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Took a break from princess fic. This somehow came out. Not porn, sadly.
He could never stand his brother’s wife.
She grated on him. It was nothing specific—to him she was just a collection of quirks that seemed tailored especially towards his dislikes. He hated dealing with her, a hollow-faced woman who insisted on ever being the first to greet him, despite the fact that his feelings towards her were entirely mutual and she made it very clear in the way she hovered at his back when he spoke to her husband, scowling while knowing full well it was in plain sight for him. She was a problem, his uncle had once told him, that would be easily fixed if he stopped seeking his brother’s presence so often, but that was simply not an option. It was, after all, the woman who had never truly belonged, even if she’d been judged as a worthy enough bride—and even then her eyes, suitably light, had been of a pale shade of green that bordered on a sickly yellow, and even though those eyes had also been suitably sharp, they’d never been a match, and not even her poor attempts of growing her hair long or trading in her chuunin vest for a kimono or announcing her pregnancy a month after the marriage could change that fact.
A good match, he supposed, had never been stressed for his brother, but then his brother had managed to escape a great deal many things—and never thought to be grateful for a one of them. His brother hated the fact that he’d inherited after their father died, but at the time, sixteen and with no idea of how to manage a clan let alone one at /war/, he would have gladly traded places, but that was a fact never understood between them, just like he never understood how his brother could be so fond of that woman. Everything she knew about tradition she had to have explained to her. She was blunt and, frankly, quite rude—the only thing she seemed able to manage with no effort at all. Her bloodline was respectable, but hardly notable, and she threw everything into debate, with a shrill voice, foul temper, and no grace at all—and somehow his brother never minded. What’s more, his brother seemed to love her.
She would never be forgiven for that.
He could never stand his brother’s wife, but he still remembered her on occasion, normally in the summers, near his nephew’s birthday—a date he always made a note of. It was around that time she threw a particularly memorable tantrum, ripping the pins from hair that had come to fall just beneath her shoulder blades, smearing her make up with a swipe of her hand as her voice echoed through the halls, "I never asked for all of this!" To which his brother said, "But I warned you." And for once, she’d had no reply. It was around that time, he remembered collapsing while in conference with his uncle, coughing blood into his hand while the words ‘poison’ and ‘traitor’ ran rampant through the house. His own wife sat by his bedside, cool and composed under pressure as always---/she/ knew how to behave, but then his family had chosen her for him --toweling off his forehead as the fever broke; he remembered her words but not who she spoke to, making note, "They say it’s surprising, the lengths a mother will go…" and letting the implications dangle. A week prior, he remembered, the child had been born. His brother had waited at the door, more anxious than he’d ever seen him, and he hated that woman all the more for that. He hated her, but he remembered her too, remember her gall and her ugliness, and her eyes raised in defiance, as she held her infant son to her chest and made her case before the clan. "My lord," she confessed to him, the most respectful words he would ever hear from her. "I hate you, but I’ve never wished ill upon you." And the next morning they found her body lying in the garden, cold, bony fingers still wrapped around the knife. Death before dishonor. She took her life into her own hands and he remembered that was the only time he ever understood that woman. Two things they’d had in common after all: their pride, and her husband, who threw her comb at his feet, eyes trembling with rage and with grief. "I won’t forget this," his brother spat, "/Lord Hiashi./" and then didn’t bow, just turned and walked out. Hiashi couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him for it.
He could never stand his brother’s wife.
She grated on him. It was nothing specific—to him she was just a collection of quirks that seemed tailored especially towards his dislikes. He hated dealing with her, a hollow-faced woman who insisted on ever being the first to greet him, despite the fact that his feelings towards her were entirely mutual and she made it very clear in the way she hovered at his back when he spoke to her husband, scowling while knowing full well it was in plain sight for him. She was a problem, his uncle had once told him, that would be easily fixed if he stopped seeking his brother’s presence so often, but that was simply not an option. It was, after all, the woman who had never truly belonged, even if she’d been judged as a worthy enough bride—and even then her eyes, suitably light, had been of a pale shade of green that bordered on a sickly yellow, and even though those eyes had also been suitably sharp, they’d never been a match, and not even her poor attempts of growing her hair long or trading in her chuunin vest for a kimono or announcing her pregnancy a month after the marriage could change that fact.
A good match, he supposed, had never been stressed for his brother, but then his brother had managed to escape a great deal many things—and never thought to be grateful for a one of them. His brother hated the fact that he’d inherited after their father died, but at the time, sixteen and with no idea of how to manage a clan let alone one at /war/, he would have gladly traded places, but that was a fact never understood between them, just like he never understood how his brother could be so fond of that woman. Everything she knew about tradition she had to have explained to her. She was blunt and, frankly, quite rude—the only thing she seemed able to manage with no effort at all. Her bloodline was respectable, but hardly notable, and she threw everything into debate, with a shrill voice, foul temper, and no grace at all—and somehow his brother never minded. What’s more, his brother seemed to love her.
She would never be forgiven for that.
He could never stand his brother’s wife, but he still remembered her on occasion, normally in the summers, near his nephew’s birthday—a date he always made a note of. It was around that time she threw a particularly memorable tantrum, ripping the pins from hair that had come to fall just beneath her shoulder blades, smearing her make up with a swipe of her hand as her voice echoed through the halls, "I never asked for all of this!" To which his brother said, "But I warned you." And for once, she’d had no reply. It was around that time, he remembered collapsing while in conference with his uncle, coughing blood into his hand while the words ‘poison’ and ‘traitor’ ran rampant through the house. His own wife sat by his bedside, cool and composed under pressure as always---/she/ knew how to behave, but then his family had chosen her for him --toweling off his forehead as the fever broke; he remembered her words but not who she spoke to, making note, "They say it’s surprising, the lengths a mother will go…" and letting the implications dangle. A week prior, he remembered, the child had been born. His brother had waited at the door, more anxious than he’d ever seen him, and he hated that woman all the more for that. He hated her, but he remembered her too, remember her gall and her ugliness, and her eyes raised in defiance, as she held her infant son to her chest and made her case before the clan. "My lord," she confessed to him, the most respectful words he would ever hear from her. "I hate you, but I’ve never wished ill upon you." And the next morning they found her body lying in the garden, cold, bony fingers still wrapped around the knife. Death before dishonor. She took her life into her own hands and he remembered that was the only time he ever understood that woman. Two things they’d had in common after all: their pride, and her husband, who threw her comb at his feet, eyes trembling with rage and with grief. "I won’t forget this," his brother spat, "/Lord Hiashi./" and then didn’t bow, just turned and walked out. Hiashi couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him for it.