Carnelian on Slate
“I’ll say it again, I’m just so glad the post finally made it!” a cheerful voice, buoyed by both joy and drink rises above the general din of the crowd. “I can’t stop looking at the prints – they just make such a lovely couple!”
“Don’t they ever!” another voice, as joyous and slurred as the last, chimes in, and his gaze is drawn towards two women huddled shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar. “Just look at her dress – I don’t think I’ve ever seen an outfit so fine!”
“Fit for a Princess!” the first woman crows, “And a fine match for our Prince Lady Seiran is, isn’t she?” She rises from her chair and thrusts both her tankard and the special wedding issue of “The Clarines Times” into the air, “To our Prince and Princess!”
Wedged in the corner of what was likely the seediest bar he has ever been in, Mitsuhide’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly around his tankard as cheers for the new royal couple ring throughout the bar once more. He thought that two days of hard riding from Wilant would have been far enough to outpace wedding gossip, but he supposes he should have known better than to think an inch of Clarines would not be focused on the marriage of the Prince to the veritable (and now literal) Princess of the North. Every post, every inn he had stopped in to change horses had copies of the commemorative wedding issue available in storefronts or posted in windows.
And who could blame them, he muses as the cheers fade and the women continue to chatter about the details of Kiki’s dress and Zen’s coordinating suit. Their story, for all it was a political move to join the most powerful lines of a still-distinct North and South, seemed a fairytale. A comforting tale of friends turned lovers after years spent together in the crucible of life. A secret courtship, fulfilling the fondest wishes of the bride’s long-departed mother and stirring the hopes of a thousand couples waiting for their own happy ending.
His mind drifts as he recalls the wedding. It had been a truly beautiful ceremony. Illuminated by the golden light of the setting sun, the bride, iced in ivory silk and draped in pearls, seemed to float down the aisle; a perfect match to the regal Prince who awaited her at the dais. Gleaming rings – one plain, the other set with a sparkling Wisteria blue sapphire – exchanged as a sign of devotion. Vows solemnly made, and sealed with a kiss at the very moment the sun slipped behind the clouds…
His stomach twists painfully at the thought, and he brings his drink to his lips to assuage the ache. I should probably eat something, he thinks, taking another drink from his cup. He wasn't exactly feeling hungry – he hadn't felt much of anything since leaving the castle – but he also couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.
Blinking to clear his bleary eyes, Mitsuhide scans the room for the waitress who had last filled his cup. Although he can’t recall the details of her face, he has a vague recollection of blonde hair swept in a messy bun. His first scan is unsuccessful, so he straightens from his slouch with a wince, craning to get a better view of the crowded room.
Must have been a shift change… he acknowledges after a more diligent search fails to locate a single blonde waitress. He also notes the lanterns scattered through the in the room have been lit to offset the rapidly dwindling sunlight. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed – he had stumbled into this inn sometime before noon, and it couldn’t be more than a quarter hour or so to sunset now – but he can’t bring himself to feel more than momentary concern at the swift, yet crushingly slow passage of time.
He took some solace in knowing he was not the only person to drink the day away. A large party of travelling merchants had claimed several tables in the center of the dining room shortly after Mitsuhide had arrived. They had proudly announced to all and sundry that their firm supplied the wines served during the wedding reception, an honor that had led to a flood of orders from nobles all around Clarines. This blessing had apparently inspired quite a spirit of generosity within them, as they had purchased several rounds of drinks throughout the day, each one accompanied by enthusiastic toasts to the royal couple’s health.
Most of the waitstaff that Mitsuhide could see were flitting in and around the merchants’ table, topping off drinks and ferrying steaming platters of food. Considering the men were now as drunk on ale as they were their successes, it was no wonder the staff were being so attentive. The bolder of the waitresses were taking full advantage of the merchants ever-increasing “generosity”, tittering sweetly in their ears and pressing close as they refill glasses.
As he watches, one of the drunken men raises his mug, sloshing ale over his hand as he calls for yet another toast to the royal couple’s health. He grimaces, stomach twisting once more as the cheers echo through the room, but when another voice rises to call for blessings of fertility to find their way to the royals, he just can’t take it anymore. He lifts his drink, hoping to drown this feeling, to wash away the image of mouths on necks, but nothing remains in his tankard. He stares into the vessel – empty again, like everything else in his life – and tries with some desperation to recall how many times today this exact view had greeted him.
Disgusted by his inaction, Mistuhide sets his tankard down with more force than is strictly necessary. Planting his elbows on the table, he rubs his hands harshly over his face in an attempt to gather himself. If only he could scrub his mind of these useless thoughts as easily as he had cleansed his body of the accumulated dust of his flight away from the capital…
“Needing a refill there, sir?”
Lowering his hands from his face, Mitsuhide looks up to see a tawny-haired waitress approaching with a mug of freshly drawn ale. He feels a bit of heat creep up his neck as he realizes the petulant thunk of his empty tankard striking the table must have attracted her attention.
“Please,” he requests, ducking his head to obscure the blush he hopes is not visible in the mostly lantern-lit room.
She bends close to set his new drink on the table, and catches a glimpse of his face, “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” Mitsuhide feels the heat creep up his cheeks as her eyes sweep the length of his body. “Tall too,” she hums appreciatively, shifting her weight to lean across the table.
“Say, are you free tonight?” she purrs, a hand rising to press against his chest, “After all, it’s not every day we get a man like you in these parts…”
He shrinks backwards against the back of his chair, hands raising in supplication as he stutters excuses; but she follows him back, her gaze returning to get a better look at his face. Once she does, she blinks and straightens.
“Hey wait,” her tone shifts, halting the words spilling from his lips, “aren’t you that handsome man that was traveling with Obi?”
“Traveling with Obi…?” he parrots back, arms lowering as he stares at the waitress. He fails to place her at first – clad in the same black dress as the rest of the staff, she looks like every other waitress he had seen today. Memories begin to stir as she preens under his gaze, however, and a sensual smile curves her lips. She flutters her lashes, and he recalls the same brown eyes sparkling with mischief, framed by the long chestnut hair that is now swept in a high tail. She tilts her head, and her earrings jangle, drawing his attention. The heavy gold discs, each set with a sparkling red stone, are unmistakable, and he recalls the press of her body warm against his on that long-ago night, the surprise of finding her with Obi in that abandoned manor, and the press of her lips against his cheek the next morning.
“I thought so,” she laughs, delighted by her unexpected discovery, and he realizes she must have read the recognition in his eyes, or perhaps from the blush that burned once more across his cheeks. “I could never forget a blush like that.” She leans closer once more, resting her cheek against her shoulder, “So what brings you all the way out here, good sir?”
Her question reminds him of the realities of his life, or more accurately the aching uncertainty of what his life would become moving forward. The blush fades from his cheeks as he considers how he wound up drinking away the day in the seediest inn middle-of-nowhere Clarines could offer.
After stumbling out of the antechamber outside of Zen and Kiki’s chambers, Mitsuhide had attempted to return to his own rooms, but was waylaid by Izana along the way. The King had taken one look at him with those all-seeing eyes and beckoned him to come to his office for a chat.
“You won’t be needed for the next three weeks,” the King informed him, his words blunt but not unkind, “The honor guard for the wedding tour will be made up of local soldiers selected by the council at each of the stops.” He steepled his fingers, gauging Mitsuhide before deciding to deliver the blow cleanly, “When you return from your break, we will discuss your…new duties.”
He couldn’t recall how he had responded to Izana after that, only that the King had stared at him for a few minutes once more before waving him away. Mitsuhide had followed Zen for years, had made protecting him and the interests of the Wisteria family his top priority – his only priority – for so long he couldn’t imagine what a life without that would mean. He had made his way to his room, thrown together a basic pack of supplies and coin, and ridden until he couldn’t stand riding any more.
“You alright?” a voice breaks into his thoughts, and he realizes the waitress – he can’t recall if he knows her name – is still waiting for an answer. She looks at him with a mix of concern and amusement, one brow quirked up in question.
“I’ve been…given leave from my duties for a while,” he settles for a version of the truth, “I- I couldn’t stay, so I picked a direction and rode away.” He reaches out for the tankard of ale, and just resists the urge to drown the entire draught, “This place just happens to be where I stopped.”
“I see,” she hums thoughtfully, not missing the way his hand tightens around his drink, “That explains the clothes.” Mitsuhide glances down at his shirt, a slightly ill-fitting, homespun replacement purchased on his last change of horses since his usual clothes had not survived the days of hard riding unscathed. The material wasn’t dissimilar to what he had worn while in-training at Sereg, but after years of wearing fine linens and silks the slight irregularities of the simple weave felt harsh against his skin.
“But it doesn’t necessarily explain the lack of companions,” she continues, hands flattening on the table in front of him as she leans close once more, “Tell me, where is your lady, good sir?”
“Gone,” he says shortly, remembering the sparkle of Zen’s sapphire against Kiki’s skin a scant few mornings ago. Those dark feelings rise within him again, and although he tries to drown them with another gulp of ale, words twisted with bitterness slip out, “She was never my lady to begin with.”
“Ahh…” she breathes, her smile taking on a sympathetic tint, “Not with Obi, then, right?” He shakes his head, and must pull a face, since she leans back to laugh. “I didn’t think so – as much as she would be his type, she was way out of his league. Plus he seemed to have a thing for that red-headed healer.”
“You could say that,” he admits, thinking of Obi and Shirayuki. He hadn’t seen them in months – since the rumor mill had yet to die down, they had not been able to return for the wedding – but they had sent their well-wishes along with a package overflowing with teas and spices from whatever exotic country Izana had sent them to “negotiate” with. They seemed well, but he still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he thought of his role in the mess that had sent them out of the country to begin with.
“So, with that that elegant man, then?” she asks, breaking his train of thought.
He doesn’t say anything in response, just stiffens and takes another deep draught of his ale, but his silence is apparently answer enough for her. She slides from the table and approaches his chair from behind.
“You never answered my question, you know,” she comments, sliding her arms around his neck, “Are you free tonight, Mister?”
He intends to say no. He’s already said too much, and the last thing he wants to do is to drag someone down with him. But as she presses close, he feels her warmth seeping through his rough cloth of his shirt. He feels the soft puff of her breath against his ear. He feels the press of her chest against his back, sparking a curl of desire, even as color stains his cheeks once more. He feels something with her, after days of feeling nothing but emptiness and pain.
“And if I am?” he rasps, mouth gone dry as he realizes what he’s agreeing to, “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, Sir,” she purrs, somehow pressing even closer, “That would be telling.”
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Man this story. It would not have been possible without moral support, editorial assistance, and a LOT OF COMPLICATED PLOT DISCUSSIONS with my good friend Muselover1901. Many helpful Discord folks also helped me come up with words for Torou’s hair color, because words are hard. Thank you all <3