Gin and Kuro: The Greatest Stories

Ozuru always knew he had an obligation to Seiko—to watch her, to make sure she was happy, if only for Mikka’s sake. He never felt it more than watching her slip out of consciousness, murmuring pleas the whole time. Whether or not she meant it, she called him ‘father.’

He made sure someone was near Seiko—to watch her, help her when she woke up—and worked as usual. He anticipated the harsh knock on the door halfway through the afternoon.

Erumi opened the door before he could say anything, her frown and furrowed brow showing anxiety, tiredness, and impatience all at once.

“Please get a doctor for Mikka’s daughter,” she said.

“Has she gotten worse?”

“No—by mine or your standards, at least—but she’s still asleep.” She came inside and leaned against the wall, sighing. “But this can’t be good for her. Yukira abandoned us and Jukazu won’t notice—just ask for someone to look at the girl.”

Ozuru shook his head. “I can’t justify it. Someone will see it, and then they’ll realize Yukira is gone and make mad guesses.”

“A few rumors would be worth the peace of mind, wouldn’t it?”

“You underestimate how infamous we are. They’ll assume, then spread it, then once Yukira gets hold of the information she’ll either perpetuate their lies or announce the truth.”

Erumi let her head rest on the wall and closed her eyes.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But what if it’s…whatever Mikka has? Wouldn’t it be best to confirm it before she starts dying?”

“Mikka didn’t have episodes like her daughter does—and far from the same degree. If anything, it’s more serious than that.”

“And you’re accepting that?” She opened her eyes and scoffed. “And Tsunkei used to call me a bad mother. How selfish are you?”

“I’m trying to consider her feelings,” Ozuru argued. “Being put in the highlight of rumors won’t make it any better—not when she still won’t talk about Yaroko’s death.”

“Mental ills won’t kill her like physical ills will.”

Ozuru sat back in his chair and glanced down at the papers on his desk.

“...You can’t say that for sure.”

Erumi let out an exasperated sigh. She wandered around the room, taking note of things; sometimes she helped, but more often than not she spoke with Eyako in town.

“On another note,” she said after a minute, or tone changed to something more casual, “It’s about time you told Maenomi and Kyuru, don’t you think? The rebels are due for another attack soon, I feel.”

“It’s not a good time,” Ozuru replied, shaking his head. “And it won’t be for a while.”

“Tsujihara could be our last hope,” Erumi pointed out. “When and if that happens, it shouldn’t come out of the blue—they’ll just be suspicious of her.”

“A fresh start could be what we need. At the moment, Seiko has a fairly good reputation—in town, at least. That could change if I said I’m her father.”

Erumi glanced at him for a moment, then walked back to the door.

“Just put it in writing,” she suggested. “That way, at least, you don’t have to rely on Seiko’s memory to retell the events—her, Maenomi, and Kyuru can hear the real story.”

Ozuru nodded. “I already planned to. Mikka’s passed away; I want to make sure our story doesn’t die with her.”

“Good.” She offered a half-wave and took a step to leave. “Might as well check on it. I’ll see if little Tsujihara is doing any better.”

-.-

Here is written the full confession of Gin-Betemo Ozuru. In honor of Tsujihara Mikka, my first and true love.

My father Kyuburu wanted to push social reforms—he wanted to close the distance between nobility and the commoners. He chose to lead by example, so he held little events where Tsunkei and I were brought into the city and anyone would ask us whatever they wanted.

He got more insistent about them when I was sixteen; I believe he wanted us to use it to find wives, especially when I barely left the palace otherwise. I never liked it, however.

I snuck off one day, went to the shrine so my father wouldn’t interrupt me. That’s when I met her—Tsujihara Mikka. She was an orphaned shrine maiden. She was given permission to date solely based on the fact I was a prince—the head priestess didn’t want to risk earning Kyurburu’s ire. Mikka wouldn’t have anywhere to live otherwise, and she would be laughed out of the palace.

We planned to marry in the city, make history with the ceremony. But two things came along:

First, trouble truly closing the gap between commoner and royalty. While nobles could convince their peers that their commoner spouses were suitable, I couldn’t do the same for Mikka. Only my closest family approved—as for the rest, even the servants disliked the idea of someone from such a low standing being elevated so highly.

Second, a little daughter came along during the wait. Marrying a commoner was met with insults—marrying a bastard’s mother, whether or not I was the father, would have all three of us scorned. But I didn’t want to give up.

I married Hyomoto Yukira, a shared friend of mine and Mikka’s and the only woman who didn’t mind that I preferred being with Mikka. I had a second daughter two years after the first. I intended to adopt Seiko so she had a home when Mikka grew ill, and both were allowed to spend time with her.

When Seiko was four, she talked to herself—held full conversations. Sometimes she mentioned a name, and I recognized it as a former member of the royal family. It scared me.

I made the mistake of telling that fear to Hyomoto. From there, she told everyone that a four year old girl was possessed. Mikka got upset that I never shared my concerns with her—rightfully, I’ll add. I told her to take her cursed daughter and leave.

I felt guilty within days, but feared reaching out. I sent money to keep them away from poverty. After fourteen years, I invited Seiko to return to the palace. I wanted to see how she’s grown, selfish as it is…and I knew that Mikka’s ongoing illness must have gotten worse. Tsunkei wanted me to make amends, or at least attempt to repair some of the damage.

I pray Lady Aimiki will forgive my reaction—the reason I am not worthy to take Tsunkei’s place as king—and that at least one of my children survives this war.

Thus concludes the confession.