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Utahime’s husband was a kind and honourable man. Her grandmother had disclosed the critical parameters of judging the measure of a man early in life, whispered wisdom accumulated in her family for generations passed on to her in clear words. The list had appeared in her mind the moment the doors to her dressing chambers had flown open, she had squashed all thoughts of Gojo Satoru – an immaterial, absent ghost – in favour of her grandmother’s wisdom.
She had felt the goodness in the man she was to marry in the manner he had instructed her to be guided to the ceremony hall, decked in drapery painted in saturated hues of the colours of his and her clan. She had felt his kindness in the manner he had extended his hand to her to help her sit before the priest, in the softness of his palm that slid over hers. She had a sense of his mettle when he had spoken his vows – clearly stating his loyalty to her, their family, their duties. His hand on the small of her back as they exited the ceremonial hall had been a reassurance of his intent to be a steadying presence even in private – which she knew was a privilege, given their arrangement.
“Kamo-san,” Utahime had said when they had stood in the courtyard of his estate, “I cannot promise you much, that much is known to both of us. However, I can promise to support you in what you need from me.”
Kamo Kiyoshi had smiled at her, sunlight illuminating the contours of his face, “That is more than I could have asked of you. Please do not worry about these things.”
Utahime had nodded, turning the cup of tea in her hand.
“If I could make another request,” the Kamo heir had said, “Please feel free to address me as Kiyoshi. If we are to wed, being on familiar terms would bode well for times to come.”
A month after they had wed, Utahime had whispered his name in the darkness of their bedchambers, watching his bare back rise and fall beside her. Extending her palm to the planes of his back, she shivered at the warmth encased in his body. Something hollowed inside her chest at the heightened awareness of her own shifting coldness. She had clutched the sheets covering her and turned on her side, beckoning for sleep to take her.
Utahime had completed her assessment – her husband was a good and kind man. She could sense that just as she was internally settling into married life, the Kamo clan was also quick to accept her. It was apparent in their steely, calm eyes as they watched her float about the Kamo estate, flitting about with what wives married into the major clans did. The gardens were tended to, lavish banquets hosted, dignitaries entertained by her performances of the koto, and ladies-in-waiting pleased by her choices of deferring to her mother-in-law’s systems of running the kitchen and administration of the estate. Utahime had carved a place for herself but knew where and when to withdraw. The perfect bride. It was faring well for her.
Utahime also was no fool. “Of course,” Kiyoshi’s hands were resting on her shoulders, fingers grazing her neck, “Whenever you are ready.”
Thus, the missions re-commenced. Her one request – that she would be given unrestricted access to high-priority missions to assist the Kamo clan. The clan elders had taken well to her request – albeit relayed by her husband. Her first mission involved exorcising a special grade curse in a marsh on the outskirts of Kushiro. Her brother-in-law was assisting Kiyoshi with his blood manipulation to sweep across the undulating marshes. As Utahime trailed behind them chanting incantations conducive to amplifying their blood manipulation, she was struck by the potential of the Kamo clan’s technique. Kiyoshi – with his soft smiles and melting gaze – was now a thing sharp as glass, flitting through the area with ruthless precision. His hardened jaw, the stiff set of his shoulders was a startling contrast to the man she slept beside. Watching him and her brother-in-law exorcise the curse that had consumed a chain of villages in the countryside, Utahime felt a strange unfamiliarity wash over her. When her husband, in his goodness and kindness turned towards her with his signature smile, she squashed the feeling.
Seasons changed, and Utahime found herself rolled into new routines. A sleepy greeting when she woke, shivering when she walked across glass tiles to reach her robes, an itinerary of her daily responsibilities and commitments appearing on her dressing table. A kiss on her shoulder, a low murmur in her ear, Kiyoshi’s exit to his bathing chambers. Knocks from her ladies-in-waiting, a rack of kimonos wheeled into her room, a spread of jewelry featuring blood-red rubies rolling before her. A lavish bath, a restrained breakfast, and a meeting with her mother-in-law to attend to administrative tasks around the estate. Long lunches, surprise walks around the estate with Kiyoshi when he concluded his duties early, his hand tugging her into their room before dinner. Playing the koto for his elders, for their guests. There was wine, there was dessert. Chatter about heirs, shy glances shared and laughter diffusing the conversation. Kiyoshi’s hand on her back as they retreated to their chambers, the warmth of his body next to hers.
There was also time for training – for missions. Where she scaled mountains and explored caverns when requests emerged for special missions, earning her pleased smiles and praised murmurs when she returned home. However, as rain turned to snow turned to spring pushed into summer, Utahime found less chances to practice her sword-work, and her singing was falling into a flat, practiced rhythm.
“I thought there would be more calls this summer,” She told Kiyoshi one night in bed, as he dragged their intertwined fingers on his chest, “You mentioned the council was worried about some new cursed artifacts they found?”
His thumb traced the back of her hand, “The council has a mind of its own. Though we always need you, dearest.”
“I know.” Utahime whispered, feeling his lips press against her palm. A flash of Kiyoshi on their first mission rose to her mind, when he was the image of hard lines and steel. The same unfamiliarity brewing in her stomach.
Her husband brought his mouth to her wrist, kissing her pulse. Softness and tenderness. A good and honourable man, she reminded herself.
The summer festival in the Kamo clan meant that Utahime was stretched thinner than she ever had been. This was the final test – and while unspoken, she knew each decision she made was being assessed by her in-laws. The bannisters, the vendors, the ceremonies, the prayers, the games. It was a whirlwind to manage everyone’s expectations while also making the festivities her own. As the festival approached and her daily schedule only expanded, Utahime found herself sneaking extra dabs of concealer under eyes first thing in the morning and requesting for teas with a higher dose of caffeine from trusted ladies-in-waiting. One of them, Atsuko, Utahime especially trusted with the latter request. There was something about her doe eyes that were honest and wide that made Utahime believe that she would not relay these glitches to the staff.
“Kamo-sama,” the girl was following Utahime as she wove across the estate to make her way to the kitchens for last-minute addendums to the menu for the opening banquet, “If you could tell me how you would like the chef to make amendments, I would be happy to oblige.”
Utahime kept the pace of her stride, “Atsuko, we have discussed that the days flow better when we finish tasks the way we planned them in the morning.”
“Yes, Kamo-sama,” the girl breathed, “It’s just that– maybe we can first tend to the florist in the–”
Utahime turned towards the passage connecting her living quarters to the administrative block. Atsuko rushed forward, making Utahime come to a stop. They halted at the crosswalk at the centre of the estate’s courtyard, which looked more pristine than usual. She noticed how the vines curling on the scaffolding had been artfully trimmed, each leaf curling in perfectly arranged symmetry.
“Atsuko,” Utahime said, “Please be honest when I ask you this. Is there an event of importance taking place at the estate today?”
The girl blushed, inhaling sharply. Utahime felt bad for her – she knew how intimidating the older ladies-in-waiting were. She sighed, feeling her exhaustion, “Have you been told to keep me away from what is happening?”
Atsuko’s fists clenched at her sides as she bowed with a jerk, “I apologise, Kamo-sama. I know you trusted me to not lie to you.”
The air entering Utahime’s lungs was heavier suddenly, “Atsuko, please rise-”
That was the moment it happened. To her right, the sliding door leading to the diplomatic wing opened. Utahime instinctively turned towards the sound and was struck by a piercing, burning slash to her gut.
Gojo Satoru’s visage blinked at her.
Time halted – and for a moment, Utahime was back in her chambers before her wedding, biting at him for goading her. Feeling her frustration, her anger, her tenderness towards him. The memory was ebbing from the centre of her chest, flowing to the tips of her fingers, setting her ablaze.
He was an icy, startling, sharp contrast in the Kamo estate. Clad in a midnight blue kimono, crystalline, cerulean eyes trained on her. Frozen alongside her, suspended.
Before she could react, the door slid closed in a smooth movement. Gojo Satoru was now a fading shadow behind a screen door, walking away from her. Ghost-like. An apparition.
“-sama?”
“Yes.” Utahime was aware how shaky she sounded. How shaky she felt. Her hands smoothed her kimono – her silken, blood-red, bloody, ghastly, kimono. Nails dragging on its coarse threads, making her spine tingle. The heat was suddenly too much – the calls of crows around the Kamo estate were sharper and all Utahime knew, was that she needed to go.
Turning on her heels with a permission to Atsuko to instruct the chefs, Utahime retreated to her living quarters to compose herself. However, when she threw open the doors to her chambers, she could not stop stripping herself of her kimono, pulling out the ornate hairpins and jewelry decorating her, and scrubbing herself raw. It was only when she sunk into her sheets, bare skin under cool sheets, that she let the tears fall.
***
The festival was a success. Utahime knew this in the way her mother-in-law smiled at her, head tilted and teeth flashing. Kiyoshi’s hand on her back was not grounding her the way it could as they walked back from the ceremonial dais to join the council for dinner. The estate looked beautiful – from the lanterns Utahime had handpicked, to the vendors she had hand-selected, to the kabuki-masks for the children running through the lamplit lanes. However, she felt no grand pay-off – despite knowing she had past the unspoken test that this festival had been. Instead, she was haunted by Gojo’s gaze on her. Unreadable. Cold. Analysing. Jolting.
When was the last time she had been on the field? When was the last time she held a sword?
“It’s beautiful,” Kiyoshi whispered as they neared the entrance to the dining hall, “It’s all you, dearest.”
Utahime turned to him, but could not muster any words in response.
The doors to the dining hall opened, and thunderous cheers and applause welcomed them to the room. The guests and council were seated in their respective positions – why had she not known –
Gojo Satoru was not meant to be here. She remembered it had been his mother who was meant to attend. However, as Utahime walked towards the head of the room with Kiyoshi, she saw it clear as day. Gojo Satoru was seated on the position that had been reserved for Gojo Saori.
As Kiyoshi clasped her hand, gentle, soft, good and kind, to help her down onto the mat for food, Utahime felt it in her core. The unfamiliarity. She looked down at her plate, but found no appetite. The chatter around her was not unlike that she had been subjected to for the past – how many months? – but she found something inside her shift and tick at each nicety, every spoken word.
She could not stand her watery image reflected in the bowl of bland, clear soup on her tray.
***
It was many hours later, and many drinks of sake later that Utahime found herself on the balcony in the dining hall. The way Kiyoshi had looked at her – with a mix of shock and disdain, when she had sipped on her ceremonial sake too quickly – meant that she was not going to bed without a conversation with him about it. Especially since her mother-in-law had observed her consumption of her sake, clearly communicated in her underhanded remark about its appropriate consumption during the summer festival across the table.
Most humiliating was Gojo’s complete ignorance of her. Disturbingly, Utahime realised she might have been comforted by any indications of his pleasure at her mother-in-law’s criticism. To her surprise, he had continued to eat his food, unbothered by the soft tension that had taken hold over their table. Having absorbed these blows, it had not taken Utahime long to take the first opportunity to hide when socialising began following the second course.
Gasping into the humid evening, she closed her eyes to help clear her lungs of leaden air. Pressure was building behind her eyes again because it wasn’t – helping. Her nails scraped against the stone railings of the balcony, and a sick, cold part of her wanted them to snap and bleed to produce some physical evidence of this turmoil flaying her from the inside.
A whisper of cool wind caressed her right arm.
“Bored?”
Gojo was next to her, leaning with his back against the railing, head tilted towards her.
Utahime inhaled. Paused.
He raised an eyebrow at her. She cleared her throat, gazing into the dark gardens spread out before them, “Not bored. Tired.”
She caught a glimmer in his eyes, the beginnings of his lips twisting into a cruel smile. However, something shifted before mirth could take form. Instead, he leaned towards her, his hair brushing his forehead. Moon god, bathed in moonlight. “You look like it.”
“I don’t have time for you to berate me.”
He rolled his eyes, “God, you sound exactly like them. Wasn’t laying it on that poor girl enough for you?”
“Poor girl – what –” Utahime’s mind flashed to Atsuko, and she clicked her tongue, “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Really.” His tone was flat as he plucked at the edge of her kimono on her collarbone. His eyes were laser-focused on the cloth. “You really fit the whole lady of the house bill there.”
She slapped his hand away, “Firstly, that tone is insulting. And secondly, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“You don’t.” He said, in that tone again.
“If you have something to say, then you should just say it.” She said, “I am tired, and I want a breather. So be quick with it – so you can say your piece and just disappear.”
Gojo laughed sharply, shaking his head. “Gods, no wonder you don’t have friends.”
“I have friends!”
Gojo looked at her, silent. Utahime felt herself redden.
“You’re a cruel girl, Utahime,” He tilted his head, hair shimmering in the moonlight. “Has anyone told you that?”
“Why would they, when you make sure to remind me.”
Gojo did not say anything, and she took that moment to observe him. He was still wearing the kimono from this afternoon, and she could see silvery scars peek from the edges of the fabric covering the top of his chest. When had that happened? How was he of all people scarred?
“So,” his voice made her gaze flit back to his face, which was now set stiff. “How is life at the Kamo estate?”
“Life,” Utahime said evenly, “is great. My husband is good. And kind.”
That was when she felt it. Gojo watching her, and she was hit with how the feeling of being roved over by his all-seeing eyes felt like. She had felt it first when they had been children in Kyoto standing under snow-covered trees, the sensation of a waterfall cascading over you, turning the whole world into a blurry mystery, diminishing your existence for him to watch, assess and analyse.
“You made promises to me.” He said quietly, and his eyes were suddenly a knife, slicing through her skin. “You told me things that night.”
“You never came.” She sounded like she was pleading, and she hated herself for it. “The offer still stands.”
When her eyes met his, she felt her nails scrape against stone once more. Icy waters cast wide open – she had never seen him like this.
“Utahime,” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a murmur, “I need to know. Are you–?”
“I am happy.”
“I didn’t ask that,” He sighed, and pulled away from her. Dragging a hand through his hair, she was surprised by how the motion disturbed his hair, how ordinary and boyish it made him look. “Why are you making this hard?”
“This” Utahime said, suddenly aware of their proximity, their isolation on this balcony, the sake on her breath, and the bursts of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, “is not anything.”
Gojo laughed, “There! You’re doing it. God. You don’t know how much restraint I–”
“Restraint?” Utahime scoffed, incensed. She jammed a finger into his sternum, feeling his heart under her skin, “You’re showing restraint? By coming here, catching me – a married woman – alone to insult me about – I don’t even know what anymore!”
Something snapped in his even gaze, and the next thing she knew, his hand circled her wrist, and he walked them towards the edge of the balcony. Utahime’s back pressed against vine-covered stone as Gojo stepped towards her to cloak them in shadows.
“Hidden enough for you?” His lips brushed her ear, and she gasped. She felt him stiffen for a moment, before scoffing, “So unbecoming for a Kamo wife, with these requests.”
Her cheeks burned, “Don’t you dare say wife in that that disgusting tone.”
“Why?” He leaned back far enough so they were facing each other and laughed sharply, her hand in his grasp between them. “Do you want to have this conversation with me right now?”
“Don’t put this on me when you obviously wanted to have this conversation!”
“Fine.” He snapped, “What is with you? Got married and disappeared into the sunset? Happy to be the Kamo’s amplification artifact–”
“Oh, how dare you-”
“Don’t say that,” Gojo spat, “You know exactly what they’ve been doing. You know the kind of clan they are. You knew they were going to use you,”
“You’re such an asshole-” Utahime tried to free her hand from his grip, but her only pulled her in tightly. “You knew they were going to use you and fucking hide you away and you, Utahime –” Gojo’s said, “You let them do it.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like,” She spat, “You don’t know what it’s like to not be a fucking god that people just give in to-”
“Oh please – spare me the lecture,” Gojo said, “Just admit it.” His eyes hardened, and she felt it coming before his lips formed the words. “You like swishing around in their dresses and singing their songs and doing their dances, like his trophy. You like being their caged songbird.”
Utahime shoved his chest, and he took a step back, eyes wild.
“You,” She said, quietly – carefully, “need to stop talking. And go.”
“Tell me that I am wrong.” He said.
“You are wrong.”
A twist of his mouth, “Liar.” Utahime shoved against him, but his body was a wall of stone. “If I am not mistaken, Kamo-sama was looking quite sick at dinner just now.”
Of course he saw. Of course he knew. The thought was exponentially irritating with each passing instance. If all it took for this house of cards to crumble at the sight of Gojo Satoru, what did that make Utahime?
“Penny for Kamo-sama’s thoughts?” Gojo continued, “Does the doll speak?”
“Why are you being so cruel?” Utahime snapped, feeling her eyes tighten with hot tears, “What is the point of this conversation?”
Gojo’s jaw ticked at her words, but he paused. He was looking down at her, eyes flicking across her face, and whatever image he saw made him run a tired hand down his face. Utahime watched how his lithe fingers sunk into the contours of his face – more startling images of him she could not believe she had seen. After all, in the – how long had it been since she had tuned into clan politics – time since her wedding, she had heard whispers of the Gojo clan acting rogue. They had a history of being unpredictable and ruthless in their pursuit of power over the Zenin and Kamo families, but the way Kiyoshi’s uncles and aunts spoke in uncomfortable tones had tipped Utahime off that the Gojo clan’s new tricks were disturbing the order. It was not as if the situation was anywhere near equilibrium, especially with Geto Suguru’s sect gaining power. However, Utahime was no fool – the disdain she knew her husband’s family held towards the Gojo clan was not limited to their age-old rivalry. Watching Satoru Gojo before her, silver hair and eldritch, ignited eyes, she had an intimate understanding of when he could flare tempers for reasons beyond his usual demeanor.
“You’re right.” His voice sliced through her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Utahime blinked. Was he – apologising?
However, Gojo had already taken a step back. The entry of cool, midnight air between them made her aware of how hot her blood was running through her arms and neck. Gojo leaned against the balcony, a sliver of yellow light from the edge of the door cutting across his left eye, making it look more otherworldly.
In his silence, and given his apology, Utahime felt it appropriate to share her thoughts that had been disastrously reverberating through her all day. “Things have … changed for me.” She looked at him to steady herself to speak the words playing in the back of her mind, “I think I am being manipulated in some way.”
He nodded, “The Kamo family has been redirecting you for months. Maybe it was different earlier, but they,” A tendon in his jaw ticked, “refuse to let anyone else commission you.”
“For my amplification,” Utahime whispered, staring at her hands.
“Yes.” Gojo said, “Kiyoshi and his uncles are running interference on your deployment from the back end. Initially, they were playing fair game – but they gradually started redirecting missions involving you to themselves. It was slow, so nobody noticed.”
He swept his hand to gesture towards her, “And here you are. Caged little songbird.”
“Nobody noticed.”
Gojo’s lips twitched. “Well. I noticed.”
Utahime inhaled sharply, “Gojo, don’t tell me –”
“What?” He rolled his eyes, “I was supposed to just sit tight and watch as a perfectly capable sorcerer is booted off-field because her husband feels like it?”
Something was rising within her, a flutter of crimson, coloured life that she realised she had not experienced in the longest time. Watching Gojo scoff, shoulders arranged askew against the balustrade, all arrogance, was jolting her out of the lifeless state of not-being she understood she had been stuck in. The baths, the gowns, the dinners, the gardens. Utahime, floating across this grand estate, like a ghost. A wraith. For months.
Her husband, Utahime thought, may not be a kind or honourable man.
“Gojo,” She whispered, and despite how delicately the words had escaped her, his attention flashed to her. Utahime walked forward and placed her hand on his cheek, “Thank you.”
His lips parted, and his eyebrows rose. However, his gaze turned steely, determined. He was still. Utterly still. There they stood, breathing the same cool, intermingled midnight air. Utahime let her fingers move infinitesimally, cheating the moment they were sharing in secret. She wanted to remember the curve of his nose, the slant of his cheek, the wrinkles on his lips, the softness of his eyebrows. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. His smirk when he pulled her out of rubble high on teenage smugness, the knot in his eyebrows when he found her crying on her estate as a young girl, her palm tickling the hair on his forehead when she had pressed her lips against his on that forgotten, unspoken night.
She felt the tears before she registered that they were spilling from her eyes Gojo cradled her face, the tips of his thumbs brushing her lashes. He said nothing, she said nothing.
“Utahime,” Gojo’s eyes were wide open, infinite cerulean pools. “We both know that I am not an honourable man, so I won’t pretend to be sorry for any of it.” His nose brushed hers, and Utahime felt electricity burst under her skin, burning through her. Despite his breath tickling her lips, Gojo did not move forward. Instead, his hands moved to her wrists, circling them. Trailed up her arms, and the drag of his skin through her silken kimono was only exacerbating the carnage she was feeling in her veins. His eyes were lowered as he mapped her frame with his feather-light touch, and she could tell from the way they flicked back and forth that he was thinking thinking thinking. The constant churn of his mind, concealed to everyone else.
His hands teased the ends of her hair, and tugged lightly, “What now.”
She breathed in, then out. The sounds of chatter from the hall and the sick feeling in her stomach were a dull memory now, and all she could think of was how beautifully the golden sliver of light zig-zagged across Gojo’s face. Bathing him in something new.
“No ideas, sweet Utahime?” A slow, sly smile bloomed across his lips, “Can I share some of mine?”
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she kicked his foot. Gojo laughed lightly, and he was himself again – not the confusingly reliable, dependable man who had admitted to causing considerable trouble for some of the most important council members and exacerbated clan tensions to new heights in her interest.
“Here’s one.” His eyes glittered as he stepped forward, shoulders folding her into his space, “You decide what you want to do with the Kamos. Divorce him, stay married to him, have children, become a wrinkled old grandma haunting this, frankly, bland estate – I don’t care.”
Utahime rolled her eyes, “You were waiting to say that last part.”
“I was,” He smiled, but his voice lowered as he reached for the ruby earrings dangling near her neck. “Do with this what you must – it’s your choice.”
She nodded, feeling her forgotten willfulness take shape in her stomach again. Utahime was decided – she was not going to remain a foolish puppet. Gojo was watching her with a distant, unreadable expression, but the barest upwards curve of his mouth. Seeming satisfied in whatever he saw, he stepped backwards, sliding his hands into the sleeves of his kimono. “Well, that’s enough dilly-dallying for an evening. There is food to eat and women to impress, so I must take your –”
Before he could bolt, Utahime quickly stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his cheek, right on the faint freckle under his eye. She felt him stiffen at her shoulder and smiled. For all his bravado, he remained shy through and through.
However, just as she began to pull back, Gojo’s palm wrapped around her waist to hold her still. She stopped in her tracks, his breath hot on her temple.
“Gojo, this is not the wisest-”
“It is not.” She could not see him, but his voice was flat again.
“What?”
He inhaled deeply, and her heart fluttered when she realised they were pressed flush against one another.
“Just,” She felt his fingers knead the small of her back, sending waves of shivers down her spine, “Let me.”
Utahime let herself be guided by him, let her cheek press into his shoulder. She was not sure when it happened, but they were swaying with the patterns in the wind, silent again.
“Utahime,” Gojo whispered, nudging his forehead into the curve of her neck, “I – just.”
“What’s going on?” She asked, “You can tell me.”
She felt him turn his head, his scent wafting in the air around her. Shamefully, she caught herself paying attention to it, to carve it into memory. His fingers slid up her spine, once, then again.
“It’s your choice, Utahime,” He said, and then rose to his height to look at her. “Whatever you want to do.” Gojo took her hands in his, then pressed the backs of her palms to his forehead. A god, surrendering. The feeling coarsing through her felt like a euphoric slipping on ice - the sudden dash, the pummelling sense of free-falling, air circling her fingers. With her quickening pulse, the previously blank night sky behind him was melting in Utahime’s eyes, giving form to an otherworldly, chaotic, moving galaxy. Him, in his pristine lunar image and fluttering snow-white lashes, formed a slanting constellation to paint something new – something foreign, something familiar.
He opened his eyes, crystalline and determined. Slowly, he lowered her hands from his face but kept them intertwined at their sides. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it. She wanted to reach forward, and beckon the words he was hiding from her, wanted to coax them from him.
“I will be around.” He breathed, “If you need.”
“I do need.” She said.
Gojo’s lashes fluttered again, and each motion made something raw in her chest crack open.
“Utahime,” he said softly, “Can I make a selfish request?”
“Yes.”
“Remain married to him, if that is how it has to be.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his gaze honest and unguarded, “But let me have you in secret.”
Utahime gasped, a wrangled cry leaving her mouth, and the next thing she knew, she was pulling Gojo into her, sliding her lips into his. She could feel her nails dig into his shoulders, could hear the sounds she was making, could feel more tears flow from her eyes. But the feeling of being cradled by Gojo, feeling him curl into her, push his hands into her hair to draw her into him could not distract her from the earth splitting open in this moment.
“Gods,” he was sighing in her ear, “I missed you.”
She was crying and crying and crying. His thumbs were swiping at her cheeks, he was cooing at her, kissing her temple, kissing her tear-stained cheeks. She felt it then, in the core of her soul and in the halls of her mind – a cacophonous symphony of song in her mind – alive, alive, alive, alive, alive.
***
Later, Utahime was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Running her fingers through knots that had emerged after the events of the night. In the corner of her eye, she traced the pale shape of her husband’s shoulder. He was fast asleep and had been the picture of a loving partner when they had returned from the banquet. Kissing her cheek, praising her for her hard work, and holding her in bed till he thought sleep pulled her under. Utahime glanced at the rubies she had removed earlier, bloody shadows refracted inside the crimson stones. She took a moment to rove her gaze across the corners of her chambers, hating the dream she had re-entered, the numb, ghostly state she had resigned herself to.
She met her eyes in the mirror and clenched her fists in her lap.
After all, Utahime’s husband was a kind, and honourable man.