[wonton]
by trixie_chick
Encounters
She met the father of her youngest son just four times in her life.
The first time was when she was ten. She had just beaten her father at go for the first time in a real game. Though he had been proud of her, he left almost immediately afterward. Feeling awkward, and a bit unsure of herself, she went out into their garden.
Their games had often been close, and he had always bragged about how strategically she planned her moves. This game had been no different, but in a moment of clarity, she had seen an opening early on that allowed her to cut off his ability to gain territory late in the game. It was an odd feeling, beating her own father. She felt proud, but also... sad? And she was not sure how to interpret his reaction. Perhaps, something had really changed between them today. Perhaps that was why she was sad.
She reached out delicately to finger a leaf from the barberry bush. Would her father, perhaps, choose not to continue their weekly games? Her heart raced a tiny bit. She would not want that.
"It was a very good game."
She looked directly at the man who spoke. Later, even years later, she would remember the moment exactly, she would be able to describe how she felt, the temperature and quality of the air, and the way the wind ruffled her sleeves. She would be able to remember his long, elegant fingers, and how his nails were surprising short, but well manicured. She would remember his voice. She would not remember how he wore his hair, or the shape of his eyes, or what manner of clothes he wore. Only his voice, and those incredible fingers.
"Were you watching?" she asked shyly. She was not, as yet, terribly accustomed to speaking to strange men. It never occurred to her to feel nervous or frightened, though. In fact, she did feel as if she had known this man for a long time.
"Of course," he said, and it sounded as if he was amused. "It caught my attention. You have a great skill of seeing what is to come."
"Oh?" she frowned slightly. He made it sound like an extraordinary gift. It seemed very limited, though. It was not as if she could see her own future. "My thanks." She bowed to him, slightly. When her head was down, he put his hand down on her hair, a warm, thrilling presence.
"Do not fret, my little one. We shall meet again."
When she straightened up, he was gone. But, somehow, his words were rather invigorating.
The second time she met him was on the day she was preparing to meet her new husband.
It had all been arranged quite a while ago, but it was decided that it would actual happen that night, and so she was primped, dressed, combed, her cheeks squeezed, her lips painted. She felt like a doll. All the while, she thought about the man she did not know who would visit her.
She did not want anyone to know that she was afraid, so she kept her chin up and her gaze steely. She would be strong. Her family was excited. They would officially be linked to the Fujiwara clan. This was her duty to her kin. She could bear anything if she thought of it in that way, but she still hoped that this mystery man would be pleasant.
Eventually, she was left alone, to wait, and 'prepare' herself. The time alone, though, just meant that she had no one to show her brave face to, and no one to distract her thoughts. Her room had been carefully preened, just as she had been, but the goban had been left in the corner, and she idly wondered if perhaps she might spend her time playing a few hands. She had never worn such heavy robes before, though, and her hair had been declared perfect. If the goban were closer, she would definitely use it to ease her mind, but this far away, she'd be running the risk of ruining her perfect look.
"He is a lucky man."
Startled, she turned to the sound of the voice. Almost immediately, though, she lowered her chin. It seemed like something she had been trained to do, to shy her expression away from a lustful suitor, but this was no suitor, and her reaction felt different than training in some way.
"You... should not be here. My husband is coming..."
"He will be along shortly. You should not be afraid."
"Of course not," she said calmly, and once she said it, she felt it, too. Strange.
That elegant hand once again rested on her head, and while it was there, she was not concerned about the state of her hair. "You will be blessed with good fortune in this marriage," he told her. It felt like a fact. As if him saying so would make it fact.
She raised her eyes, and parted her lips, but no one else was in the room, and the door to her chamber was sliding slowly open, so, calmly, she bowed.
The third time she met him was on the night her youngest son was conceived.
It was hot and sticky, and she had been feeling faint all day. She could hear voice from across the courtyard, her husband's, and friends of his. They were drinking again. She sat in the door to the salon and listened, perhaps solely for the purpose of being annoyed. The children were asleep, thankfully far enough away to not be disturbed. It was ungracious of her, but in this heat, she found the children vexing. She tried to remember how her mother would cope with them growing up, during hot summer days, but selfishly, she wanted to believe that their marriages were not the same. Her mother did not have a bad marriage, but she was not married to someone as grand as her husband, someone who worked so closely with the court, and enjoyed the company of powerful people at all times. So, her mother did not need to wear the sort of fashionable and delicate kimonos she needed to wear at all times. When her mother's children came to her, then, sticky from the heat, and fell into her lap, it was not a potential calamity. Keeping up appearances and making sure to remain beautiful and attractive, both to advance her husband's reputation, and maintain his interest, was crucial to her station.
He had mistresses, of course. She knew of them, and for the most part, she was relieved. When they were first married, her husband barely ever left her alone at night. Sometimes, in the early evening as well, or even in the morning. She neither disliked nor overly enjoyed his lasciviousness, but, while gratifying, it was most certainly taxing. Once she was with child, though, he took his passions elsewhere, which was just as well. They had been blessed a few times over with children, and she had already given her husband three sons, so she would be perfectly pleased to consider her duties completed.
No, she had no problems with his mistresses. They all seemed to be beautiful and talented in different ways. She would not even, in theory, take issue with his ardour being fulfilled with another man. There were plenty of beautiful and desirable men at court daily. It would almost seem natural.
But that boy barely qualified as a journeyman! He had no family, and no name! And the way her husband chased after him was soon to be a horrifying scandal! What was worse, when she tried to talk to him about it delicately, he brushed her off! As if, as the mother of their sons, she had nothing to say about it!
She was sick of him!
Fanning herself weakly, she stared daggers across the courtyard, wondering if that boy was with them now, drinking, and if he would be warming her husband's bed on this already too hot night.
"Such dark thoughts will only mar your beauty," she was chided.
Spinning around, she looked to the voice, but her attention was diverted by the goban that had appeared next to her. The sheen of the fine wood was utterly dazzling, appearing coppery and golden with the capricious light. "Oh!" she could not help exclaiming. It was completely enchanting.
"Forget him and his selfishness. Play with me."
Right before her, then, she noticed that there was a fine bowl filled with luminescent white stones. Shyly, she dipped her fingers in, feeling peripherally that something was amiss. She was so enthralled, though, by the feel of these cool, smooth stones, every last concern escaped her mind. They were pearls! Beautiful pearls that seemed to glow from within, each perfectly shaped for go. She felt a tiny blush steal across her face.
She picked up one perfect pearl stone, and prepared to lay it at her favorite starting point. "I fear that I have not kept up with my play," she confessed, as if it were a mortal sin.
"You have nothing to fear," he assured her, and just like that, her fears disappeared.
When she placed the stone, she felt a tiny thrill run up her fingers. She re-situated herself more comfortably before the board, anxiously watching for his first move. His long and delicate fingers, so perfectly formed, so beautiful, placed a singular obsidian stone in the complement position to hers. Her breath caught.
It was far more erotic than poetry, those fingers!
Not another word was spoken during the game, but it was not long before she could not speak another word. Each stone laid down tingled and excited her more and more, the sensations dancing further and further up, at first just along her fingers, and then spinning in the palms of her hands, and then moving up her arms. His stones swooped in to make a move around hers, and she felt the graceful pressure of arms snaking around her torso. He captured one of her stones, and she felt him pressing to enter against her very flesh. It would have been easy, oh, so easy, to just give into his advances! However, the more pleasure she derived from his hands, the more she needed. She had to lay down hands that were equal to his. Playing what was remarkably the best game of her life, she was still certain that he was holding back, as if he were merely playing a teaching game. That feeling, however, was less like an overwhelming pressure from above, and more an undulating pressure from within.
Her stones, inevitably, gave into the tide of his, and she leaned back against the doorframe, taking long, deep breaths, feeling such intense pleasure pulsating all throughout her body.
When her eyes lazily slipped open, she realized that she was alone in the salon, there was no goban, no stones, and her legs were spread far apart. Certain that her kimono would be stained with her own passion, if nothing else, she quickly arranged herself and departed for her own chambers.
Nine months to the day later, she gave birth.
The fourth and final time she met him was on the day her Sai played for the right to be the Emperor's instructor.
Her husband waited with her long after the fateful game was concluded. She did not understand what a word like banished meant when applied to her son, but obviously, he had to come home at least one last time. Even her husband agreed. She waited, her body rigid and frozen to the core. Banished. Her husband seemed equally concerned, and though she suspected that his concern was primarily for their reputation in court rather than for her son, she spoke not a breath of it out loud. Not once in Sai's life had her husband ever behaved as if he were anything less than Sai's father, so it was entirely possible, perhaps even likely, that his fears were as hers.
And yet, Sai was her son only.
Darkness came and the stars became visible, and the moon cast pale light over the estate. In other corners, life continued as normal, but in their spot, it was as if time had frozen completely. Her husband eventually drifted off to sleep, but she was as alert as she had ever been in her life.
Waiting for her son to return to her.
"He is with me now," the voice said, sounding something other than calm and soothing for the first time ever.
She narrowed her eyes. "He is my son. Give him back!"
"Some things, once done, cannot be undone," he replied calmly, but the melancholic tone was still present. "I am sorry."
She turned to face him, really face him for the first time ever. She looked into his fathomless eyes, as deep as darkness itself. "I will never play go again!" It was not much, but it was all that she could do to hurt such a person as he.
"I know," he replied, almost dejected. "That is why I am sorry."
Encounters
She met the father of her youngest son just four times in her life.
The first time was when she was ten. She had just beaten her father at go for the first time in a real game. Though he had been proud of her, he left almost immediately afterward. Feeling awkward, and a bit unsure of herself, she went out into their garden.
Their games had often been close, and he had always bragged about how strategically she planned her moves. This game had been no different, but in a moment of clarity, she had seen an opening early on that allowed her to cut off his ability to gain territory late in the game. It was an odd feeling, beating her own father. She felt proud, but also... sad? And she was not sure how to interpret his reaction. Perhaps, something had really changed between them today. Perhaps that was why she was sad.
She reached out delicately to finger a leaf from the barberry bush. Would her father, perhaps, choose not to continue their weekly games? Her heart raced a tiny bit. She would not want that.
"It was a very good game."
She looked directly at the man who spoke. Later, even years later, she would remember the moment exactly, she would be able to describe how she felt, the temperature and quality of the air, and the way the wind ruffled her sleeves. She would be able to remember his long, elegant fingers, and how his nails were surprising short, but well manicured. She would remember his voice. She would not remember how he wore his hair, or the shape of his eyes, or what manner of clothes he wore. Only his voice, and those incredible fingers.
"Were you watching?" she asked shyly. She was not, as yet, terribly accustomed to speaking to strange men. It never occurred to her to feel nervous or frightened, though. In fact, she did feel as if she had known this man for a long time.
"Of course," he said, and it sounded as if he was amused. "It caught my attention. You have a great skill of seeing what is to come."
"Oh?" she frowned slightly. He made it sound like an extraordinary gift. It seemed very limited, though. It was not as if she could see her own future. "My thanks." She bowed to him, slightly. When her head was down, he put his hand down on her hair, a warm, thrilling presence.
"Do not fret, my little one. We shall meet again."
When she straightened up, he was gone. But, somehow, his words were rather invigorating.
The second time she met him was on the day she was preparing to meet her new husband.
It had all been arranged quite a while ago, but it was decided that it would actual happen that night, and so she was primped, dressed, combed, her cheeks squeezed, her lips painted. She felt like a doll. All the while, she thought about the man she did not know who would visit her.
She did not want anyone to know that she was afraid, so she kept her chin up and her gaze steely. She would be strong. Her family was excited. They would officially be linked to the Fujiwara clan. This was her duty to her kin. She could bear anything if she thought of it in that way, but she still hoped that this mystery man would be pleasant.
Eventually, she was left alone, to wait, and 'prepare' herself. The time alone, though, just meant that she had no one to show her brave face to, and no one to distract her thoughts. Her room had been carefully preened, just as she had been, but the goban had been left in the corner, and she idly wondered if perhaps she might spend her time playing a few hands. She had never worn such heavy robes before, though, and her hair had been declared perfect. If the goban were closer, she would definitely use it to ease her mind, but this far away, she'd be running the risk of ruining her perfect look.
"He is a lucky man."
Startled, she turned to the sound of the voice. Almost immediately, though, she lowered her chin. It seemed like something she had been trained to do, to shy her expression away from a lustful suitor, but this was no suitor, and her reaction felt different than training in some way.
"You... should not be here. My husband is coming..."
"He will be along shortly. You should not be afraid."
"Of course not," she said calmly, and once she said it, she felt it, too. Strange.
That elegant hand once again rested on her head, and while it was there, she was not concerned about the state of her hair. "You will be blessed with good fortune in this marriage," he told her. It felt like a fact. As if him saying so would make it fact.
She raised her eyes, and parted her lips, but no one else was in the room, and the door to her chamber was sliding slowly open, so, calmly, she bowed.
The third time she met him was on the night her youngest son was conceived.
It was hot and sticky, and she had been feeling faint all day. She could hear voice from across the courtyard, her husband's, and friends of his. They were drinking again. She sat in the door to the salon and listened, perhaps solely for the purpose of being annoyed. The children were asleep, thankfully far enough away to not be disturbed. It was ungracious of her, but in this heat, she found the children vexing. She tried to remember how her mother would cope with them growing up, during hot summer days, but selfishly, she wanted to believe that their marriages were not the same. Her mother did not have a bad marriage, but she was not married to someone as grand as her husband, someone who worked so closely with the court, and enjoyed the company of powerful people at all times. So, her mother did not need to wear the sort of fashionable and delicate kimonos she needed to wear at all times. When her mother's children came to her, then, sticky from the heat, and fell into her lap, it was not a potential calamity. Keeping up appearances and making sure to remain beautiful and attractive, both to advance her husband's reputation, and maintain his interest, was crucial to her station.
He had mistresses, of course. She knew of them, and for the most part, she was relieved. When they were first married, her husband barely ever left her alone at night. Sometimes, in the early evening as well, or even in the morning. She neither disliked nor overly enjoyed his lasciviousness, but, while gratifying, it was most certainly taxing. Once she was with child, though, he took his passions elsewhere, which was just as well. They had been blessed a few times over with children, and she had already given her husband three sons, so she would be perfectly pleased to consider her duties completed.
No, she had no problems with his mistresses. They all seemed to be beautiful and talented in different ways. She would not even, in theory, take issue with his ardour being fulfilled with another man. There were plenty of beautiful and desirable men at court daily. It would almost seem natural.
But that boy barely qualified as a journeyman! He had no family, and no name! And the way her husband chased after him was soon to be a horrifying scandal! What was worse, when she tried to talk to him about it delicately, he brushed her off! As if, as the mother of their sons, she had nothing to say about it!
She was sick of him!
Fanning herself weakly, she stared daggers across the courtyard, wondering if that boy was with them now, drinking, and if he would be warming her husband's bed on this already too hot night.
"Such dark thoughts will only mar your beauty," she was chided.
Spinning around, she looked to the voice, but her attention was diverted by the goban that had appeared next to her. The sheen of the fine wood was utterly dazzling, appearing coppery and golden with the capricious light. "Oh!" she could not help exclaiming. It was completely enchanting.
"Forget him and his selfishness. Play with me."
Right before her, then, she noticed that there was a fine bowl filled with luminescent white stones. Shyly, she dipped her fingers in, feeling peripherally that something was amiss. She was so enthralled, though, by the feel of these cool, smooth stones, every last concern escaped her mind. They were pearls! Beautiful pearls that seemed to glow from within, each perfectly shaped for go. She felt a tiny blush steal across her face.
She picked up one perfect pearl stone, and prepared to lay it at her favorite starting point. "I fear that I have not kept up with my play," she confessed, as if it were a mortal sin.
"You have nothing to fear," he assured her, and just like that, her fears disappeared.
When she placed the stone, she felt a tiny thrill run up her fingers. She re-situated herself more comfortably before the board, anxiously watching for his first move. His long and delicate fingers, so perfectly formed, so beautiful, placed a singular obsidian stone in the complement position to hers. Her breath caught.
It was far more erotic than poetry, those fingers!
Not another word was spoken during the game, but it was not long before she could not speak another word. Each stone laid down tingled and excited her more and more, the sensations dancing further and further up, at first just along her fingers, and then spinning in the palms of her hands, and then moving up her arms. His stones swooped in to make a move around hers, and she felt the graceful pressure of arms snaking around her torso. He captured one of her stones, and she felt him pressing to enter against her very flesh. It would have been easy, oh, so easy, to just give into his advances! However, the more pleasure she derived from his hands, the more she needed. She had to lay down hands that were equal to his. Playing what was remarkably the best game of her life, she was still certain that he was holding back, as if he were merely playing a teaching game. That feeling, however, was less like an overwhelming pressure from above, and more an undulating pressure from within.
Her stones, inevitably, gave into the tide of his, and she leaned back against the doorframe, taking long, deep breaths, feeling such intense pleasure pulsating all throughout her body.
When her eyes lazily slipped open, she realized that she was alone in the salon, there was no goban, no stones, and her legs were spread far apart. Certain that her kimono would be stained with her own passion, if nothing else, she quickly arranged herself and departed for her own chambers.
Nine months to the day later, she gave birth.
The fourth and final time she met him was on the day her Sai played for the right to be the Emperor's instructor.
Her husband waited with her long after the fateful game was concluded. She did not understand what a word like banished meant when applied to her son, but obviously, he had to come home at least one last time. Even her husband agreed. She waited, her body rigid and frozen to the core. Banished. Her husband seemed equally concerned, and though she suspected that his concern was primarily for their reputation in court rather than for her son, she spoke not a breath of it out loud. Not once in Sai's life had her husband ever behaved as if he were anything less than Sai's father, so it was entirely possible, perhaps even likely, that his fears were as hers.
And yet, Sai was her son only.
Darkness came and the stars became visible, and the moon cast pale light over the estate. In other corners, life continued as normal, but in their spot, it was as if time had frozen completely. Her husband eventually drifted off to sleep, but she was as alert as she had ever been in her life.
Waiting for her son to return to her.
"He is with me now," the voice said, sounding something other than calm and soothing for the first time ever.
She narrowed her eyes. "He is my son. Give him back!"
"Some things, once done, cannot be undone," he replied calmly, but the melancholic tone was still present. "I am sorry."
She turned to face him, really face him for the first time ever. She looked into his fathomless eyes, as deep as darkness itself. "I will never play go again!" It was not much, but it was all that she could do to hurt such a person as he.
"I know," he replied, almost dejected. "That is why I am sorry."