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It seems the garden has a long-awaited visitor today.
She can hear Shiemi’s pattering footsteps even from inside the shop as they race down the small path of stones. Soon enough, the door to the shop opens, followed by the crisp ring of the bell.
She fills the teapot without haste, sitting down at the farther side of the table to keep the garden in her view.
“Are you here for supplies?” she prompts.
The floor creaks. “Nope. I just thought I’d visit.”
“You keep bringing him here,” she says without looking up. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Shiro smiles with a sort of weary fondness, sighing as he braces a hand on the table to sit down. “They’re a good influence on each other.”
He’s been getting older these years, becoming exhausted of vitality, in a way. She can hear the strain of his bones even under the slight thump of the cushion. None of the other experimental subjects lived as long as he has.
“I haven’t spoken to him,” she tells Shiro, even as she watches the boy smile when he picks a speck of grass out of Shiemi’s hair, “but Shiemi does like when he visits.”
He is a boy soft like cotton, with gentle hands trained to hold steel, but here in her garden, he is clumsy in spite of good intentions. The ferns hold a grudge, and so does the bugleweed that was stepped on last week. They are petty creatures though.
Shiemi has not had a friend her age before. It’s only natural she’s delighted.
“How old is he now?”
It’s an idle question. She was present the day he was born, after all.
“Thirteen,” Shiro replies. “He’ll be taller than me soon, I bet.”
“Thirteen,” she murmurs, “and he’s an exorcist.” She pours two cups of jasmine tea, watching the steam curl its mellow fragrance into the air. “He has his mother’s good looks.”
“Yeah.” Shiro pauses for a moment before he smiles. “He does.”
“Where is the other one?”
Shiro takes a sip of tea, but their eyes don’t meet. “Oh, he’s probably lazing around at home.”
She traces her fingers along the smooth rim of her cup. “Good. You were wise not to bring him here.”
Shiro breathes a laugh out through his nose. “Of course,” he agrees, and that is all they will say.
She refills his cup with tea as they sit in silence. The plum tree beside the porch waves its dark branches in the breeze, spiralling petals into the air like snow.
Shiro glances at the clock on the wall. “Well, it’s—”
“You’re planning to take him along for your mission, aren’t you?” She tilts her teacup in the boy’s direction. “Let him stay behind for the afternoon. He needs more sunlight.”
Shiro’s lips pull upward in amusement. “Alright. I guess you’d know best.” The chain on his glasses clinks as he stands. “He’s a good kid. Talk to him, and you’ll see.”
Their eyes do meet this time, and she looks unflinchingly into his.
That one will live long, Lucifer had told her once, almost a lifetime ago, when they had surveyed the new batch of clones together. There is hatred in his eyes.
How things have changed.
She shakes her head. “Watch where you step, Fujimoto. Neither of us have much longer to live.”
Shiro just laughs, strolling over to where his son and Shiemi are admiring a fuzzy tussock moth caterpillar. He leans down, smiling affectionately at both of them as he speaks.
Disappointment crosses the boy’s features briefly, but when Shiro ruffles his hair, a simple, pleased smile warms his complexion.
Sunlight of this hour is solid. There is something of Gehenna, calamitous and misfortunate, draped in the violet edges of the boy’s shadow. If she did not know his heritage, she might be inclined to believe otherwise. It seems the same cruel god is watching through his eyes as Shiro’s.
She does not like those eyes looking at Shiemi, yet it is not his fault.
It was not Yuri Egin’s fault either.
If Shiro hides them well enough, perhaps she will not have to see them executed.
“Like this,” she repeats, twisting the twine to wrap twice around the bundle of cut lavender. “Make sure to keep it tight. They’ll loosen when they dry.”
Shiemi nods, clutching her own bundle eagerly as she ties her lavender together. “Obaa-chan, does the Garden of Amahara have insects? It has lots of them, doesn’t it?”
“Of course, it does.” She smiles, reaching to tuck a strand of Shiemi’s hair behind her ear. “Amahara has all kinds of life. There is a river too and many animals.”
“Then,” Shiemi begins, “where do you think the garden is?”
“Not far. It’s not very far at all, Shiemi.”
Shiemi’s smile glows a little as she ties another bundle of lavender. “I really want to find it. We should go together.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My legs are old.” She taps Shiemi’s nose. “Tell me when you find it.”
Shiemi giggles, and they spend the rest of the evening inside the shop, planning what to bring with them.
It is… a dream of sorts. Thirteen years have passed since she stepped down as Shemihaza, and for the longest time, she has been weaving this dream of the outside world.
It is a dream left behind from her own childhood, but it is also a dream that will not rest.
“Mother.” Soft footsteps stop behind her. “I told you to stop telling Shiemi about the Garden of Amahara.”
It’s late, and Shiemi is asleep.
“It’s only a story,” she tells her daughter. They have always been close, but not the way Shiemi is to them.
“She’ll only be disappointed.”
“Perhaps she will.” She clasps her hands behind her back as she paces under the grape arbor. “But she should not fear the Garden. When the time comes, it will be a solace to—”
“She should be wary of it. Amahara is not a fairytale.”
“And our duty is not a shackle.” She sighs as she turns. “Shiemi,” she murmurs, “you have held Shemihaza’s mantle for more than a decade now. Do you still see it as a burden?”
“I didn’t choose this. She won’t choose this either.”
“What does that—”
“She deserves a choice.” Furious eyes meet hers. “You’d never understand.”
The harsh slam of the door echoes, and the plum tree’s branches shiver in response. It is not the first time they have fought over this.
Her anger is understandable, but it is futile in nature.
The Garden, or El, where Shemihaza’s crystallization sleeps is not Amahara.
Countless centuries ago, Shemihaza was not a god but one of their people. Nephilim of her lineage had individual names, once. It was Lucifer who cornered them to this state, raising Shemihaza’s bloodline to a pedestal they can no longer afford to step off.
The name they share is a tradition now. As to when that began, she does not know, but it was not done without care.
Shiemi is connotative for the daughter of Shemihaza by every other interpretation. In their oldest language, it only means beloved daughter.
Amahara, in the same language, was home.
A drawer slams shut.
“Mother, I’m heading out for a delivery. Keep an eye on Shiemi for me, will you?”
“Oh.” She glances out the window. “Of course.”
“She’s outside with Okumura-kun. They’re taking a study break.” Paper bags rustle. “I’m in a hurry. I’ll be back tonight.” The door clangs shut.
Lately, she can’t help but notice that they barely look at each other. They both know she will die soon. It’s a regret she fears she will have to take to the grave.
The soft flutter of Shiemi’s laughter draws her focus back to the garden. She stands carefully, making her way to the kitchen. There is watermelon in the fridge. Perhaps it will be a good choice.
Today’s weather is flushed with the heat of early summer, but its breeze is still cool. She sets the slices of watermelon aside, holding the wall as she bends down to brush some petals out of her slippers.
The winding path into the garden is long. “Shiemi,” she calls, smiling when she walks gradually into the shade of the wisteria tree they’ve been sitting under.
“Obaa-chan!” Shiemi beams, holding up the string of a flower crown she was making. “Look! I’m teaching Yuki-chan.”
The boy rushes to set the bits of daisies aside, standing to bow. “I’m Okumura Yukio. It’s nice to meet you.”
She nods, motioning for him to sit back down. “Thank you for taking care of our Shiemi. You’re very bright for your age, aren’t you?”
Yukio smiles just a little. “Thank you. Shiemi-san is a good student, so it’s not difficult to tutor her.”
He’s rather well practiced in accepting compliments. It shows.
“Oh, that’s good,” she replies. “I’m so glad to hear that.” She looks down to peer at their half-made flower crowns. “I cut some watermelon just barely. Should I bring it over, or do you two want to come inside and eat?”
“Oh!” Shiemi stands. “I can go get it.” Her footsteps clatter up the stairs. “You should eat with us, Obaa-chan!”
“Be careful, then.” She chuckles as she moves to sit on the grass. “I always worry that she’s too shy. I’m glad she’s made a friend like you.”
Yukio just smiles, looking down at the unravelling length of his flower crown. He hasn’t been braiding them together tightly enough, and it seems a few stems have snapped as well.
“I heard from Shiro that you have a brother. Is he older than you?” she prompts as she reaches for his flower crown.
Yukio glances up. “Oh. He is,” he replies, “but only by a little. We’re fraternal twins.”
“How nice,” she offers, weaving a dandelion into the crown. “Do you get along well? I’m sure if your brother is as accomplished as you are, Shiro must be quite proud.”
Yukio nods. “We’ve always gotten along well. My brother is… someone I really look up to.”
“That’s good.” She takes another daisy and tucks the rest of the ends around to close the ring. “Do you like being an exorcist so far?”
Yukio draws a breath in, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he nods again. There’s a line of tension between his shoulders, but he does not seem to regret his answer.
She smiles when she stands, motioning for him to lower his head as she raises the crown.
It is a wreath of daisies—innocence, purity—and dandelions for strength, growth, and hope. Somehow, they are befitting.
He is only one of the countless children who have knelt before her, clad in the Order’s pitch-black uniform, waiting to be knighted.
Perhaps you chose this for yourself, she thinks, but exactly what other choice did you have?
Spring has passed, and her delicate, sheltered Shiemi is fourteen as well now. The two of them are night and day in more ways than one.
Shiemi’s footsteps have begun to click down the cobblestone path through the garden.
“There. It suits you,” she mentions even when Yukio touches the flowers self-consciously. “What do you think, Shiemi?”
Shiemi giggles, picking up her pace for the last few steps as she sets the tray of watermelon down. “It looks really pretty on you, Yuki-chan.”
Yukio pushes his glasses up as slight pink dusts his cheeks. “I think you would look better. Maybe you should wear it.”
“But I have my own,” Shiemi says as she beams. “Obaa-chan, do you want one? I’ll make one for you.”
The daisies mutter in discontent when Shiemi’s eyes sparkle.
Well, it can’t be helped.
“Of course, if you want to,” she replies. “Let’s eat the watermelon while it’s still chilled.”
She leaves them to study a little more after that. As she sits in the parlor, she can hear the soft murmurs of their conversation sink beneath the summer breeze.
She had heard of a legend once, originating from a turbulent land far north. Graves of children were graced with daisies, blooming from freshly disturbed soil, as a sign of consolation from the gods to their grieving parents.
It must have been a story from ages ago, for this world has long become one ruled by self-serving gods.
Soon enough, afternoon sunlight melds into the dappled gold of sunset. Shiro returns to the shop to take Yukio home, and he laughs when Shiemi gifts him with a flower crown as well.
His, too, is a laurel of daisies.
The Order’s Paladin is an arbitrary post. Of all of them, he had the least choice in his fate.
Perhaps that freedom they lacked, as limited as it may be, is what parents wish to create for their children.
It’s raining tonight. A soft orange glow clouds the edges of the shop’s windows. Rainwater trickles merrily off the rafters, casting a shiny gloss over the stairs.
The shop door rattles open, and Shiro rushes in—
“He’s gone,” she mentions, taking a sip of tea as the chilly breeze sweeps inside. “You just missed him.”
Shiro grimaces, dragging a hand through his dripping wet hair. “Did he say where he’d go? Is he—”
“He’s fine.” She motions for him to sit down. “I called you as soon as I realized he came here, and Shiemi talked to him for a couple of minutes.” Her hands are steady when she sets a cup of tea in front of Shiro. “I won’t ask why he ran here so late in the pouring rain, but since you’ve come all this way, you may as well catch your breath.”
Shiro sighs as he rubs his temples. “Sorry. I don’t know why he’d come here.” He makes a hasty gesture with his hand, taking his glasses off as he sighs again. “It’s my fault. If I had answered his questions…”
She sets her teacup aside. “He’s just a child,” she murmurs. “He won’t be upset with you for long.”
Shiro puts his glasses back on, but his back stays bowed as he braces his elbows on his knees. “He’s a really good kid. Both of them are.”
“Of course.”
Shiro sniffs, and a drop of water falls from his sleeve.
Rain taps the window to a drifting cadence, plick-plick-plic down the steps, slipping and scattering without care.
“Sometimes…” Shiro leans forward, and his hands shake from how hard he clenches them together. “I think I should have taken them and ran. Lucifer, Mephisto, and Satan,” he mutters like a curse, “can find some other pawns to use.”
She steeples her hands as she glances out the window. “If you hadn’t brought them back the way you did, they would already be dead.”
Shiro’s eyes are shaded darker than flint when he looks up.
“I’m saying you made the right choice,” she chides. “Don’t glare at me.”
Shiro breathes a short laugh out, mirthless and tired. “Right. Thanks.”
She remembers the first time she met Lucifer. He was regal and beautiful, in appearance and in his ideals. The world he spoke of was but a dream. Just as she has Amahara, those who are short on time can only dream.
Even she can tell, the look in Shiro’s eyes is far too dangerous to be merely dreaming. Perhaps Mephisto raised him to the rank of Paladin not to shackle him but rather as a form of appeasement.
“Go home,” she says as she refills her tea. “It’s always more tempting to dwell on the past around people you share secrets with.”
Shiro shakes his head, but a shadow of a smile crosses his face as he leaves.
A dark, elegant shadow graces her doorstep on the first day of winter. They are something like old friends.
“You’ve come early,” she comments, lifting her sleeve back to pour him a steaming cup of chrysanthemum tea.
“Of course.” Mephisto removes his hat as he sits. “Retirement seems to have suited you well, but I have to say, I’ve missed our conversations.”
She shifts her shoulders in a slight shrug. “What are you plotting these days?”
The light of early morning is faint, tinted the powder blue of slumber through the shop’s windows. It lingers along the crisp folds of Mephisto’s suit as he crosses his legs. “Oh, it’s too early to tell,” he says when he leans back. “There’s a point beyond this not even I can see.”
“Interesting.” She traces the porcelain rim of her cup. “I suppose that will involve Shiro’s boy,” she mentions, “Okumura Rin.”
Mephisto’s grin is all points and no curves. “He is one of two linchpins. It’s a pity you won’t get to meet him.”
“No,” she scoffs. “It’s too late for any of that.” She stands slowly, pacing over to the window that overlooks the garden. “I’ve made my peace.”
Mephisto’s eyes are ageless and ancient all at once, glinting a hue brighter than peridot gems. “But you worry in spite of that,” he muses. “Your granddaughter will be coming of age soon, won’t she?”
She tilts her head back, watching the dark, bare branches of the plum tree sway. “She is young and fragile, but she will find her own path in time. What difference does it make if I worry?”
Mephisto takes a sip of tea. “Wise words,” he says with the same sharp grin. “I seem to remember Azazel still owes you a favor though.”
“And?” she prompts.
Mephisto sets his teacup down with a soft click, steepling his hands. “A storm is coming. I’m sure you know.”
She clasps her hands behind her back. “Yes,” she admits. She can hear its thunder still far from her garden, born from the inclement wind that whispers of oaths.
“Let’s talk of simpler things.”
Mephisto spreads his gloved hands. “As you wish,” he agrees.
By sunrise, he is gone like a spectre or a shade, black filling in an outline, inscrutable and untouchable. Time seems to trickle away faster in his absence.
She wraps an old shawl around her shoulders to step outside. The midday sky is clouded in a thick, tumultuous mass of clouds. A storm is coming, indeed, but she will not be here to see it.
“Shiemi,” she says when she hears a set of quick footfalls. “Help me with something, will you?”
Thin coins clink like windchimes as Shiemi rushes over. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement when she holds her little coin purse to her chest.
“There will be frost soon. The grape arbor needs to be covered to protect it from…”
“Obaa-chan,” Shiemi exclaims, raising her wallet as she beams. “I’m going to go look for the Garden of Amahara!”
“Oh.” She falters in a moment of weakness, watching when Shiemi skips down the stairs.
“I’ve saved up money. See?” Shiemi smiles in obvious delight. “If I have this much, I might be able to travel around the whole world.”
Amahara. Hearing it said aloud makes the dream more tangible than ever.
Her breath fogs as she smiles. “You’re going outside,” she realizes, and a sense of relief settles over her. “Go ahead, Shiemi.” There must be meaning, for this to occur today. “But I don’t think you’ll be able to make it around the world with that much after all.”
Shiemi’s shoulders droop in sheepish disappointment. “I guess not.”
“How about you just search nearby for today?”
“Yeah.” Shiemi’s hair bounces as she nods. “I’ll cover the grape arbor as soon as I come home!” she promises, rushing up with hasty steps up the stairs.
“Don’t worry about that. Be careful, then,” she adds. “Make sure to come home before it’s dark, alright?”
“I will!” Shiemi answers.
It’s endearing that she’s so excited, yet she knows far too little of the world. This is fitting, in a way.
A patch of four-leaf clovers shudders in the gust of chilly wind as Shiemi steps past them out the gate.
“She’ll be fine,” she tells them. “Let her go.” The grape arbor creaks as she paces beneath it, and a wry smile lifts her lips.
“She’s going to find her Amahara.”
The relief of dreams is ephemeral, but that is all she can offer Shiemi. There is no time left for her now.
Azazel still owes you a favor.
It is tempting advice from a meddlesome prophet. She finally understands what he meant.
The poppies rustle in agitation, grumbling fussily as she runs her hand through their petals.
“Be patient,” she chides. “You’ll get to meet her soon.”
The nights in this realm are short, and its fauna are lonely souls. Time runs differently here, yet they’ve all become impatient since they caught a glimpse of someone new outside.
“Yes,” she tells them quietly. “You will all like her very much.”
The great tree where Shemihaza’s crystallization sleeps hums in amusement.
Only successors of Shemihaza are allowed to step inside these sacred grounds. An hour here is a month in the outside world. Even so, as a spirit, time is all but relative to her. It will not be long now.
The branches of the weeping willow sway to a quiet lull, becoming still when that heavy, ornate door opens. She glances up, smiling gently when soft but measured footsteps stride into the garden.
It’s been a long time. She remembers those tiny feet pattering here and there around the house well. They’ve become so steady now.
“Shiemi.”
The footsteps halt.
Shiemi turns back, gripping the embroidered silk of her robes with a trembling hand. “Obaa-chan?” Her voice quivers as she lowers her hand. “Are you really…”
She takes a slow step, then another, racing forward into the field of poppies. “Obaa-chan—”
“Careful,” she murmurs, laughing when Shiemi pulls her into a tight hug. “You’ve grown so much.” She cards her fingers into Shiemi’s hair, patting her back when she feels Shiemi’s breath stutter. “What a beautiful young woman you’ve become.”
Shiemi sniffles, holding onto her as tremors wrack her frame. “I missed you,” she gasps. “I missed you so much.”
“I know,” she whispers. “You’ve been brave.” She presses her lips to the crown of Shiemi’s head. “I’ve missed you so much too.”
Shiemi breathes in, hugging her closer. “I’m so happy,” she mumbles. “How are you here, Obaa-chan?”
“I asked an old friend to let me stay here as a spirit,” she replies, brushing Shiemi’s bangs out of her eyes. She reaches to tug the pins of Shiemi’s bun out, one by one, waiting patiently for her breathing to calm.
“Tell me how you’ve been.”
The breeze plays with the ends of Shiemi’s sleeves as she brushes the tears trailing down her face away. “I’ve…”
She tucks a few loose strands of her hair behind her ear as she tries to compose herself. “I’ve been really good, Obaa-chan.” She swallows, wiping her eyes before she smiles. “There’s so much that’s happened.”
Her smile hasn’t changed, even after this long.
“Good.” The poppies trill as they sit down, unfurling their petals in Shiemi’s direction as though she was the sun itself. “Tell me. We have lots of time.”
The time in this sanctuary is blessedly slow, after all.
Shiemi still has a habit of talking with her hands, gesturing energetically as she chatters about starting cram school. There are two classmates she’s become close friends with. One is strong-willed and sharp, and the other sounds mature and agreeable. The other exwires are also kind to her, and they had a fun Christmas party just a few days ago.
She has a familiar now—a little sapling of a greenman whom she named Nee. It’s good to know. Greenmen are the most long-lived of golems, and they have served faithfully as guardians for generations of successors.
Yukio has become their pharmaceuticals teacher. Shiemi’s hands falter for a moment when she confesses that she’s worried for him, but the determination in her frame is nevertheless steady.
“I bet Rin is looking for him now.” Shiemi curls her hands in her lap. “He’s not alone. I’m sure if we can show him that, it’ll help.”
So that child’s eyes brought him misfortune after all. Whether he has the strength to overcome his trial will lie in himself, in the end.
Shiro… must have left this world for the next, it seems.
“Rin?” she prompts as she continues to braid Shiemi’s hair. “Who is that?”
Shiemi’s smile widens. “Rin is Yuki-chan’s twin brother. He’s older, but he’s…” She giggles a little. “He’s kind of silly sometimes, but he’s really strong and reliable. Just being around him cheers me up. I…”
She talks for a long time about Shiro’s other son.
For a child burdened with so much, he sounds unmistakably kind in nature. It’s unexpected, but she’s glad to hear he survived against the odds. This world cannot have been kind to him. What he has now, he must have fought to earn.
She thinks she would have liked to meet him once, out in the sunshine, not in the darkness of Section 13.
“Obaa-chan.” Shiemi leans closer to rest her head against her shoulder. “I was scared before, but I’ve decided.” Her eyes are focused far away. “When this is over, I want to use this position to make things better. The Order should never be allowed to execute anyone just for their birth. They’ve made mistakes in the past too, but they’ve been covered up. I’ve only been here for a couple of days, but I’ve learned horrible secrets.”
She has seen only a fraction of what they have done. The mantle of Shemihaza’s successors may as well have been woven of crimson thread, dyed with lifeblood.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Shiemi sets her jaw for a brief moment before she smiles. “When this is over, I want to go back to everyone, but right now, this is what I want to do.”
Shiemi talks for a long time, about her mother and what she’ll do when she goes home, until she finally falls asleep from the exhaustion of the day.
“I’m glad,” she murmurs, draping her shawl over Shiemi’s shoulders. “You chose this duty after all, but you have the strength to change your path.”
The Knights of True Cross is an old organization ruled by traditions. Its flaws are only apparent to someone who has never seen its deepest inner workings. To change it, would be to shatter its foundations.
Shiemi is too idealistic, but that kind of hope, ambitious and naive, is most difficult to extinguish.
“Regardless of what happens,” she says, “I know you won’t be tied down by the legacy you inherit.” She tucks a hellebore blossom behind Shemi’s ear. “Sleep well.”
The people and places Shiemi spoke of must have been treasured memories from how comforting they came across. She has seen a corner of the world, and she has already grown so much.
At sunrise of the next day, she leads Shiemi to where Shemihaza’s crystallization sleeps.
“This power is your birthright. Use it correctly, and few will dare oppose you.” She steps over a moss-covered root, motioning for Shiemi to come closer.
“Our blood is revered for its hold over all living things. You must not lose your way.”
“I won’t,” Shiemi promises.
She sets a heavy hand on Shiemi’s shoulder. “Then kneel.”
The dandelions at Sheimi’s feet are spotted with morning dew, puffing up when she lowers her head.
She takes Shiemi’s hand and presses her palm to the ridged bark of Shemihaza’s favored tree. “Do you feel it? Shemihaza holds the title of emperor for good reason. The Ba’al may be kings, but their might is second to hers.”
Shiemi flexes her fingers. “I’ve felt this before,” she realizes. “What should I do?”
“I will teach you how to wield your strength. What you do with it,” she whispers, “is your choice.”
This is what I want to do for you.
After all, Shiemi is no longer a child who needs stories of a garden of dreams. She has found the place she wishes to return to, and it seems it is not far at all.
“It will be difficult,” she warns. “I won’t go easy on you.”
Shiemi nods firmly.
The ancient yew’s branches rustle like rain in the wind, and soon, the sanctuary’s trees follow suit, thrumming to a single heartbeat as countless leaves flutter down.
It appears they approve.
“Good,” she says as she smiles. “We have plenty of time.”