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rainbowfic2025-05-14 04:53 pm
verylongfarewell) wrote in rainbowfic2025-05-14 04:53 pm
jasper #17; cattleya #4; calcite #5 | check; adazakura
Name: Check
Story: Adazakura
Colors: Jasper, Calcite, Cattleya
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 700+
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
____________________
CHECK
The men at the checkpoint up ahead eye Natsu-sama first, then the fine horse and lastly, their greedy expressions falling somewhat, they catch sight of Isamu, walking three steps behind with the wooden staff in his right hand. The guards call something out to each other, one stepping forward and motioning for Natsu-sama to halt. She urges the horse to a gentle stop.
“Woman, do you have permission to travel?”
Since the guard deigns to speak that way to Natsu-sama, Isamu moves up along the side of the horse, all the way in front of his mistress, blocking the guard’s view of her as he steps in between without a word.
“Hey! I was talking to the lady,” the man barks out, looking thoroughly provoked. Isamu tightens his hold on the staff, feeling its weight between his fingers like reassurance. A divine promise.
“She is travelling for her health,” Isamu says, as he has been instructed by the master, the permit has been fixed and lies securely fastened to the inside of his yukata. If necessary, he can procure it, and it will say the same. Travelling for health reasons. However, only if necessary, the master had insisted.
Natsu-sama owes these men nothing. Even if they think differently, as is obvious. The one that Isamu is talking to cranes his neck to look behind him.
Isamu doesn’t move.
“Really? For her health? She looks fine to me,” another guard says, moving up next to the first, making Isamu noticeably shift his staff from one hand to the other in warning. Both men look nonchalantly unimpressed.
By their sides, their katana hang within easy reach.
“She is travelling for her health,” Isamu repeats, not bashing an eyelash or changing his intonation. If he sounds more insistent the second time, it must be something they are imagining, surely. The end of his staff rests heavily against the dusty ground, the road continuing many shaku ahead, disappearing behind the checkpoint and into the bamboo groves that balance on the horizon.
The first guard exchanges a look with the second. “We’ll need to see a permit,” he drawls, all impolite smiles. “And to know where you’re going from here.”
Even as he replies, “Osaka,” Isamu doesn’t relax. One-handedly, he reaches inside his yukata and fishes out the letter from the Kyoto officials, granting one Natsu, daughter of Fumitaka, lacquerware maker, permission to cross all borders freely, in the company of her servant, Isamu. Silently, the men study it, reading the words, feeling the paper, turning it over and holding it up against the light. When they are finally satisfied, they toss it rudely at Isamu, although he catches the document safely with his free hand.
Carefully, he folds it away once more.
“Osaka, huh?” The second guard comments, turning away and slapping the other on one shoulder to make him join him in moving the bar that is dividing the road into this side and that. “You’ll be arriving right as the rainy season starts.”
Both men laugh. “Hope you brought umbrellas!”
Isamu doesn’t reply, turning towards Natsu-sama and gesturing for her to proceed, no time to waste when she has had to witness such a shameful performance, really. Natsu-sama, in turn, gives the horse’s reins a slight pull and the two, the fine horse and the fine lady, move side by side down the wide road, passing by the guards without as much as a glance aside. They follow her with their gazes, that must be enough.
The last to pass, before the bar is eased back into place behind his back, Isamu finds that a childish, petty part of him wants to warn the guards of the dangers of idleness, as they go back to waiting for the next reminder of a life away from this solitary checkpoint.
They are loud in waiting, too.
“Do I seem sick to you, Isamu?” Natsu-sama wants to know, when Isamu finally falls into step right behind her. “You looked so unshakeable in your conviction.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he tells her. “You would be driven insane, staying in just one place for too long. We are trying to avoid that.”
The way she laughs at him sounds not unlike the chime of bells in the crisp evening air. And it rings out for at least a good handful of the many shaku leading into Osaka.
Story: Adazakura
Colors: Jasper, Calcite, Cattleya
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 700+
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
____________________
The men at the checkpoint up ahead eye Natsu-sama first, then the fine horse and lastly, their greedy expressions falling somewhat, they catch sight of Isamu, walking three steps behind with the wooden staff in his right hand. The guards call something out to each other, one stepping forward and motioning for Natsu-sama to halt. She urges the horse to a gentle stop.
“Woman, do you have permission to travel?”
Since the guard deigns to speak that way to Natsu-sama, Isamu moves up along the side of the horse, all the way in front of his mistress, blocking the guard’s view of her as he steps in between without a word.
“Hey! I was talking to the lady,” the man barks out, looking thoroughly provoked. Isamu tightens his hold on the staff, feeling its weight between his fingers like reassurance. A divine promise.
“She is travelling for her health,” Isamu says, as he has been instructed by the master, the permit has been fixed and lies securely fastened to the inside of his yukata. If necessary, he can procure it, and it will say the same. Travelling for health reasons. However, only if necessary, the master had insisted.
Natsu-sama owes these men nothing. Even if they think differently, as is obvious. The one that Isamu is talking to cranes his neck to look behind him.
Isamu doesn’t move.
“Really? For her health? She looks fine to me,” another guard says, moving up next to the first, making Isamu noticeably shift his staff from one hand to the other in warning. Both men look nonchalantly unimpressed.
By their sides, their katana hang within easy reach.
“She is travelling for her health,” Isamu repeats, not bashing an eyelash or changing his intonation. If he sounds more insistent the second time, it must be something they are imagining, surely. The end of his staff rests heavily against the dusty ground, the road continuing many shaku ahead, disappearing behind the checkpoint and into the bamboo groves that balance on the horizon.
The first guard exchanges a look with the second. “We’ll need to see a permit,” he drawls, all impolite smiles. “And to know where you’re going from here.”
Even as he replies, “Osaka,” Isamu doesn’t relax. One-handedly, he reaches inside his yukata and fishes out the letter from the Kyoto officials, granting one Natsu, daughter of Fumitaka, lacquerware maker, permission to cross all borders freely, in the company of her servant, Isamu. Silently, the men study it, reading the words, feeling the paper, turning it over and holding it up against the light. When they are finally satisfied, they toss it rudely at Isamu, although he catches the document safely with his free hand.
Carefully, he folds it away once more.
“Osaka, huh?” The second guard comments, turning away and slapping the other on one shoulder to make him join him in moving the bar that is dividing the road into this side and that. “You’ll be arriving right as the rainy season starts.”
Both men laugh. “Hope you brought umbrellas!”
Isamu doesn’t reply, turning towards Natsu-sama and gesturing for her to proceed, no time to waste when she has had to witness such a shameful performance, really. Natsu-sama, in turn, gives the horse’s reins a slight pull and the two, the fine horse and the fine lady, move side by side down the wide road, passing by the guards without as much as a glance aside. They follow her with their gazes, that must be enough.
The last to pass, before the bar is eased back into place behind his back, Isamu finds that a childish, petty part of him wants to warn the guards of the dangers of idleness, as they go back to waiting for the next reminder of a life away from this solitary checkpoint.
They are loud in waiting, too.
“Do I seem sick to you, Isamu?” Natsu-sama wants to know, when Isamu finally falls into step right behind her. “You looked so unshakeable in your conviction.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he tells her. “You would be driven insane, staying in just one place for too long. We are trying to avoid that.”
The way she laughs at him sounds not unlike the chime of bells in the crisp evening air. And it rings out for at least a good handful of the many shaku leading into Osaka.
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