Archive of Our Own ^beta

He lives at her periphery, constantly at the edges of her vision, like a mirage, an oasis in the desert. 

Except he is not a mirage – he is solid and present, and she can’t ignore him no matter how she tries. Instead, her eyes track his, following his blinding power, and her body seems to face him no matter where he stands, like a sunflower to the sun, and just as far away. 

They laugh together and smile together, but despite living in the same universe, Utahime knows this distance is impassable. She doesn’t even try. 

The marriage is arranged by their families, small clans both, with all their hopes and traditions laid gently upon the shoulders of their only heirs. It is deemed a good match. Utahime is kind, with considerable social grace. Most importantly, she understands clearly the duties of a wife. The scar is a pity, but many sorcerers have scars. Proof at least that she too knows the fight, she too knows her duty, and she too knows her place in this world. 

Satoru needs no such promotion. His existence is advertisement enough. This distinction between them is painfully obvious throughout all the marriage talks. 

Neither protest. They have known each other for a long time, and while there is not love between them, there is friendship and trust, more than many start with. It is, Utahime hopes, enough. 

The ceremony is traditional and short. The hood of the white kimono weighs her head down, as if some invisible hand is forcing her head to tilt and bow to her new position. Her pride flares. Let the lines of the kimono be distorted. She will not bow. 

Satoru only smiles at her raised chin and takes her hand carefully in his. When they drink the ceremonial sake, their arms wrap around each other like links of a chain. 

They consummate their marriage quickly, Utahime too shy to be an enthusiastic participant, and Satoru too wary of the situation. It is not unpleasant. There may even be something like affection in the way he brushes callouses down her spine, straight and sturdy. 

There is not love, but there is trust. It is, Utahime finds, both more than and yet not at all enough. 

She is not beautiful enough for this house, this estate. She is not strong enough for these servants, this family. She is not skilled enough for this infamy, this poisoned respect. 

She is not enough of anything for this name, bestowed upon her like a crown of thorns. 

They know this, and she does too. 

But she will not bow. She must not. 

She conceives, a cause for celebration. She is barely eight weeks along. 

When she bleeds again several weeks later, too heavily for far too long, the whispers return. 

A year and two more miscarriages later, the clan elders whisper about her apparent infertility. Another few months later and the whispers have begun to talk about a second wife. An heir. They want only an heir. She cannot even do such a simple, basic thing correctly for them. What further value does she have? 

Satoru puts down his cup forcefully. Silence falls. 

“I have only one bed,” he states calmly, without looking up from his tea. “And I will have only one wife.” 

The discussion is over. 

Utahime wonders if she is supposed to be grateful. 

 She must not bow. Instead, she retreats, and retreats, and retreats. 

 
When her belly finally swells again, she is not. 

Grateful, that is. 
 

When Utahime gives birth, she gives birth to a child that looks nothing like her — all white hair and blue eyes — and her heart stutters. When he grows up just a bit and gives her a smirk, childish cockiness shining from hooded eyes, she thinks: is this even my child?  

She thought she had made her own peace with Satoru’s power, made her peace with her position and limitations, and yet, her little son makes her despair again. There is none of her to be found here. No black locks tinged with purple, no muddy eyes, or gentle smiles. Not even his voice, nothing in his inflections and speech. 

She thinks herself Satoru’s equal. She has not bowed. 

But here, in their child, it is clear — he has conquered her. 

There is a sickness in the way she looks at him. She can’t help it. She wants to love him, his son, but in his white canvas without any hint of color beyond blue, she sees all of her failures. 

This isn’t right, she thinks, and despair bends her spine. 

Days pass fast like this, when she has hidden so far within herself she might as well only be an observer, watching her own life like a movie reel. She looks down as she walks.  

On his fourth birthday, when he manifests the Six Eyes, she takes him to the sea. 

“Mama,” he burbles, as he teeters across the sand. “Mama.” He falls into her outstretched arms, and behind him, Utahime can see the horizon, sparkling light with each passing wave. 

The same sparkle in their eyes, both of theirs, so precious, so achingly blinding. A gentle crunch in the sand behind her leads her gaze straight to Satoru’s, and she sees herself reflected there with their son – their son – back rounded in motherly protection and scar defiant in the setting sun. 

The sight takes her breath away. 

That night, Satoru is not gentle. Instead, his tongue is demanding, his hands squeeze like they are trying to pry her ribs apart, to expose the thrum of her blood and tuck himself into the cleft between her lungs, behind her heart, where not even her deepest fears can go. He has always been so careful in the past, but tonight – tonight, he finally knows she has seen herself in his eyes, scarred and powerful, beautiful like no other. 

She matches him now, leaving scratches along his scapula, markings of her ownership, and he shudders under her touch, and she wonders why – whywhywhy – had it taken her so long to see this part of him, waiting so patiently for her to just look. 

When they arise in the morning glow, he covers her head with a white sheet like a wedding veil and brushes his lips against her palm. 

Yes, yes, she remembers now. The heavy cloth, surrounded by watchful family eyes and swirling incense. The lines in the fabric, distorted by her raised chin and quiet independence. Satoru, next to her, solid and smiling. 

How could she have forgotten? 

Her spine is sturdy, and Satoru – he has always believed. 

Maybe there had been more there after all. 

When they return to the house and she starts to slide back in position – one step to the right and two steps back – he stops her. Instead, they walk hand in hand. 

Their son is raised with expansive happiness and no limitations. Their son is raised with unapologetic demands and fierce faith. He is theirs, born of trust, raised with more. He looks not at all like her. There is no Utahime in his hair or his eyes, and his speech is all Satoru, unabashed understanding of his own power. 

But in his fingers is gentle kindness and in his spine is quiet pride, and when he sings – oh when he sings – he sings of oceans, he sings of light, he sings of love.