Glimpses.
They end up at a stream. It is close by, and she knew nothing about the terrace, but the stream is nice. It keeps on moving and moving and glistening underneath the afternoon sun. It is peaceful.
She keeps looking at the stream, walking along its shore. Ann is sitting in the bench nearby, but she wants to move, for a while more. Ann isn’t one to move more than needed though. She’s weak, so Ayaka has to keep close.
“Ayaka.”
“Hm?” She hums, distracted by the water. It’s so pretty, this time of day. All blue and glittering light and shadow casted green.
“Don’t come so close to the water.”
Ayaka tilts her head, but complies anyway. A slow walk and she plops herself down next to her sister, who has a picture book in her hand. The stream still flows.
“Tell me a story, Ann.”
“Hm? There is no story here.” It is a picture book, after all. But Ayaka doesn’t need a story. She wants sounds.
“Humor me?”
“… Very well.” There’s a resigned note in her voice, but her request is accommodated anyway. “This flower is a rose. The rose is known, far and wide, as the most romantic of all. Some dare call it the queen of flowers.”
“Is it though?”
“I would not say so, no.” An amused tilt to Ann’s lips, like she is aware of just how petulant Ayaka is acting, and choosing to let her do it anyway. How… loving. Almost maternal of her. Ayaka let the warmth wash over her anyway, content to just sit back and be loved this time around.
“This is a dandelion. A wildflower, growing everywhere and anywhere. Cracks of walls, closed gates, any place it can find.” Ann points to another picture.
“Oh?”
“A stubborn one.” Stubbornness used to be a virtue of Clara, so Ayaka remembers the feeling quite clearly. To become something from nothing… That was what her family had been about, in the end.
“And what does the dandelion do?”
“It asks for the rose’s dew. A fool’s heart, its bright color endears it to the rose. She tips her leaves and lets the dandelion have its fill.” A merciful queen, or about as merciful as can be. An act of charity at best, pity at worst. Clara remembers pity. She hated it.
“What happens next?”
“The dandelion grows, and it crowds the rose. Its stem grows tall and its leaves wide, blocking the sun. The rose, in turn, asks it to let her have her land, as she once let it thrive underneath her shade.”
“Does the dandelion agree?” Would it be a reasonable one or a tyrant? Would they be understanding?
“No. It laughs at the rose, and steals from her soils, growing taller and taller, taking what was once hers.”
“The dandelion sounds cruel.”
“Hm. It does, doesn’t it?”
“Does the rose survive?”
“She does, wilted and fragile, but she survives. Not thrive, but survive, with her leaves brown and her petals droop.”
“Does she take back her land?”
“She finds a way, yes. She fights with whatever little light she has, growing up and up and up. Her leaves, one day, finally breach the wall of dandelion’s green.”
“Oh. Does the dandelion pay for its-its…”
“Betrayal? Yes. The rose is strong, and now she has hardened her heart. Thorns sprout from her stem and cut into the dandelion’s body. Her leaves grow ragged and razor sharp, guarding her body. She is still beautiful, but she is now also strong.”
“Really?”
“No. The rose wilted and died underneath the shadow of the dandelion.”
“Oh. I don’t like the story. It’s sad.”
“It is, isn’t it? But such is life.”
“Such is life?”
Ann doesn’t elaborate. Ayaka likes to pretend she understands it all. The story hides something, she knows. She just doesn’t know what it is.
It still strikes a cord in her. A reminder. Ann is always watching, her twin oh so observant and clever at such a young age. Is she young at all? Is Ann like her, or is she just an old soul? Ayaka would probably never know the answer, but she would look out for Ann until she could no longer. Life is tragedies and betrayals and lies, is shrouded in both darkness and light, a game none can win and everyone loses. Life is death in reverse, or is it? Life is the painful twist of hurt and pain and sensation that cut you up and left you scarred over, is delightful laugh and smile and contentment at the passage of time. Death is drifting and floating away in the void, soundless and unaware and unperceived.
Ayaka will choose life over death any day, but sometimes she wonders if she shouldn’t have.
They sit by the stream, Ayak watching the water and Ann reading. It’s not ideal, not even close. But they are two in one, a twin born from the same womb, and so they learn to be each other’s. Ayaka spent whatever time left running around, before taking Ann back to the orphanage as dusk paints the sky red. Their shadows intertwined.
They were nearly 3 when they decided to venture out to the village. The library was, apparently, enough of a bribe for Ann to take the slow walk from the orphanage. The walk itself is uneventful, but Ayaka chats at her twin all the same.
It’s so easy to talk about mundane things these days, Ayaka muses to herself. She used to be so quiet, talking to almost no one and reading her books. Now the role is switched. Ayaka decides she doesn’t really mind it. She likes the new her a bit more. Less quiet, more active, happier, more connected. So much more than the husk she used to be, going through the motions and all. She had been… disillusioned with the other world, and never made any efforts to actually try. But this time, with a not quite child of a twin by her side, Ayaka thinks she can manage.
The war brought changes, or so they were told. Ayaka personally doesn’t really care, not anymore. She has never been the sympathetic type, after all. The third shinobi war though… it sounds vaguely familiar, only ever in the most distant of sense. She doesn’t remember, but she can say she’s not really worried. War is war all the same, no matter its nature-or its placement.
They have nothing but 3 rice balls to share between themselves. For a whole day, that’s not good. But for a war stricken military dictatorship totally focused on fighting? It’s amazing that they still spare so much for orphans. Children need nutrients, yes, and Ann most of all, but it is unlikely that they have a choice. There’s no alternative, and because it's a war that people won’t buy anything she can make, is willing to make.
The library is, for the sparseness of a child’s vocabulary, huge. Wooden beams and polished walls. Carefully placed trees, not too close to any window to comfortably jump over, but conveniently blocking sight of any possible attacker. Or so she thinks. What does Ayaka know? Nothing at all, thank you very much.
There’s a man manning the desk, a… headband on his head. (hitai-ate, her mind whispers, information dredged up from somewhere unknown. Shinobi, it says, and she looks closer and sees a predator.) The metal plate attached is roughed up, but obviously beloved. He wears a uniform, something they have seen in the village a lot, with its washed out green and the multitude of pockets. She looks at him and sees a piercing gaze behind the lazy demeanor. It is almost enough to make her take Ann by the arm and turn around. Almost.
Instead, she steps forward and asks for information on what they need to do to come and read. And when she doesn’t step away from the searching look, it feels like a win. It may be, may not be, as she and Ann are ushered into the archives of books with a library card each, red bands declaring them as having the lowest clearance possible.
(Civilians, her thoughts remind, not important. And she wants to scream at the world for withholding information, when it can save lives, make a difference, except she understands the need, so she keeps her mouth shut. Still. One day. One day.)