how to tie a kimono though, much to Sakura’s dismay.
It’d only been a week, but Hoshido felt more like home than Nohr ever could be. Though there is some omnipresent fear, some whsipering of “you will regret this.”
( and when they see Marx, all they can think is “ You lied. ” )
The battle field is heavy laden with their own tears, and they wonder if they could choke on such cries, just suffocate in suffering and then they wouldn’t have to decide. Silk felt like home, but they’d only known steel, and the family of steel had loved them so openly, despite that difference in blood; but silk was where they felt safe, and all they can think of is the quiet plans they made with Mikoto, for once the ceremony was over, all the things about home that felt safe ( i can’t go back to garon, i can’t go back to garon, i can’t go back to garon. )
One cannot die from crying, though, and they swallow it all back,
❝ Marx, withdraw your troops. I stand with Hoshido. ❞
