For the women under the rule of the Kōrō shogunate, spring was the season of rebirth. Though the shogunate’s eternal sakura had been engineered to never wither, never stop blooming even under the harshest of conditions, there were some who still valued the transient nature of the original, among them some of the most powerful women in the Coalition. One of these, of course, was Kofuku Ayane, the Daimyo’s wife, who he had apparently rescued during the initial survey of Daizo-Shikigami, before the designing of the summer palace, and before they had known that human habitation was, in fact, possible. Reports from the samurai of the time, when the clan was still fledgeling and harbouring the new rising star of the Coalition in an age of stagnation and regress, were tainted with an air of embellishment, each exhibiting a characteristic bias in the way events were worded. Their luscious descriptions of Takeshi’s efforts varied in how they chose to portray him, but all agreed on one thing: it was love at first sight when he laid his eyes upon Ayane. The two quickly became inseparable, despite the strange observations his retainers made, there was no denying what they had was real. In spite of the hiccups in the process of integrating her into their culture - something rumours the Daimyo spared no expense in smoothing over - they were wed within the next year, and Ayane was with child not long after. In some more colourful recollections, one retainer described a plot by a rival ruler to destabilise Takeshi's image by proving that he was under some sort of seductive spell - only for the spy to discover nothing, defecting to their domain instead.

It was a story Akiraka knew well, and one of the ways she had been taught to read Xingram in addition to the common Angloc. As for the identity of the defected spy, it was never stated, although she had some idea based on the way Kimura spoke about the story, adding details that were never present in the text and then acting as if he had made up more fanciful details to make her education more fun. Though, now that she was eleven, it seemed to her that everyone just treated it as an open secret. This didn’t just apply to the tale of the spy, but the descriptions of her mother in the early years, something she didn’t need a semi-fictional account to tell her about.

The wind in the courtyard was warm, coming off the end of the long winter, and the authentic sakura transplanted into the backyard by Ayane’s own order was in full bloom. The shade, Kofuku found, was much more vibrant than the immortal variety, the pigment coming from a full year’s worth of stubbornness, of the desire to live through the other, harsher seasons. Then, during the sakuragari, the “cherry blossom hunt”, all the important women in their entourage or their accessories would gather up the petals that had fallen from the tree, a role Kofuku performed with as much enthusiasm and rigour as she could muster. Once she filled the little woven basket-cup they had all been given, she would hop over to the large altar-like stone table that was set up under the sakura, adding to the train of little cups of petals beside her mother. Kofuku stood watching as the petals were poured into a large stone bowl on the ground, and her mother took up a large pestle to grind it into a paste while an attendant added a clear water-based solution to it, transforming the plant matter into a bright pink, paint-like paste.

One of the women in the long line before the table stepped up, removing her helmet and handing her sword to Yamashiro, and with a single pull, let down her several locks of long, strawberry blonde hair. She climbed onto the stone table and laid down, her head facing Kofuku’s mother and allowing the long strands to pour over the edge. Ayane soaked her gloved hands in the pink liquid in the bow, and lifted them up, running her fingers through the samurai’s hair. She made long strokes, applying the dye all the way from the scalp to the ends, covering the blonde up with the same colour as her own hair, slowly and methodically painting each and every single strand. Two attendants arrived with a large piece of silken cloth, wiping away the excess, and the sheet was fastened around her neck, providing protection from her clothing underneath from the dye. In the morning sun, the coloured dried quickly, courtesy of the chemical properties of the solvent.

The samurai sat up, bowing to Ayane. “Like a flower blooming”. Hana ga saku you ni.

She nodded. “To layer tradition.” Dentou wo kasaneru.

Kofuku gave a little smile and wave as the samurai went on her way, receiving her gear back from Yamashiro headed to the path down to the lake to wait for the colours to dry with the other women.

“That’s all the officials done,” Ayane said, looking around at her. “So it’s your turn.”

Kofuku wasted no time climbing onto the stone slate, lying down in the same way as her predecessor. It was almost hot to touch in the sunlight, but she kept her hands on her stomach, only feeling the warmth through the back of her clothes. As she got into position, however, she felt strange - lying down like this, in front of hundreds of statesmen and attendants, was all too exposed for her liking. As she shifted uncomfortably, and thought about getting off, asking her mother for some dyeing and doing it in her quarters like she usually did, but the gentle touch of her mother’s gloved hands, unfurling her hair over the edge of the table sent those thoughts away into nothingness.

“Settle down,” her mother said quietly. “This ritual is about peace, Akiraka. Peace in transience.”

“What about dad?”

“What about him?” There was the sound of grinding, and the sloshing of liquid.

“He fights so hard for everything. Why fight if everything is just going to go away?”

“Because,” Ayane said, placing the first of the dye onto her daughter’s hair. “What we fight to preserve shapes what is to come.”

Kofuku frowned. She wasn’t sure if she believed that. But she kept the sentiment to herself, closing her eyes and waiting for the process to finish. She felt the liquid on her scalp, falling off her hair and into the grass, and staining the skin behind her ears. The cloth came over, and wiped off some of the dye, before being secured around her neck as a makeshift poncho. She sat up, perhaps a little too fast, like she was trying to get away from the thoughts festering in her head.

Across the yard, a congregation of people in dark clothes emerged from the main palace building, two of them carrying umbrellas over a figure who was shrouded in a material that looked reflective from a distance. They appeared to be headed for the path around to the front of the palace.

“Akiraka.”

Kofuku quickly turned around, and seeing her mother’s scowl, bowed. “Like a flower blooming”.

“To layer tradition. You should head down to the lake. I heard the girls are playing volleyball soon. You wanted to practice, didn’t you?”

“Why are the Tidekeepers here?” Kofuku asked, watching as the black-robed figures disappeared around the corner.

“Your father’s business. Let’s let the others have their turn, Akiraka.”

“Oh, sorry!” She quickly moved out of the way, but as she did so, spotted Kimura coming back from where the Tidekeepers had gone. He was staring at the screen of his phone, brow furrowed, and made his way back into the building, ignoring the other officials on the property.

She decided against volleyball by the lake, and followed him inside, following suit by not responding to any of the attendants asking her where she was going. Inside, she watched Kimura turn a corner, and lifted her dress to jog faster on the wood. Two turns later, and still failing to catch to him, Kofuku figured out where he was going. When she turned the corner to see the door to her father’s study ajar, she stopped. There was no telling if the Tidekeepers had done something, said something that he was still dealing with. Maybe that was why he had called for Kimura, to deal with a brewing problem.

And yet something overcame her in the moment, tickling in the back of her mind. For the past eleven years, perhaps she had paid little attention to how often he was away - she had always had her mother and more importantly, Kimura. She had been raised with decorum, and she had seen Kimura enter that room to do this exact thing, but today, something was off. She knew him, and she could tell that for the first time, he seemed unhappy. Before she even knew it, she was tip-toeing towards the door, keeping to the side of its hinge to shield herself.

Both Kimura and her father spoke quietly. Perhaps it was how they normally spoke together, as old friends, but as she got closer, suddenly there was a thunk as something slammed onto wood.

“Damn it, Takeshi. It’s not our problem. They can sort that out themselves.” Kimura’s tone had lost all its patience.

Kofuku had, of course, never heard anybody talk to her father in that way.

“If we don’t sort it out, sooner or later it will be. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in months or years, but it’s inevitable,” Takeshi said.

His voice burned itself into her mind, making her wonder how often it was she had actually heard him talk to her.

“They’re an insurgency.”

“They’re an officially sanctioned taskforce. They’ve died for us, Kōhei. That business with Dunham and the vault? It never came back to us because we helped them and they helped us. You know what they’ve sent us over the years. They understand what we want to do with the Shogun, no, they wanted to help. That’s not the kind of ally we turn our back on.”

“Have you seen the enemy fleet? They razed Orentha. Frindalis is cut off. The Union fleet tried to engage them and they’re all space trash right now. I’m not worried about your alliance, Takeshi, I…you cannot fight them. You cannot beat him.”

Kofuku shuddered in the corner behind the door. Those words, those names, were alien to get, except perhaps Frindalis. That was a big world, relatively close to Earth, where they had come from. If war had reached that far, then maybe Kimura was right. Maybe going out there would be a mistake.

“This isn’t up for debate. If he is coming for Rissmont then MODUS will need time to evacuate.”

“No,” Kimura said. “It’s suicide.”

“If I don’t honour our allies, then the UCF is already done for. Somebody has to fight for Rissmont, and the Shogunate is too fractured to see what is right in front of them. Shuu and his regiment will stay behind. You can stay if you like, Kōhei, but you know I’m not one to sit on the sidelines forever. Whatever this…Sarcos brings, I have the sword.”

Kimura sighed heavily. “If that is your wish.”

“You’re dismissed, Kimura-san.”

“I cannot save a corpse, Kofuku-dono.” The footsteps continued to the door, and he flung it open, stomping out. His strides were quick and his fists were balled, and in his anger, he didn't see her.

Kofuku remained silent, watching as Kimura rounded a corner and his footsteps faded out of hearing distance. A part of her wanted to walk in right now, to beg her father to stay for the first time in her life, to change his mind.

Another part realised it probably wouldn’t work.

“He has a point, you know,” said a new voice from within the room. It was a low, raspy thing.

Kofuku blinked. Had she missed another person in the study? Had they just been quiet this entire time?

“I know,” Takeshi said, his chair creaking. “But there are things at play here that even you don’t understand. I have to go. It’s not by choice, believe me.”

“Then I will once more lend you strength.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, matter-of-factly.

While she couldn’t say who the voice belonged to, it rang in her a sense of vague familiarity, like she hadn’t heard it, but…felt it, rather. Shaken, Kofuku got up and walked away as quietly as she could.

I cannot save a corpse.

Little did she know, that week would be the last time she ever saw her father again.