Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once the results arrived, the doctor pulled Meirin into the hall for a private chat. They stood out there for nearly half an hour, and while Saki couldn’t hear their words, he still got the message loud and clear.

A few months left, no more. There’s nothing else to be done.

His anger was distant now, buried under years of trying beyond his limits for one more day, one more smile on Meirin’s face. No peace left in its wake, but…a tired calm, at least. Rage run too dry.

By the time Meirin returned, grief carefully covered by a forceful smile, Saki had transformed his bed into a warm nest of blankets. He waved her over without a word and welcomed her presence aside him. They curled around each other for hours, her head tucked under his chin as though he could defend her from this heartache. He didn’t wipe her tears away, didn’t call a bit of attention to them, only held her and let the futility seep in. He had known for so, so long.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked at last in a voice so soft it could have been a final request.

“Yes,” Saki told her with a small smile, “I’ve made a list.”

*

His first memory was of color. Tiny floating orbs dancing through his vision, luminous planets just out of reach of his chubby baby hands. When he was finally old enough to reach them, he marveled that they didn’t wisp away like moonlight in his hands. His mother had stitched them during the later months of her pregnancy when even leaving the bed was a struggle too great — but working beauty for her child a task too great to ignore. Each embroidered ball contained a cluster of tiny bells, and long before his teachers ever spoke of the music of the spheres, Saki was lulled to sleep by the heavenly chime of colorful temari circling in an endless dance.

Even now the ornaments in his hair drifted along the edge of his vision with a certain mystery, swaying in dance when he drew his bow across the strings of his viola, hanging still and serene as he cast his cards for a reading. Always the same distant glimpse of color.

It didn’t take much to make one, only a bit of yarn and thread, a bit of sweat and blood. In his country the rich and the poor made them alike, but never the young. The art was the domain of the elderly, of the sick, of the failing. Those who could not give back to society with all its cruel demands, but could still give, could stitch their endless hours into all art’s powers.

Saki had never learned. Even in his most miserable hour, he refused to pick up a needle and thread. It was too much like giving in, like admitting his life was over and he had nothing more to give save some silly colored balls. He would lie in bed and curl one hand around an imaginary bow, running through his scales and favorite tunes as he tapped his fingers along his hip. Solace in music, nothing else. Even his cards lay untouched.

Now he sat laid up in bed, snug against the throne of pillows Meirin had made for him, and methodically wrapped thread around and around into lumpy shapes. Proper spheres were beyond him, but what did it matter? No one but Meirin would ever see his first and last attempts at hair ornaments of his own.

One in black and brick reds with gold for its guidelines and tiny blossoms of blue at the poles, holding it all together, for when his heart was too weary to glow warm on its own.

One in white with bands of lilac and maroon, stars and moons sloppily stitched between its bounds, for when he needed to see the world with new eyes.

One in black with spartan lines of green, woven together with mathematical intent, for when he needed uncommon stubbornness to last the day.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, the placement of the needle. Two, the placement of the thread. Three, the placement of the base. Again. One, two, three. Wake, stitch, sleep. Forget death, forget pain. Wake, stitch, sleep. Wake, stitch, stitch, stitch—

*

In the mornings, Meirin would sit behind him and draw a brush through his long hair. He counted the strokes, more and more each day, but never said a word, only leaned back into her touch with a deep thankfulness. Some days he could have managed on his own, but others…

Saki taught her how to braid and weave his hair into the traditional styles of his homeland, the techniques mirrored from the very same embroidery he worked in his lap. Sometimes he stitched thread while she stitched hair into blossoming chrysanthemum buns, and sometimes he held a mirror in his lap so she could double-check the front as she worked — so she could catch the hint of a smile that ever dwelt on his lips.

More common were the days when he knelt behind her instead, doing up her hair the way the neighbor girls always wore it, or teaching a more fanciful style for her to attempt on him. Her hair was sleeker somehow, and the perfectly symmetrical designs never sat quite right. Saki spent weeks blending forms into one another, crafting a hybrid tradition for just the two of them, tears prickling in his eyes when she’d stare at herself in the mirror and reverently touch the nape of her neck. She learned them all.

When Meirin would leave to prepare lunch, Saki collected the hair from his brush — black and gold and silver, so much silver now, more and more by the day.

*

It took two dozen attempts before Saki finally managed a properly round base. He wrapped it in the greens of a spring meadow and took care to make sure none of the inner workings peeked through, but didn’t begin on the embroidery until Meirin was in the room. She witnessed the creation of every single strawberry with heartfelt cheer, and with her encouragement each pink and red berry turned out better than the last.

And then the strawberry ball disappeared. One morning it was there, nearly finished, and by evening Saki was finishing the wrappings on a white base instead. Meirin was certain he’d hidden it somewhere for her to find, but she kept mum and let him play his game. She’d humor him anything by then.

This time he stitched a tapestry of swirling colors, the threads bleeding out onto the white background like stained glass. Seeing Meirin’s confusion, Saki simply hummed the Circle of Seasons tune under his breath, weaving spring and summer, winter and fall in all their glory. Though his stitches were sloppy, the spirit shone through. The art flourished with or without him.

By next week he was crafting a black base, each temari bigger than the last as he grew more confident in his abilities. Meirin had none of the necessary patience to join him in his hobby, but when he passed her the ball and asked her to mark a few random spots with pins, she did so gladly. Saki turned each one into a tiny pinprick of a star, then linked them into sprawling constellations.

(Spica shone brightest of all, and Saki stroked his thumb over it time and again, prayers echoing through his heart. They swore to visit. They all knew no one would make it in time.)

Meirin never spotted the base color of the fourth ball. This one was geometric, more precise than the rest, and Saki wove those six bands of color so close together that not a single glimpse of the underlayer could be found. Earth and fire, wind and water, light and darkness — she couldn’t help but wonder if it was a final plea, a way of beseeching the spirits to let him stay, please, please let him stay.

She could feel her heart dying in her chest, but all she could do was watch him stitching and smiling and slipping farther away.

*

When the end came, Saki knew. His hands had shaken too much for him to stitch anything for a week now, and it was all he could do to rest the mirror in his lap as Meirin dressed his hair one last time, weaving the stray ends into the edges of his veil. It felt lighter in her hands than she remembered, and her eyes burned with the tears that no longer came.

They sat together against his throne of pillows, fingers intertwined, and Saki laid his head against her shoulder and asked for stories.

Meirin told him all her life’s joys until her throat was raw.

Until his hand was warmed by her own hand alone.

*

The others arrived in time for the funeral. They fussed at her distantly, worry plagued by grief of their own, and by the shame of not having made it sooner. Meirin didn’t blame them, but now her world was empty and cold, and she hadn’t any desire to share in their warmth. Not yet.

In the morning she wove up her hair as he had taught her, and she stared at herself in the mirror until she could believe her cheeks were dry. She packed away his viola, knowing she’d never play it but would keep it all her days. His cards she tucked in among her own trinkets where they’d be safe from the rain outside. There wasn’t much aside from that. The guest house was empty of light, of music, and now even empty of love. Nothing to keep her.

Meirin folded up her clothes and packed them away, lost in a haze of housekeeping to keep the painful thoughts away. Even her shirts held a certain fog, confused to hold those neat folds after years of more careless care. She swept the floor, dusted the shelves, even made sure all the chairs were tucked in just so, and when there was nothing else left to occupy her, her weary feet led her at last to the bed. She only managed to pull away the first pillow before her hands were shaking. All she wanted was to lie down and never rise again, to bury her face against the sheets that still smelled like him, that might still hold some distant warmth.

She made him a promise not to follow.

The second pillow came away no easier than the first, and Meirin had to stop and clutch it to her chest as she choked back a sob. So many long days spent holding on to each other, now for naught.

When she pulled the third pillow away at last, something fell from its hiding place and tumbled to the floor. Meirin didn’t manage to catch it, but she dropped to her knees and reached for the box as if it were a holy artifact, hands trembling worse than ever.

A letter with Meirin’s name was stuck to the top of the box. She lifted it to her mouth and pressed her lips against the name, imagining Saki keeping his hand steady with the last of his energy. She wasn’t ready to read his final words — after this there would be nothing more to guide her — so she gingerly lifted the lid of the box away instead.

Luscious twin chrysanthemums in gold and silver blossomed like starfire the moment the light hit them, the whole temari shining glorious and ethereal. Bigger than any she’d seen him work before, and the thread was finer too, the stitches so delicate and precise. Meirin pulled it into her lap with the greatest of care. Though the flowers covered almost every inch, at the central belt the bed of purple thread was plain to see, the very same color as his veil.

Not embroidery at all, but a talisman forged with all his heart. Heavy in her hands from love and magic both.

She brushed her thumb lightly over the fragile stitches of one flower, caught a glimpse of red beneath, and finally realized those strawberries had never gone anywhere after all. Five of them, five layers for their five years, strawberries and seasons and stars, all the world’s elemental blessings, and now ethereal flowers that would never fade, never fall.

And never leave her.

*

Thank you for being everything I needed when I needed it most.

Thank you for years I never thought I’d have.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

— Totoki Saki