Chapter Text
Reisen Udongein Inaba was twenty when she first had the urge.
In earth-years she was four times that, but under the spell of the Princess she’d divided her age by half, and in light of inexperience she’d halved that number again. Then she had kept strict, exacting time, because one of these days, she would be dead.
When she awoke, she counted her fingers and toes, indexing her belongings in the four-mat room. Her table, her chair; the wardrobe where she kept her books, her clothes, and past life. She looked then at the bamboo-striped ceiling and took the date: 15th of Yayoi, Season 120. Then she returned darkness to attend to her itch.
She opened her gown and slipped both hands inside. Around her Eientei slept, taking small chirruping breaths. Five steps outside her Master rested, light and feathery. On the far side of the mansion the Princess drowned in dreams. Tewi was nowhere. The Inabas were in the forest, the moon rabbits were on the moon, and the moon was a sharp smiling sickle.
Having reached her warmth, she traced the outside, feeling for the lips. She stroked lengthwise and waited for her hips to rise.
They didn’t. She was dry.
Reisen tried again, thinking of her cycle. She was due in eight, nine days, long enough that she should’ve been wet.
—On the moon, they had spiked her meals with drugs, so when she’d had her first flow, torrid and excruciating, as if her intestines were being strangled, she’d thought she was dying. Her Master, with a flat tone, had said, “You’ve a choice. You can continue taking the syrup, or you can live here on Earth.” Even then, terrified as she was, pained as she was, she had chosen Earth.
Since that time, she had grown out her hair. Her ears became crumpled. She collected hairpins and needles, snap-clips and barrettes, French combs and stretch combs and boxwood combs snugged into sleek lacquer cases. Each slotted accessory built her store of order, bit by painstaking bit, until eventually this summer she promised to try different ties—cravats, mainly, and in the near future saw herself wearing the full battery of dresses, from flighty shifts to floral yukatas to flowing, muslin skirts. She would be earthen at last.
And still she refused to peak.
She let out a shallow huff and pulled her fingers close. By the minute light of her eyes she saw nothing wrong, scented nothing wrong. She was healthy and wanted release. Frustration flashed: her body was defying her.
Should she press her fingers inside, dry as she was?
Not that she’d ever given it much thought. Her urge intruded once a week, once a month, and she would do it without fantasy, and that was that.
When she did dream, unassisted, she dreamt of the Princess. Her Master. But then she also dreamt of the half-hakutaku and her sure arms, the other immortal and her spry legs, her teachers and their discipline; she dreamt of girl strangers, faceless rabbits, and women from books, enough that she realized her dreams were flitting fancies and nothing more.
She pushed her fingers inside and pictured the Princess, approaching with measured, silent steps, a loose gown framing her figure. In the private close of her mind her steps were always bolder, more reckless, so here she reeled Kaguya into a drowning embrace and whispered Yes. They kissed, chastely at first, then with abandon, lips whetting lips and tasting the smooth fold of her neck, then her tongue, then her clammy, tempting nape.
Reisen parted her clothes and nuzzled against her bare chest. Her Princess. Reisen listened to the avid skip of her heart and marveled that it would never stop. She soiled her breasts with her mouth, kept a nipple in the tender hold of her lip and tongue. Would her Princess sigh? She would: long pleasured breaths, deep rises and deep falls, her face coloring a gentle, mellow flush.
Ouch. Her fingers withdrew and massaged the bud above her lips, the site of her last resort. Nothing. She peeked inside, knowing that it would ruin her appetite. She saw her pointer and middle thrust against her hood, as if she was testing an orange for ripeness. That, and her own animal smell, had stopped her.
Reisen splayed on her futon. With dawning anxiety, she realized that she thirsted for the real thing. Now she was in uncharted waters; she hadn’t needed fantasy before, and she was scared with the way her mind leapt from fancy to real aching hunger. In the dusking early light she slammed the doors shut, locked away her urge and resolved to ignore it until it went away.
It was the Hour of the Rabbit. Her ears tracked nervous circles in the air, and she rubbed the skin under her eyes.