Chapter Text
Shaking fingers and breaths that stumble and trip out of weary lungs.
Dangerous thoughts that spin, round and round — like water circles a drain.
Fabric that itches and pulls and tugs. Stitching that constricts and restricts in the most awful and uncomfortable of places and is making it all the more difficult to catch the breath her lungs so desperately need; so much so that she fears she may pass out if relief is not found soon, and-
“Don’t be nervous, Miss.” Having appeared as suddenly and welcome as the first buds of spring, Obi leans over her shoulder and plucks the slim hairbrush from her weak grasp with a knowing chuckle. “You’ll be fine.”
“Hah-” with hands dreadfully empty, they clench in her lap to avoid from clawing through frizzy red hair; fingers mindlessly picking at a hangnail as Shirayuki shifts so she might look up at him. In its bone cage, her heart flutters. A trapped and panicking bird. “Would you care to tell that to my heart? I’m terrified.”
“Why?” The amber that smiles down at her speaks of his confidence in her. Confidence she still doesn’t believe she ever earned, but is grateful for each time she is faced with a challenge she’s uncertain of. “You’ve had dinners before.”
Smiling softly, a memory of hot soup and warm bread shared late at night — a blizzard raging outside and ice thawing from Obi’s coat and hair as he grins, with red cheeks and-
“And we both know that Master would never dare to complain of your table manners, as he’s more apt to slurp soup or spill wine.” He teases and her heart falls, along with her gaze.
“I-” hands tighten and fist until her knuckles grow white; something uncomfortable coils in her belly, though, if she tries, she can almost pretend the corset and its rigid bone structure are to blame. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
With one warm and comfortable hand, Obi gently tips and directs her head; deft fingers work alongside the brush he’d seized and expertly begin to pull her stubborn hair back and into place. “I’ve complete faith in you, Miss. If anyone can survive a night such as this, it’s you.”
The sour and unconvinced look that tugs at her eyebrows and lips makes him snort softly; but he remains silent as he continues to work and weave his fingers through her hair. Eyes sliding shut, it is decidedly difficult to focus on much more than the shrieking of her thoughts, even with the way her hair tugs and twists pleasantly in Obi’s hands.
Obi may truly believe that she is ready for this, but she doesn’t feel ready.
Having dinner with Zen is one thing, but to have a private dinner with the Royal family? To be seated in front of Izana and Haki on any occasion is nerve-wracking; however, there is a difference between pleasant, curt discussions in the garden and needing to be mindful of which fork to use and not to slouch or slurp or belch or-
Or-
Oh, there are countless tragedies that could make her the fool at a dinner such as the one she’s about to walk into. They are all of noble or Royal blood and she-
She is the granddaughter of barkeeps. Rowdy barkeeps, where hardly a dinner passed without a bun or carrot flying across the table in jest or retaliation to a remark. Barkeeps who believed in two courses — dinner and desert — and-
And she is not well enough prepared to tackle an elegant dinner in a dress she cannot breathe in. Perhaps she can still wiggle out of it if she begs Obi to notify Zen that she’s fallen ill. It would be the cowardly thing to do, she knows, but surely, being cowardly is better than being embarrassed?
Because with her luck, there’s a high probability that when she moves even the slightest, her chair will make that awful screeching sound across the floor. Or, worse yet, she’ll shift and the cushions will sound off rather rudely. Perhaps she’ll even spill soup down her front because she is more focused on not slurping than her steadiness or-
“Miss, I need you to breathe-” the hands in her hair stop their movements and a cautious palm comes to rest on her back.
Eyes snapping open with surprise, relief finds her lungs as a pitiful gasp. “Sorry.”
A tight chuckle rattles in his chest as he resumes his work on her hair, “Only you would apologize for forgetting to fill your own lungs.”
Still breathless and lungs greedy, she tries to clear her throat and focus on something other than the scared thoughts bouncing around in her brain, when Obi’s finger snags on a curl and he winces, despite her feeling no pull or pain.
Worry ebbing, Shirayuki rasps, curious, as Obi’s reflection remains entirely focused on her hair and what he’s doing to it. “You’re good at this, Obi.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips, though his amber gaze remains shielded by long lashes. “Thank you, Miss.”
She cannot help the words as they tumble from her, “How did you acquire such a skill?”
There’s a long pause and she begins to worry that she’s offended him or crossed some invisible line she was not meant to know, when he responds quietly, “Ah, I’m afraid that is a secret for another day.”
His tone, while clearly reminiscent, is undoubtedly grieved; it stirs something in her chest and makes her ache to turn and face him, instead of only being able to stare at his reflection. “Obi, I-”
“I’m finished, Miss.” The moment passes quickly and, as he’s coaxing a beautiful handheld mirror into her clenched fists, she knows that no amount of pressing will make him tell her what was responsible for the sadness she’d unwittingly stirred up. He is a man made of secrets, and he keeps them well. “Take a look and let me know what you think.”
Holding the mirror face down on her knees, the dress she’s bound into gives her great difficulties as she spins around to better look up and into curious golden eyes. “I do wish you would trust me more, Obi. Surely you know that I trust you-” more than anyone.
The last of her words get tangled on her tongue, but it doesn't seem to matter, as Obi’s brow raises and a grin threatens to crack the mask he wears. “Oh, do you?”
“Mmm. I’d thought after years of working so closely together, you’d have known by now.” Taking a wobbly stand, letting her navy gown sweep to the floor, she deposits the mirror on the dresser and lets her palm come to rest in the centre of his chest. “But as you appear not to know, I shall tell you.”
Lips parted slightly, amber blinks down at her, something warm and molten and, she selfishly hopes, something reserved only for her, lingers far beneath the surface.
“I trust you, entirely, Obi.” It is only a moment that her fingernails curl into his uniform, but beneath her palm, she thinks his heart beats nearly as hard and fast as hers.
If she were not so keenly aware of Obi and the space he occupies, she would have missed the way his hands flutter, uncertain at his sides. “Miss, I-”
“Ahh- ouch-” breath hiccuping at a sharp and stabbing pain in her side, it is a grimace she wears as she moves to readjust the corset squeezing the life out of her. “Agh, I do hope dinner is over quickly, as I’m not sure how long I can endure this for. I’m told it’s fashionable, but it feels as though my organs are all being squeezed up and out of me. I fear I may burst.”
Obi snorts quietly and shakes his head with a grin, “That would make a mess of dinner.”
Helplessly, she giggles, “It would, wouldn’t it?”
Still with a stitch in her side and moving stiffly about her room to retrieve her shawl from the edge of the bed, the slight tickle of goosebumps down her arms tells her that he’s watching her. Very intensely watching her.
Pursing her lips and making a show of slowly picking fluff from off the shawl as she heads for the door, a sigh — oddly nervous and tight — follows her, “Miss, aren’t you, ah, forgetting something?”
Frowning as she faces him, it is only when he gestures, awkward, towards her hair, that she understands. That she knows what it is that’s bugging him. With a grin taking over, her shoulders drop as though in sudden relief, “Ah, you’re right. Thank you, Obi.”
Nodding and taking what seems to be a shaky breath, he’s already moving to pick up the mirror she’d placed upon the dresser. “I only want to ensure you’re happy with-”
Obi goes silent — his words drying up on his tongue — as she, too, reaches for the dresser and bypasses the mirror entirely.
Fingers wrap around smooth glass and a tassel that has lost some of its strings. She offers it to him, like it is a treasure shared only between the two of them. “Will you put it on for me?”
“Y-You’re not going to look, first?”
It is not often that she surprises him this terribly, but when she does, the look it earns her is easily one of her favourites. With parted lips, raised brows, and endless gold pools that widen and glisten as they study her, he gives the appearance of a man who’s hearing the heartbreakingly beautiful strings of an orchestra for the first time. Entirely captivated and enchanted by the very same thing many people associate only with crowded ballrooms and stuffy gowns, politics and the many woes of Lords and Ladies.
It is one of her favourite expressions to pull from him, because when he looks at her like this, she cannot help but feel like he’s seeing her. Like he’s just managed to catch a glimpse of her soul, buried beneath the frivolous and gaudy outfits meant to be worn by women of much higher status than she.
“I believe I already told you, I trust you entirely.” Turning her cheek towards him with a smile teasing painted lips, she breathes, “I don’t have to look to know what you’ve done is beautiful.”
Obi makes a sound, similar to that of a man choking, but, with steady and careful fingers, he reworks her hair to accommodate her treasure.
____
The delicate ornament, hovering just above her ear, is smooth and familiar against her fingertips as she caresses it for what may be the tenth time in so many minutes. Sewn into a corset, and saddled with a gown borrowed from the Queen’s own wardrobe, it is only the red of her hair and the ornament nesting in it, that feel as though they are her own.
It had been difficult, once Obi slipped the bauble into place, not to steal a glance in the mirror before leaving her room. And she had been so close to arriving at the dinner, without breaking down to see what it is he had done to her hair, but-
But-
In the end, she’d been unable to resist the urge. Not because she didn’t trust that what he did was beautiful, but because she wanted to know its beauty before showing it off to others. The very colour of her hair has always drawn attention — and very rarely has it been positive; but to have her red braided and woven so stunningly that she, herself, believes it to be a thing of true beauty and not just a curse she carries, is far rarer.
So rare that, even though looking in the passing windows and nearly tripping over her own jaw had earned her a hearty chuckle from Obi, she would have liked to have admired it a little longer. Revelled in the beauty that is hers, and hers alone.
“Lord brother,” Zen, absorbed in yet another political conversation that does not concern nor interest her, mindlessly tangles his foot with hers beneath the table, “Earlier you made mention of establishing trade? I assume you speak of our northern neighbours? Atrelia?”
Beside her, Haki clears her throat only loud enough to catch her attention, before she gives a slight roll of her eyes as an impatient frown threatens her lips; the look is certainly not one Shirayuki would associate with a Queen, but it is a look that inspires a tight laugh to get caught up in her throat.
“You assume correctly. Though there are some… negotiations I must work through, first.” Izana takes a careful sip of wine, nose wrinkling only slightly, before continuing, “Kierin, their current-” eyes narrowed, he licks his teeth, tasting the word before he speaks it, “Leader… would like a temporary arrangement — a trial period — to ensure both countries will benefit from trade. And, while I do not necessarily object to her demands, I am concerned that, with political unrest on the horizon and no guarantee of future trade, it will be difficult to convince the necessary parties required to establish the trade, to agree.”
“Unrest?” Zen leans forward, intrigued. “Who else do you plan to involve?”
“Mmm. There are rumours that the throne she sits upon is not hers to claim; and, with the rightful King soon to return, it would seem the Atrelian people are readying themselves to overthrow her.” Fork loosely grasped and hand waving as though bored, Izana’s hard gaze slips to hers momentarily as he muses and begins to prod at the fish still half-eaten on his plate, “Alas, if that were the only concern, I’d not worry myself with involving others; but as I’m sure you’re well aware, the border between us is vast and widely unprotected, worse still, the mountains are rumoured to house a rather ruthless assortment of bandits. To send merchants there, unprotected-”
“They would be dead before they even crossed the border.” Deflating slightly into his chair, kicking her a little too hard in the process and making her wince, Zen’s brows pinch. Mind churning over ideas. He gasps and straightens, “Unless you employ those more knowledgeable in the ways of the mountains-”
“Precisely.” Izana grins, as close to delighted as she’s ever seen. “If we can convince Tanbarun that their spice trade would be invaluable to the system, we may also be in a position to negotiate with the Lions of the Mountain to aid in the protection of our merchants and cargo.”
Clearly having had enough talks of politics, Haki huffs a long, drawn out sigh and rubs at her swollen belly, “Lord Husband, you talk of trade and politics, yet you have hardly touched your food. I fear that at this pace, I shall have this child before the tea has been served.”
Choking into his wine, looking as though it is dangerously close to coming out his nose, Zen’s eyes widen as Izana begins to ramble his apologies.
“Forgive me,” waving a hand, signalling that they’ve finished, there is a pink tint to Izana’s ears and cheeks, bearing striking resemblance to the blush crawling across Zen’s features. “I seem to have gotten carried away.”
His words still echo in the cavernous dining hall as the staff comes forth, their uniforms and tags rustling and jingling as they work to exchange dirtied dishes for clean teacups and saucers. Only when the table is cleared and reset, does a mountain of after-dinner biscuits and baked-goods appear before them.
With her mouth watering, Shirayuki only barely manages to cover her grin when Haki winks at her; though it does not stop her sides from aching with her laughter pressed right up tight against her corset. For all her worry — all of her panic — Obi had been right; she has had dinner nearly every night of her life and, though the company is different, it is still only dinner.
“Ah, I shall forgive you, husband, if only because you are quick to right your wrongs.” Hand stretched out atop her belly and leaning forward to steal a puff pastry from the plate nearest to her, she grins, sweet as the treat held between her slender fingers. “And because you wear a handsome face.”
The blush that had been dusting his cheeks a slight pink, grows a shade darker and threatens to spill down his neck.
The sight should not surprise her as it does. But it is in the way Izana seems to lay, exposed and vulnerable, beneath Haki’s gaze that has something tightening in her chest and fluttering in her stomach. Perhaps the marriage had started as nothing more than political gain, but clearly, that is no longer the case.
She is still casting sidelong glances towards where Haki and Izana seem to be having a discussion in fervent gazes alone, when a reduced staff enters the room; each carries a steaming pot of tea, the china matching the delicate cups laid out on the table before them.
“Miss-”
Shirayuki blinks up at the staff who’s poured her tea, half expecting it to be Obi and his glittering gold smiling down at her, but instead finds herself lost to a green gaze that is as endless and dark as a forest is on a moonless night. Brow furrowed slightly that someone other than Obi might call her 'Miss' in such a way, where it rolls from the tongue as a purr, her smile is curt, “Thank you.”
The deep nod, bordering on a full bow, is incredibly formal and a little off-putting, as none of the other staff seem inclined to show the same respect to those who are of actual royal blood seated at the same table she is.
Shirayuki swallows hard and, with a smile delicate as the teacup before her, she watches as the staff takes their leave; that dark gaze does not leave her until the doors click shut and the room falls into silence. And although a shiver fingers its way up her spine, the silence felt between those she may one day learn to call family, is one that is comfortable and has her feeling rather silly for getting so worked up earlier.
She’ll have to thank — and possibly apologize to — Obi, when she returns this evening.
Perhaps do something kind for him, since he had gone to the trouble of doing her hair for her.
Trying to keep her features from souring over the unease left behind by a blackened stare, or puzzling as she contemplates what she might do for Obi — without him outright refusing her offer — Shirayuki stares, deep into the dark liquid steaming in her cup.
While its smell is floral and overly sweet, it is the colour that strikes her as most unusual. It's the same colour of a lake she once visited. Back when she was knee-high and naive to the ugly ways of the world.
Fingers wrap around the warm cup and, as she inhales the great curls of steam rising off its surface, a memory sweeps her away.
Warm sunlight and sand between her toes. Plump wild berries, sweet with summer. A lake like tea.
Grandparents smiling and laughing. Berry juice staining her cheeks and hands. Splashing in the shallow waves. Minnows nibbling at her ankles, making her shriek.
She can almost hear it. The sound of-
Reality crashes back in, like a rock plummeting into the depths of the lake living within memories. “Wha-”
Haki cries out and Shirayuki’s eyes snap open just in time to watch the Queen clutch at her belly with a harsh gasp.
“Izan-ahh-”
The cup she holds tumbles and shatters against the tile below; dark liquid crawls and stretches and trickles through the cracks. Another cry and Haki curls in on herself, falling to the puddle below as an agonized, broken sob rips from her chest.
Corset biting into her ribs as panic settles in, fingers tremble horribly as Shirayuki hurriedly places her teacup on the edge of the table. If she had thought herself unprepared for dinner, then she is woefully unprepared for an early birth. For any birth. She has no training for this. No knowledge on what to do-
Still, her veins swell and fill with adrenaline as instinct spins ideas in her head. If she can-
“Haki!” Izana stands, slurring and swaying as though drunk. One hand reaches for Haki while the other strikes the corner of the table, as though he intends to lean on it for support; but his elbow buckles the moment his palm flattens on the ornate tablecloth, and he collapses with a sickening thump and bone-chilling groan.
Heart working to pummel itself to dust, terror fills the spaces within her that her corset has not crushed, and her stomach twists into a knot of dread. Something is wrong. Horribly wrong.
Half hidden from view, Haki begins to convulse.
Standing abruptly, already trying to make her way to where they’ve fallen, the chair she’d been sitting in crashes to the floor with an ugly bang. “Haki! Izana!”
With one hand cradling her cheek, Izana’s gaze is trained on his wife’s face — horror and pain battling it out behind terrified blue — as she gives one final spasm and her limbs fall still. The choking, agonized sound he whimpers is one that no human should make. It is a sound she did not think him capable of making.
“Shirayu…” turning to face Zen, she watches, helpless, as his knees buckle and his hands weakly catch at the tablecloth on his way down, “…tea…”
Someone is screaming.
_____
It was her grandmother, who was screaming. Sobbing, full of fear and desperation. She remembers now. That awful sound. And why she had only ever visited the lake that looked like tea, once.
It’s because her grandparents refused to take her back.
She only ever ate those sun ripened berries and played with the minnows once, because that is the day she nearly drowned.
_____
Warmth glides along her cheek. Slips beneath her shoulders.
“Please-”
The voice above her is worried.
“Please, Miss, I need you to look at me-”
Why is he so worried?
“Shirayuki, please, just open your eyes-”
Ah. He’s never done that before — called her name, without stopping to correct himself or swallow up the rest of the syllables before she can hear them. It’s nice. The sound her name makes, sliding from his tongue. But, somehow, she’d always imagined that it would sound different the first time he said it. That it would sound sweet and cherished and important, not-
Not like this.
Not so full of panic.
“Obi?” Voice hardly crackling through the raw shreds of her throat, her eyes slit open uncertainly, searching for the gold she knows exist somewhere above her.
The heat on her cheek moves, pushing her hair back off her forehead, and her eyes finally land on gold. Terrified gold.
“Did you drink any?”
“What?” She wheezes. Winces, when her throat screams in protest.
Why does her throat hurt so much?
And why is her head resting in his lap?
Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath as though he is in great pain, Obi whispers, “Tea. Did you drink any tea, Miss?”
Tea? Why is he asking about-
"A-ah-" nightmarish memories of moments not long ago, return with a vengeance. Warm tears claw their way up the back of her ragged throat and fill her skull until it is dizzy and heavy and thick. Slowly, she shakes her head; the tears slosh around dangerously within. “No.”
“You’re certain?” Eyes still scrunched shut, his voice is impossibly tight, “Your lips… they didn’t touch the cup?”
She blinks, trying to process what her brain does not want to. “No, I-”
A relieved breath escapes him, but he doesn’t say a word. Shifting, gently pulling her into his lap, Obi cradles her to his chest as his arms wrap protectively around her; head falling just under his chin, resting against his chest, his frantic heartbeat and shallow breaths are deafening in her ear.
“Are they…” It is not a question she wants to ask, nor finish. One she fears she already knows the answer to.
Haki and Izana for sure. Zen may have been lucky.
Somewhere, in the back of her brain, she knows she should be clutching to Obi. Sobbing until she cannot breathe. The tears are there, she can feel them, building up and up and up behind her eyes. But they won’t fall.
The shock of it, a dam preventing her from breaking down like she wants to. Like she needs to.
Obi makes a haunted, choking sort of sound that only makes her chest ache and throat burn, and pulls her closer; his breath falling across her hair, voice barely above a whisper, “Haki and- and the baby… and Izana, right after we… after we broke down the door.” Fingers flex into her and she grabs a fistful of his shirt in response, working to bury her face in his chest as he breathes, ragged, “I heard you screaming and I thought…”
Ah, that explains her throat. It was not in memories that someone was screaming. It was her.
Attempting to take a deep breath that only seems to rattle weakly in panicked lungs, Obi clears his throat and tries to keep his tone steady, “Master was still alive when we got here. Kiki immediately ran for the pharmacy so she might tell Garrack and Ryuu to be prepared, while Mitsuhide carried him.” Another attempt to clear his throat and he sniffs, “It’s not confirmed, but I suspect the only reason he’s still alive is because of all those years he spent, after his father’s passing, working to build up an immunity.”
Zen’s alive. That’s good. Garrack and Ryuu will be quick to identify the poison, and administer the antidote. He’ll live. He’ll be fine. She has to believe he’ll be fine, because Izana, Haki and the baby are-
Chest suddenly in danger of collapsing, Shirayuki wheezes, “Do they know who it was?”
“No.” He grows tense. Fingers that shake, bite into her. “I think that Lord Haruka is working to hunt down the staff who were working, but, Miss, he thinks-” swallowing thickly, his voice cracks, “He wants to keep you in a cell until Master recovers.”
“Haruka believes I may be responsible?” The words fall, numb and meaningless, from her tongue.
Though she cannot see what expression he wears, the way his heartbeat grows a little more frantic, tells her she’s correct.
“Even unconscious, your breathing was normal and your cheeks flushed. It’s absurd of him to assume you’ve anything to do with this, based off that alone, but-” he speaks, quiet and broken, “but there’s just been a lethal attack on the Royal Family and he’s desperate. You’re the only who wasn't showing symptoms or laying dead-” breaking off with a ragged and harsh sort of gasp, he tries again, “A-As things currently are, you're the only suspect he has within his reach, and unless he's able to find and apprehend the one who's actually responsible, we’ll need Master to testify your innocence…”
“And if Zen doesn’t recover?” Another question she does not wish to ask. Another question she would rather not know the answer to, but fears she already does. She closes her eyes.
The tightening of Obi’s arms around her is answer enough.