Chapter Text
“My lady, you have been chosen. You have been summoned by the crowned prince, Satoru Gojo.”
You blinked and looked up from where you were kneeling, your brow furrowing at the fairytale being spoken. The news of the broken engagement between the crowned prince and Princess Iori Utahime was something that seared throughout the kingdom, spreading to the outer borders to where even your village was tittering away with their speculation on what had happened.
What followed was the royal decree from the queen, stating her only son must find a wife. It was also said she was furious of the spectacle he made it to be–but again, these were just the rumors shared amongst the commonfolk.
It was not anything you bothered to dwell on, but that was before your garden was shadowed by the two men now standing before you.
You focused on the one who was closer and he shifted under your scrutiny, an almost orchestra of the Queensguard armor that he wore, polished and glinting in the sunlight. He held onto his helmet, sweat beading at his hairline and his cheeks rosy. His eyes were wide and he looked towards the other man who accompanied him, waiting.
The other man watching you was the renowned General Suguru Geto, friend of the crowned prince and his personal guard. He was as captivating as the stories; tall and lithe, unadorned by armor but wearing the queen’s sigil embossed on a leather cuirass across his broad chest, over his tunic. His black hair fell past his shoulders, some falling in his eyes that burned through you.
Any other woman would have an array of emotions to pull for such a moment as this: perhaps an initial coy surprise followed by acceptance, the fantasy of becoming a princess staining their cheeks as their practiced bashfulness surfaced.
Instead, you frowned. “Why,” you asked them, your tone flat.
“Why?” The first man echoed but an octave higher. His eyes darted back to the general, bright with his disbelief at your question.
You also looked back to the general and saw the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. You held your gaze, contemplating him. You were almost certain it had to be the general, seeing the two distinct features always mentioned with his lore.
The first was the broadsword that was strapped to his backside, its gleaming handle peering over his shoulder. A stone was embedded into the pommel, and its ever-changing iridescent coloring was said to be an enchantment, a sentience to this weapon. It was legend crafted–the tale of a sword capable of cutting through anyone or anything, as long as it was wielded by someone deemed worthy.
And Geto was said to be just that: worthy.
It was the sword you first recalled, followed by his eyes that bore through you, heating your blood beneath; the murmured moniker of the purple-eyed demon, as given by his enemies.
The very same who now was smirking at your skepticism.
You chose to break the silence. “Yes,” you pressed your palms into the soft earth, pushing yourself to stand and face them both, “I am aware, as anyone, of the mess that followed a very public…” you took a moment to settle on a word, “...dissolvement between the prince and the princess. But what I fail to understand is why he would then decide to marry me?”
Geto continued to watch you with a quiet contemplation while the other man was quick to answer you, beaming. “The prince said that you saved his life!”
Your kindness was your curse; you closed your eyes with an inward groan. “But that was a lifetime ago,” you argued.
In fact it had happened almost eighteen years prior. This had been when you and your father lived more centrally to the capital, in a humble cottage by the river winding throughout the city. You had been outside when you heard someone fall in, his wail and frantic splash had you rushing to pull him from the water.
You remembered the matted mess of his white hair, the celestial blue of his eyes that was a known trait in the royal family–Prince Satoru Gojo. He shivered through his wet clothes, confessing to running away, with his plea pitiful: please don’t tell my mother.
This memory evaporated and instead, you said: “Who would even remember that?”
“Prince Satoru does!” He was still grinning.
You refrained from rolling your eyes. “But what if I do not wish to go and marry Prince Satoru?”
He looked incredulous, wilting back towards Geto, desperate for any guidance on how to handle this woman he clearly thought mad. The general remained quiet.
The knight looked back to you, past you, and nodded his head towards your home, a different decorum this time. “He said he only wished to reward the woman who saved him,” his words tactfully chosen, “and that he wished to liberate you from your life of poverty.”
You recoiled, fury alight in your eyes. The poverty he was referring to was the bit of land that had been left by your father. It had been purchased with the reward given when the queen came to retrieve her son; it was enough to start anew, to find a home that was not so haunted.
It was why you returned to the north, closer to the border of the Ryomen Kingdom, with enough leftover to build your home.
It was here that your father rebuilt his reputation as an esteemed salver. He spent his days helping any ailment, and his evenings spent notating his accumulated knowledge of remedies in a leather bound book embossed Atsumeru.
You shadowed him and he was happy to show you everything he knew, proud of your keen eye that could decipher the differences in herbs. He bought you a mortar and pestle, a smoky agate, teaching you healing concoctions that he used. He taught you to read, to write, and he brought you along to every house call, praising your aptitude to help instill your own repute.
But despite all this, there was still a hesitation after your father passed away, a rough transition when you stepped into the void he left behind.
You had your maternal determinations seeded in your bones, and it allowed you to recarve your niche back within the village. They, inevitably, learned to show you the same respect reserved for your father.
It was not a rich life, not anything you could expect someone of a higher social status could comprehend, but you found comfort with its simplicity, a satisfaction when you were able to help those in need. There was a warmth that coiled in your chest as you continued the work your father devoted himself to; he felt alive whenever your cursive writing knitted into his detailed notes, forever bonded.
Your father gifted your independence and you would be damned before you allowed yourself to be ripped away because some prince almost drowned.
And this is exactly what you said to them.
The knight was pained with your declaration. “My lady,” he licked his lips, nervous, “I am afraid that I have been commanded to bring you back with me…”
Your boldness would not hear him. “You may inform your prince that I am pleased he never fell victim to another body of water.” You were already in motion, scooping up the half-filled wicker basket to balance on your hips, honeysuckle and lavender curling in the autumn air. “And you tell him that I am declining his offer, that I am choosing to remain in my poverty.”
You meant to storm back into your home, to shut and bar the door, but you forgot about the general until he reached to catch your elbow. Your fury brimmed as you turned to face him and his amethyst eyes glowed.
“My lady,” his voice was soft, low, but resolute, “I apologize, but I will see my prince’s command to the very end, even if this means I must throw you over my shoulder and carry you back.”
You hated the heat that licked your stomach with his threat, something that spawned from his strong but careful touch. You forced yourself to glare back at him. “I…” but whatever venom that was poised on your tongue stopped.
One of them heavily armed was an issue, but facing both was impossible. And even if you somehow succeeded, where could you even run to? Your entire life was ingrained into the very earth you were standing on, and they had been commanded to uproot you, to return you back to Prince Satoru as if you were a prize and not a person.
What choice did you truly have?
Your shoulders slumped and you swallowed thickly. “Would he force me?” You wished your voice did not sound so small.
His face softened with your words, a dawning revelation that relaxed his hold on you. “My lady, the prince is a proud man, but I swear he would never force himself on anyone. He only wishes for an answer.” Geto paused, a grimace flickering across his sharp features. “But in person.”
You sighed, pulling at his fingers until his hand dropped back to his side. “Very well, I will come with you but only so I may tell Prince Gojo that I have no intention of marrying him. However,” you looked back over your garden, the molds you placed in the shade of the banyan trees, your hard work half done, “I request that I at least sell my stock at the charter market. It is my only source of income and it is how I am able to stock up to prepare for winter illnesses.”
They both stared at you. Geto and his curiosity that knitted his brows together, his careful consideration to what you just shared, while the knight looked as confused as ever; he opened his mouth first. “Winter illnesses…?”
You grit your teeth, caging you irritation, and explained, “I am a healer in this region. I help those who need it.” You paused, a smirk. “Like your prince, for example.”
“You cannot expect to make him wait–”
“You and the general are welcomed to help me, if you wish to leave sooner. But you know the market visits each region annually and I will not abandon my stock to traipse across the kingdom on a fool’s errand.”
He imploded. “He is a decorated general of the Queensguard! How can you expect–!”
“Haibara,” Geto cut through, not by raising his voice but still commanding nonetheless; Haibara straightened his spine. The general looked you over, deciding to test your resolve. “And if we choose to see through what I just said?”
You blinked. His tone was teasing you, his amusement returning with an upwards tick of his lips. “If you decide to drag me away,” you faced him, daring him, “I vow that I will not make the journey easy, by any means necessary.”
Geto chuckled, unbothered. “Very well then. Haibara,” his focus returned to the knight while yours fell rapt to watch as the general began to unbuckle his harness to set his blade aside; his long and slender fingers were quick to unlace his chest piece, lifting it over his head before he began to roll up his sleeves, “you will return and tell Satoru that we found her and I will be bringing her back myself.”
Haibara was flustered pink. “But what will you…?”
“I will remain at her side, helping with the harvest or the market or whatever chores are needed to be done in order for her to willingly come with me.”
He was incredulous. “You are truly going to help her?”
You were equally surprised, still watching as Geto knotted his dark hair at the base of his neck, pulling it away from his face. “This is what I just said,” he looked back at you and you swore his eyes glittered. “If this is the only way I can see through to what my prince commanded–”
“Otherwise, I will be kicking and biting the whole way.” You could not stop your tongue.
Geto grinned. “Then what choice do I have?”
It was a myth: a sword said to be forged by the immortals, an impenetrable steel that could cut down the gods themselves. It could not be controlled, but you could hope to be worthy to wield the blade. Over time many tried, many undeserving souls that were cursed by its touch before it would disappear again, waiting, waiting.
At the time Suguru Geto was a young man unknown, with only his loyalty to the crown and to his friend, Prince Satoru Gojo. He was a strong and fearsome fighter, with piercing amethyst eyes always watching, which was how he spotted the pommel and its chromatic glint of purples and blues.
At the time war was rampant with the neighboring kingdom. Its new, brash king, Sukuna of the Ryomen Kingdom, rallied to expand past the borders that had been respected the last century, guided by his bloodlust and his greed.
It was said that Geto claimed the sword and the purple-eyed demon became legend embodied, worthy to wield this great power and halt the invasion.
And now, this same sword and its iridescent stone was glittering in the sunlight.
You were quick to realize several things about the notorious General Suguru Geto. The first was the palpable respect he commanded. It was not bold, but his veritable demeanor that thrummed deep within, his careful composure with every action that had you enthralled.
You saw it with how the knight Haibara did leave as he was told. His hesitation was set aside and he climbed aback one of the horses they rode it on. He left just as the general instructed.
You watched as the horse climbed back up the slope that led down to your home, leaving you alone with the general. “So then, where should I begin?” Geto asked.
The second was how you learned the genuineness behind every question, that the general was not a man for idle conversation. At first, you were almost uneasy with how his eyes settled onto you, the amethyst that shone bright as he listened to you explain the method to the chaos that surrounded you both.
It was his sincerity with his question that followed that made you smile. “But what is it called?”
Bars of soap was an endeavor your father poured himself into. He believed that hygiene was a vital aspect for maintaining good health and overall well-being. You remembered watching as he carved the molds into the thick, wooden planks, the outside decorated with jars and pots to collect the rainwater, the constant smolder of hardwood to collect its ashes.
He allowed you to choose the scents, honeysuckle and rosemary and lavender planted in the garden outside. He showed you how to spud the cassia bark, claiming the pungent sweet and spicy favorite to add.
You smiled from these memories. “It is cheap to make them,” you finished, gesturing around, “but it can also be tedious.”
The banyan leaves had been cut and were soaking, which would have them more malleable to allow you to wrap the bars individually and tie them with twine. Sprigs of its scent were slipped under the knot to decipher the smells easier. You showed this to the general and your curious eyes watched his slender fingers recreate, wrapping and knotting the string, tucking a lavender stem with care.
You burned with the intrusive thought of how many lives were taken by these same hands.
But as the day waned away, you could admit that you found his company endearing. You enjoyed his soft cadence of questions, asking in detail about your life. In return, you pittered and pulled at his practiced stoicism, a sense of satisfaction to be rewarded with his small smile instead of another damn smirk.
“Where is the charter market held in this region?”
It was less than half a day’s walk on foot, but that had been before, considering the wicker basket you filled to the brim and carried. His brow raised. “By yourself?”
You scoffed. “I am stronger than I look.”
“I believe that.”
You burned, quick to look away from the teasing curl of his mouth, and you mentioned the old buggy you had despite no longer having a horse for it. Geto offered his own and helped you load multiple wicker baskets, preparing to leave first thing the next morning.
The supper prepared was modest but savory, with a quieter tension settling over, the thought as to where you would have the general sleep. He suggested first that he would post to watch over the cart and stock.
“Outside?” You could not help but ask.
Another smirk. “I am stronger than I look.”
And as you laid in bed, processing your day, your mind eventually wandered back to the general outside and his perpetual smirk, to the purple that shone bright in his eyes.