Dev Shadows of Atrisia

[Junko Ike]

The path descended gradually, steps carved directly into living rock and worn smooth by centuries of careful feet. Overhead, the canopy thickened ancient banyans giving way to groves of perpetual cherry trees whose branches arched in graceful vaults, heavy with blossoms that never fully fell. Unlike ordinary sakura, these trees bloomed year-round, petals cycling in soft waves of pink and white so that some branches always carried full flower while others bore the delicate green of new leaves. Sunlight filtered through in pale rose-gold shafts, painting the ground in shifting patterns that danced across Junko's bare feet and the hem of her silk robe. The air grew cooler here, moist with the breath of hidden springs, and the distant murmur of the main waterfall softened into a steady, soothing whisper.

They emerged at last into her private enclave a secluded hollow cradled between towering red-rock cliffs whose faces were softened by hanging gardens of trailing ivy and cascading orchids. At the center lay the private pool, fed by a single slender cascade that spilled from a cleft high in the stone wall. The water was impossibly clear, its surface a perfect mirror reflecting the perpetual pink canopy above. Year-round cherry trees encircled the pool in a near-perfect ring, their trunks rising straight and silver-gray before spreading into wide crowns that met overhead like a living dome. Petals drifted constantly, some settling on the water to float in lazy spirals, others catching on moss-covered boulders that lined the edges or clinging briefly to the broad leaves of water lilies.

 

[Junko Ike]

Junko paused at the pool's rim, where a single flat ledge of polished granite extended slightly over the water like a natural throne. She slipped the jade robe from her shoulders, folding it carefully and setting it aside on a low stone bench carved to resemble a curled lotus. Beneath she wore only a simple linen shift of palest cream that clung lightly to her slender form, the fabric translucent where mist from the cascade touched it. At five feet two and one hundred ten pounds, her girlish figure moved with quiet grace as she stepped onto the ledge, toes curling over the warm stone. Her light golden skin caught the rose-tinted light, the natural crimson flush of her cheeks deepening slightly in the intimate warmth of this hidden place. Large, lustrous eyes black with shifting flecks of green and blue gazed into the mirrored depths, framed by jade rings and tiny crystals that shimmered like dewdrops.

She lowered herself to sit cross-legged at the ledge's edge, letting her calves dip into the cool water. Ripples spread outward in slow circles, disturbing petals that had collected near the shore and sending them spinning gently. Her coal-black hair, loosened now from its earlier updo, fell in loose waves over her shoulders; the mood-responsive oils within caused the strands to lighten toward soft chestnut as profound calm settled over her. Force beads threaded through the waves dangled forward, brushing her forehead and catching stray glints of pink light like tiny lanterns. She breathed deeply, drawing in the mingled scents of cherry blossom, wet stone, and faint jasmine carried on the mist.

 

[Junko Ike]

Around her the trees stood in silent vigil, their blossoms a perpetual celebration of renewal. Some branches dipped so low their tips trailed in the pool, petals falling directly onto the water's surface to create fleeting islands of pink. Tiny fish silver with iridescent fins darted beneath, occasionally rising to nibble at floating blooms before vanishing again into the depths. The cascade itself was gentle, a thin silver ribbon that struck the pool with barely a sound, yet its steady rhythm provided a heartbeat to the enclave. High above, where the cliffs met open sky, a single hawk circled lazily, its cry distant and solitary.

Junko closed her eyes for a long moment, letting the garden's quiet energy flow through her. Here, far from throne rooms and diplomatic courtyards, no titles or expectations pressed upon her. The perpetual cherry trees reminded her of resilience of beauty that endured regardless of season or siege. Memories of Atrisia flickered briefly the smoke, the clash of steel, the choice her war wife had made but they dissolved like mist in sunlight, replaced by the simple sensation of cool water against skin and petals brushing her arms.

 

[Junko Ike]

The war wife had stopped at the mouth of the hollow, her back pressed against a granite boulder whose surface was mottled with silver-gray lichen and polished smooth in places by centuries of wind. Her arms were crossed over a chest protected by a simple breastplate of lacquered leather, dark brown and unadorned except for a single clan emblem stamped near the shoulder. The posture gave Junko an impression of seclusion while ensuring she remained within hearing distance and within the arc of a blade-draw, should any threat materialize. The woman's skin was a deep, uniform brown, faintly reflective where filtered light touched it across cheekbones and forearms; her build, tall and densely muscled, conveyed readiness without tension, every line of her body suggesting a compressed spring held at rest by conscious discipline alone.

She did not speak, did not shift her weight, did not so much as turn her head to scan the treeline. She held the same sentinel stillness she had maintained through combat and armistice alike, a living extension of the boulder she leaned against. Junko let her eyes open again. Across the pool, a single blossom a cherry flower, pale pink at the petal edges grading to a deeper rose at the calyx held to a low branch, still attached despite the intermittent breeze that stirred the canopy. Her mouth moved into a small, appreciative smile, the faint red of her lips curving without parting, and she let the image settle into memory.

 

[Junko Ike]

Time elapsed without measure. The sun's angle shifted, traveling an unseen arc above the canopy, and the light passing through the leaves changed from a warmer rose tint the color of heated copper to a softer amber, then toward a pale gold as afternoon deepened toward its latter hours. The shadows cast by the cherry trees stretched incrementally across the moss, their edges softening as the light diffused. Blossoms continued to fall in a steady, sparse drift, a few dozen each minute, some catching in her hair and sitting there like small pale ornaments against the coal-black waves until she swept them away with a slow motion of her hand, fingers brushing through the strands with absent care.

The surface of the pool, disturbed earlier by her calves, grew smooth again, a perfect mirror that reflected her small figure framed by the endless pink of the canopy overhead, the image so still it might have been a painting on silk. In that space, enclosed by trees that flowered without a seasonal cycle their branches perpetually bearing buds, blooms, and falling petals simultaneously the pressure of authority lifted. She simply breathed, the air cool and faintly sweet with the scent of cherry wood and damp stone, listened to the cascade's soft, unvarying trickle and the occasional rustle of wings from birds she could not see, and existed inside a beauty that demanded nothing of her, asked no decisions, offered no judgments.

 

[Junko Ike]

Eventually she rose, placing her palms flat on the granite ledge and pushing herself upward in a smooth, unhurried motion. She extended both arms overhead, interlacing her fingers and pressing her palms toward the sky until the linen shift pulled upward enough to briefly reveal the line of her waist narrow, the skin a light golden tone before dropping back into place as she lowered her arms. The stretch traveled down her spine, and she rolled her shoulders once, feeling the stiffness of prolonged stillness dissolve. She picked up the jade robe from where it lay folded beside the ledge, its silk cool and heavy in her hands, and settled it over her shoulders without fastening the sash, leaving the front open so the cream linen of the shift still showed beneath.

She stepped onto the quartz path, the stones worn smooth and set in a careful mosaic that wound between the tree roots, their pale crystalline surfaces catching the amber light in faint sparkles. She glanced once more at the pool petals still falling, the water still rippling softly where a breeze touched its surface then turned toward the exit. The war wife fell into step beside her, matching pace precisely, her footfalls nearly silent despite her size. They retraced the route through the grove, leaving the hollow to its endless spring. Behind them the cherry trees continued flowering, petals descending into pink water, the quiet of the grove persisting beyond any treaty or campaign, self-contained and eternal.

 

[Junko Ike]

Junko remained seated on the granite ledge, her calves submerged in the cool, petal-strewn water that lapped gently against her skin with each ripple from the cascade. The perpetual shower of blossoms fell around her like slow, weightless snow, a few petals landing on the surface of the pool and floating there, others catching on her shoulders or the folded robe beside her. The hollow's quiet was complete: no footsteps from the path above, no distant voices from the palace, no birdcalls within this sheltered space only the trickle of the cascade, a steady, musical sound that varied subtly in pitch as water struck different stones, and the occasional rustle of branches overhead when a stronger gust moved through the grove.

Her breathing slowed until it matched the gentle rhythm of the pool's ripples, each inhalation and exhalation falling into a cadence that felt older than thought; her eyelids grew heavy as the rose-colored light warmed her skin through the thin linen. The jade robe lay folded nearby, set aside for the moment, its emerald surface catching stray light in muted gleams. The linen shift clung lightly where mist from the cascade had dampened the fabric across her shoulders and the tops of her thighs, the moisture cool against her skin. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, and traced aimless patterns on the water's surface with her fingertips loops and spirals that erased themselves as quickly as she drew them.

 

[Junko Ike]

The garden's hush became a threshold, the boundary between waking and sleep thinning with each slow blink, and the waking world softened at its edges, the colors of the grove bleeding gently into one another, giving way to the dream that had been waiting, patient and vivid, just beneath the surface of consciousness. In the dream she was no longer alone by the pool. She stood on a raised wooden platform of dark, aged cedar, its planks worn smooth by years of use and polished to a low luster that reflected the moonlight. Above her stretched an enormous pavilion, its frame constructed of the same dark cedar, its roof and sides formed from translucent silk panels that diffused the moonlight into a soft, even glow.

The panels were the color of undyed silk cream and pale gold and they rippled faintly in a breeze she could not feel. Moonlight came through the open sides, casting everything in a silvered, cool tone that seemed to leach color from the world, leaving only shades of gray, blue, and white. Before her sat three musicians on low cushions of dark fabric, each posed with formal precision, their instruments gleaming under suspended lanterns of oiled paper and thin bronze frames. The first played a guzheng, a long zither with twenty-one strings stretched over a resonant body of paulownia wood; the strings were of silk wrapped with metal, and they caught the lantern light like frozen water, each one a distinct line of silver.

 

[Junko Ike]

Her black hair was pinned with jade combs shaped like crescent moons, their surfaces carved with tiny cloud patterns, and her indigo silk robes layered, with wide sleeves that pooled on the platform around her conformed to a lean, graceful frame that moved subtly with each pluck of the strings. The second musician held a pipa, pear-shaped and lacquered a deep crimson so rich it appeared almost black in the moonlight, its four strings tuned to precise intervals, its frets set high on the neck. Her auburn hair fell loose down her back in thick, unbound waves, and a flush across her cheeks visible even in the silvered light matched the instrument's color, suggesting recent exertion or strong emotion.

The third cradled a guqin, ancient and restrained, its seven strings of twisted silk stretched across a narrow lacquered body inlaid with thirteen markers of mother-of-pearl. Her silver-streaked hair, originally black but now threaded extensively with white, was bound in an elaborate knot atop her head, secured with long pins from which dangled pearl tassels that swayed with each subtle movement of her head. Her expression was calm but penetrating, her dark eyes moving between her companions and the strings beneath her fingers with an intelligence that felt almost invasive.

 

[Junko Ike]

The music began without preamble, a slow melody that moved between the three instruments like threads of silk being woven into a single fabric. The guzheng laid down a flowing foundation, its notes liquid and sustained, bending slightly in pitch as the player pressed the strings. The pipa entered with bright, precise notes that seemed to dance atop the guzheng's current, each pluck distinct and sharp, like water droplets striking stone. The guqin added austere, resonant undertones, its timbre darker and more textured, the slides between notes carrying a weight that anchored the higher voices. Junko watched, unable to look away, as the notes rose and fell in intricate counterpoint, the three melodies separate yet inseparable.

She knew the knowledge rising from the dream's own logic that by day these women were fierce rivals, competing in the grand halls of distant courts whose names she could not recall, each vying for patronage and mastery, for the title of preeminent musician of their generation. Their public performances were legendary duels of speed, fingers flying across strings in displays that left audiences breathless and judges divided, the air in those halls thick with heat and the scent of incense and the collective held breath of hundreds. Rumors followed them: accusations of stolen techniques, sabotaged strings that snapped mid-performance, subtle poisons slipped into tea before recitals to slow an opponent's fingers or cloud her mind.

 

[Junko Ike]

Yet here, under cover of night, beneath the silk pavilion with the moon as their only witness, the rivalry dissolved into something more not replaced but transformed, the same intensity that drove their competition now channeled into a different kind of harmony. The dream's perspective shifted, the way dreams do, without transition or explanation. Now Junko saw them not on the platform but in a chamber lit only by a single oil lamp of glazed ceramic, its flame steady behind a thin screen of oiled paper. The walls were of dark wood, close and intimate; the air held the faint scent of lamp oil and the lingering traces of incense.

The guzheng player knelt behind the pipa musician on a wide futon layered with quilts, her lips brushing the curve of the other woman's neck just below the ear while her fingers traced slow patterns along bare shoulders patterns that might have been musical notations, scales and arpeggios mapped onto skin. The guqin artist reclined against silk cushions piled near the wall, watching with half-lidded eyes, her expression unreadable except for a slight curve at the corner of her mouth, as the other two moved together in unhurried accord. There was no competition now, only shared breath, shared touch, shared secrets whispered in the space between one kiss and the next.

 

[Junko Ike]

Their rivalry fueled the intensity; each knew the other's weaknesses and strengths so thoroughly the exact pressure that would make a string sing or a muscle yield, the precise tempo that would push a competitor past her limits or draw a lover toward release that surrender felt like a form of victory, an acknowledgment of intimate knowledge rather than defeat. Hands that could coax impossible speed from strings, that could execute runs of thirty-second notes without missing a single pluck, now explored with deliberate tenderness, drawing sighs instead of arpeggios.

Moonlight, entering through a single high window slatted with wooden louvers, caught on sweat-slick skin, on loosened hairpins tumbling to the tatami floor with soft clicks, on robes slipping from shoulders to pool like fallen petals in heaps of indigo, crimson, and pearl-gray silk. Another scene unfolded, seamless in the dream's fluid logic: dawn breaking through latticed windows, the light pale and clean, striping the room with bars of soft gold. The three lay entwined on a wide bed of crimson silk, the fabric rumpled and creased from the night's movements.

 

[Junko Ike]

The guzheng player's head rested on the pipa musician's chest, her ear pressed directly over the other woman's heart, listening to the steady rhythm that had, only hours before, raced beneath her fingertips during a frenzied performance meant to outshine them both a public duel in a hall packed with nobles where each had pushed the other to unprecedented speeds, their rivalry having reached a new peak before dissolving, as it always did, into this private aftermath.

The guqin artist traced idle circles on the small of the pipa player's back with one finger, the motion slow and absent, while murmuring lyrics to a song none of them would ever perform publicly a private composition born of nights like this, its words describing the curve of a shoulder, the sound of a particular laugh, the way lamplight caught in dark hair. They spoke in low voices of the coming day's contest, a major recital at the imperial court, plotting moves and countermoves with the same care they had used to map each other's bodies, discussing which pieces to select, which techniques to display, which weaknesses to feign in order to draw an opponent into overconfidence.

 

[Junko Ike]

Rivalry sharpened their art, drove them to technical heights neither could reach alone; intimacy deepened it, gave their music an emotional resonance that audiences felt without understanding. To the world they were adversaries locked in endless contest, three stars in a constellation of bitter competition; to one another they were the only refuge, the only people before whom they could set down the performance and simply be. Junko felt herself drawn closer, as though she stood just beyond the lamplight in that chamber, an unseen observer present but immaterial.

The music resumed not performed on the platform this time but seeming to emanate from the very air of the dream now a single unified piece rather than three separate voices. The guzheng laid down a flowing foundation, the pipa added bright, teasing runs that flirted with the melody before rejoining it, the guqin wove austere, resonant undertones that anchored everything like roots beneath a flowering tree. The melody told their story without words: tension building like the moment before a decisive strike in competition, the held breath of an audience watching two masters face each other across a silent stage; release blooming like the aftermath of stolen caresses, the quiet minutes when racing hearts slowed and tangled limbs relaxed.