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augustines2013-03-17 03:15 am
smithereens) wrote in augustines2013-03-17 03:15 am
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how dare you speak of grace.
“Leave us. I need to speak privately with my daughter.”
Her mother is livid. She doesn’t frown or purse her lips, doesn’t scowl or ball her hands into fists; instead, Sihai can tell by the coldness in her eyes, how she keeps her sleeves over her fingers, to hide how they clench together.
The servants leave hastily, knowing better than to dawdle when consort Xuhana is displeased. They can read the woman too, but at least they have the security of knowing her anger isn’t directed at any of them.
She found out about Jian. Sihai doesn’t know how she knows, who told her or how she discovered it, but precious little of that matters anymore. None of it.
Sihai stands unmoving in the center of the second consort’s parlor, head bowed, waiting quietly for her mother to check for eavesdroppers in the doorway, to run her hand down the side of the tapestry to hide them completely from view. Her headdress tinkles softly in the stillness; Sihai closes her eyes and imagines her mother turning her head towards her, her eyes narrowing and mouth twisting into an ugly scowl.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” she asks, barely above a hiss.
Sihai opens her eyes and stares at the carpet under her feet, tracing the intricate pattern of lotus flowers and dragons rampant; she thinks the design suits her mother.
She doesn’t speak.
“A nobleman’s son. A second son,” her mother continues, and the words sound like insults on her tongue. “Do you know your duty, Sihai? Your duty to Wuxia?”
“To marry well,” Sihai says finally, quietly, as if speaking them softly would take away their power. Tears burn behind her eyes, but she clutches her sleeves and wills them away; she already knows what her mother would say.
“To marry princes and kings,” her mother says, contempt in her every word, in every line of her body. “To make alliances for Wuxia. Powerful alliances. To make those princes and kings happy so that they look upon us kindly and open their doors in welcome even as we come to take their lands out from under them. And you. You waste your charms on a second son. Sihai.”
Sihai lifts her head, swallows down the thickness in her throat; she is not surprised to find that her mother’s expression has not changed since last she saw it. People had compared them often, had praised Sihai to be as great a beauty as her mother, but looking into her icy blue eyes—
She is not beautiful. She is worn, and cold, and desperate.
“Princes and kings do not want another man’s discards,” her mother says, and if Sihai did not know better, it would’ve almost sounded kindly. “Do you understand?”
Sihai doesn’t answer, defiant, her expression unchanging, unmoved—
Her mother slaps her hard across the face, so hard that Sihai feels her head jerk to the side and pain blossom from her cheek. The sound of it is loud, too loud, like a crack of thunder.
“Do you understand?” she repeats, and again Sihai doesn’t answer, doesn’t lift a hand to her throbbing cheek, refuses to react with anything other than the crease of her brow—
Her mother smacks her again, harder this time, with more strength than Sihai thought possible from her. Hot, frustrated tears threaten and then spill, and a raw, wounded noise escapes her lips; Sihai knows, in that moment, that she’d lost.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. He had a kind smile, she thinks, and the most carefree laugh she’d ever heard in her life, and his bangs would always slip from his topknot and fall into his eyes in a way that made her heart race and he’d tell her she was pretty and hold her hand when no one was watching.
And her mother never knew any of it. For months and months of blissful rebellion, of shy glances and personal happiness.
“Mother—”
“He’s leaving for the western front this evening,” her mother says, almost flippantly, straightening her hanfu and sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “As a second son, his only real hope for distinction is in the military, after all. We will pray for his safe return.”
Sihai feels almost sick with betrayal, with anger, with horror for what her mother has done. She can only stare, open-mouthed, forgotten tears falling from her chin and wetting the carpet, as her mother turns away, in a rustle of fabric and muted footfalls.
“Do not cry, Sihai. It’s beneath you.”
Her mother is livid. She doesn’t frown or purse her lips, doesn’t scowl or ball her hands into fists; instead, Sihai can tell by the coldness in her eyes, how she keeps her sleeves over her fingers, to hide how they clench together.
The servants leave hastily, knowing better than to dawdle when consort Xuhana is displeased. They can read the woman too, but at least they have the security of knowing her anger isn’t directed at any of them.
She found out about Jian. Sihai doesn’t know how she knows, who told her or how she discovered it, but precious little of that matters anymore. None of it.
Sihai stands unmoving in the center of the second consort’s parlor, head bowed, waiting quietly for her mother to check for eavesdroppers in the doorway, to run her hand down the side of the tapestry to hide them completely from view. Her headdress tinkles softly in the stillness; Sihai closes her eyes and imagines her mother turning her head towards her, her eyes narrowing and mouth twisting into an ugly scowl.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” she asks, barely above a hiss.
Sihai opens her eyes and stares at the carpet under her feet, tracing the intricate pattern of lotus flowers and dragons rampant; she thinks the design suits her mother.
She doesn’t speak.
“A nobleman’s son. A second son,” her mother continues, and the words sound like insults on her tongue. “Do you know your duty, Sihai? Your duty to Wuxia?”
“To marry well,” Sihai says finally, quietly, as if speaking them softly would take away their power. Tears burn behind her eyes, but she clutches her sleeves and wills them away; she already knows what her mother would say.
“To marry princes and kings,” her mother says, contempt in her every word, in every line of her body. “To make alliances for Wuxia. Powerful alliances. To make those princes and kings happy so that they look upon us kindly and open their doors in welcome even as we come to take their lands out from under them. And you. You waste your charms on a second son. Sihai.”
Sihai lifts her head, swallows down the thickness in her throat; she is not surprised to find that her mother’s expression has not changed since last she saw it. People had compared them often, had praised Sihai to be as great a beauty as her mother, but looking into her icy blue eyes—
She is not beautiful. She is worn, and cold, and desperate.
“Princes and kings do not want another man’s discards,” her mother says, and if Sihai did not know better, it would’ve almost sounded kindly. “Do you understand?”
Sihai doesn’t answer, defiant, her expression unchanging, unmoved—
Her mother slaps her hard across the face, so hard that Sihai feels her head jerk to the side and pain blossom from her cheek. The sound of it is loud, too loud, like a crack of thunder.
“Do you understand?” she repeats, and again Sihai doesn’t answer, doesn’t lift a hand to her throbbing cheek, refuses to react with anything other than the crease of her brow—
Her mother smacks her again, harder this time, with more strength than Sihai thought possible from her. Hot, frustrated tears threaten and then spill, and a raw, wounded noise escapes her lips; Sihai knows, in that moment, that she’d lost.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. He had a kind smile, she thinks, and the most carefree laugh she’d ever heard in her life, and his bangs would always slip from his topknot and fall into his eyes in a way that made her heart race and he’d tell her she was pretty and hold her hand when no one was watching.
And her mother never knew any of it. For months and months of blissful rebellion, of shy glances and personal happiness.
“Mother—”
“He’s leaving for the western front this evening,” her mother says, almost flippantly, straightening her hanfu and sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “As a second son, his only real hope for distinction is in the military, after all. We will pray for his safe return.”
Sihai feels almost sick with betrayal, with anger, with horror for what her mother has done. She can only stare, open-mouthed, forgotten tears falling from her chin and wetting the carpet, as her mother turns away, in a rustle of fabric and muted footfalls.
“Do not cry, Sihai. It’s beneath you.”