Cherry Blossom Blooming: Izumo

By Alina Lee

A woman lost after mourning an unrequited love.

 

Two lovers embrace death in the aftermath of a failed bid for power.

 

Two warriors consider what it means to love in a lifetime that has known only war.

 

Cherrry Blossom Blooming is a follow-up and an expansion to Paper Crane Memories, exploring more moments and tales of tangled love in Izumo, a fantasy setting inspired by the history, folklore, and culture of Old Japan. Seventeen more stories of women who love other women, set in a fantastical world of mysticism, spirits, samurai clans, and the heavy toll of war. Love can be difficult and complex, and can be found in places one would not expect. And sometimes, even in the darkest times, it can shine bright.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alina Lee
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223914747

Alina Lee

Alina Lee is a fan of the fantasy genre and tabletop RPG player, dabbles occasionally in video games, and watches more educational youtube content than most people expect. It prefers to write the kinds of stories it enjoys reading or things that just strike it as something worth writing. This means it is mostly small-scale, non-standard fantasy. It may or may not be a very private komodo dragon.

Book preview

Foreword

I tend not to like writing sequels. I do not enjoy the process of going back to tack on to a story that I already consider done, and find the process more than a little tedious. Tiring. Sometimes, I do find myself encountering stories that deserve to be expanded or call on my brain to add a little more to it, and that is probably why what you hold now exists.

When I first finished writing Paper Crane Memories, I thought that was it. I finally got the idea of lesbian samurai fantasy fiction out of my system, explored all the permutations of it I wanted to. That I had no reason to dip back into that well. Yet, somehow, the world and the stories of it decided no, I was not yet done. That I had a few more tales from the island of Izumo left to tell, more narratives that explored the small stories happening in the shadow and the wake of the grander story. So I had to get back to writing. The end result of that is Cherry Blossom Blooming.

I like to think this is less of a continuation and more of an expansion of Paper Crane Memories. I know there are some stories there that do follow-up on threads from the last collection, but not all of them. The stories do reflect a bit on the movements of the timeline of Izumo, though that is something that cannot be avoided. This was never about the big story of their equivalent of the Sengoku Jidai, but about the small stories that would be lost if I focused on that.

Now, some might be inclined to wonder if this is the last revisit. Am I likely to dip into this well a third time? I honestly do not have an answer to that.

Red String

Kensho-In Castle was lost. The outer walls were no more, the perimeter defensive fortifications put to the torch. The defenders were sallying against attackers at breaches along the western and northern walls, the southern gate was close to falling apart, warriors were treading over the bloody and broken corpses of their comrades, whose lives were lost in the initial barrage. The air was thick with ash and the sounds of the dead, the dying, and those who embraced the death to come. Vaguely, a woman heard voices of people barking out orders, trying to find people to go to this point or that location, to put out a fire or to press for a last, desperate countermove. She couldn't make out the words, but she had an idea what the bloody end of a siege was like.

She ought to be down there, she mused as she looked out the window. She was Morinaga Sumeragi, the daimyo of the Morinaga Clan, and supposed to have been in charge of the defense of the castle. Before long, she knew history would remember her as the last of the Morinaga. She had been down in the blood and mud mere moments before, leading the defenses until the cannons left the outer ward nothing more than burning wood, bits of plaster, and ashes carried by the wind. She was there, fighting and killing and screaming. Her shoulder still ached from when a bullet struck and tore through, her arm saved at the cost of her armor. Her spear broke, as did her spare. She'd chipped her sword's edge, and then broke the blade of the one she scavenged from a dead samurai. By the time she was reduced to using a woodcutter's ax she found among the corpses, she knew there was no other choice for her. There was no winning, no hope of victory. That was, perhaps, the exact moment she knew her home was gone, soon to be reduced to rubble, ash, and memories under the crushing march of the Osaki.

We chose the wrong side.

Instead of being there to bear witness to the end, she'd left a trusted retainer in command. A man who hadn't given up on saving the castle somehow, even though there was no way of doing so. She guessed he saw it as his chance to impress and be raised in rank and status. For her, he was just a convenient way to excuse being where she needed to be. Where the red string pulled her towards.

She retreated into the main keep, climbed the stairs that were angled to force invaders to crouch as they made their way up — it made for easier killing. She climbed to the topmost chamber, where there was only a shrine and a small space with cushions and a firepit. A place meant for discussing things over tea in the presence of the kami, sullied though it was by her brother using it as a place to conspire and plot treachery.

And the price of those plots was due.

Sumeragi couldn't deny that cruel reality any more than she could ignore the silence of the Devil Sakuya's cannons. There wasn't any need for them anymore, not when the masses of soldiers were enough to finish the job. The walls were breached, the outer defenses turned into splinters, ashes, and burning stone. Mere decades ago, her father's grand castle was one of the most secure in the land, impossible to breach by virtue of it's walls, the slope it was built upon, and the masterwork that was the placing of stone foundations of the major structures.

Then again, mere decades ago the Morinaga cavalry force was said to have been invincible and unbreakable, yet the Osaki slaughtered them with a hundred thousand cracks of thunder from their guns. Times changed and war changed along with it, and against that inevitable march, nothing could stand idle and content.

The castle that had been her home for her whole life was lost, even as what few defenders remained attempted to rally and meet the enemy head-on. A last, valiant, glorious defense in the name of their daimyo and her lady. A situation that her wife wanted her to avoid, and she made the error of supporting her brother's petty grievance and grand ambitions to charge head-first into it instead. As those valiant, doomed samurai charged against the enemy, Morinaga Sumeragi couldn't help but wish she'd listened to her wife Yukimi's advice and spared those warriors their violent ends.

In ten years of marriage, she never quite learned to listen to the advice and wisdom of her wife. It was something that she kept trying to work on, and Yukimi was so patient with her. Sometimes she wondered why that woman loved such a stubborn she-goat of a samurai as her, and she spent years accepting the quiet disdain of her brother over her choice of bride, but Sumeragi couldn't imagine being wed to someone else. Not when the other woman was her anchor, her strength.

She remembered they didn't like each other at first, their marriage a matter of politics and pragmatism. By marrying Imawano Yukimi into the family, her brother hoped to secure the loyalty of a vassal that had gained a great deal of influence and wealth. That Yukimi was also her family's only viable heir — her older brother disappeared, her older sister rendered unsuitable by a witch's curse — made applying pressure easy enough. And Sumeragi knew as well as her brother did that the Morinaga needed access to that wealth if his ambitions of removing the Osaki and seizing control of their growing territory was to become real.

The doors to the shrine kept at the top of the main keep slid open. She turned to her wife, whose armor and face were stained with blood. Some of it, no doubt, hadn't come from their enemies. She ignored the sight of them as best she could, focusing instead on the telltale bit of red string tied around the base of the woman's little finger on the left hand. A distinct touch that was matched by one on Sumeragi's right hand. They'd tied them around each other's fingers on one cold winter evening, to their mutual amusement. Amusement that seemed the last thing possible on that worried expression.

The northern ward is lost, Yukimi said, tossing aside a sword. It was a priceless blade once, forged by a master, but the battle left the edge chipped and cracked beyond hope of repair. The Tsujimoto have overrun it like a horde of those Skjalla rage-riders.

They have good reason to be angry at us, given what we did, she admitted, closing her eyes as if that helped drown out the sound of killing and screaming and dying. "We did turn their loyal shinobi against them and assassinate their princess. My brother called it a victory."

Yukimi frowned and slid the door closed. Now we pay the price for that victory.

I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I should have listened to you.

Yes, but you have nothing to be sorry about, her wife said, resting a hand on her shoulder. There was a light squeeze there, which she felt only because she'd lost the shoulder piece in a fight earlier. I told you, no matter what you decide to do, I would be there with you. No matter what.

She smiled, aware she didn't deserve such a woman. But Yukimi was there for her, and Sumeragi took hold of that hand as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

There was a time you thought differently, she said as she motioned for them to sit down. There was a time we couldn't stand each other.

Yukimi loosened the cords that kept her helmet in place. The stag antlers that used to be on either side of it were gone, lost in the chaos of battle.

An enemy had gotten close enough to do that, Sumeragi realized. Gotten close enough to kill her wife. To take away the one who mattered most to her in the world, the only one left who mattered.

She set the rage aside. It was useless in the face of what was coming. Do you remember how we got over ourselves?

Yukimi nodded and kissed her on the cheek. We got drunk. We yelled at each other. We fought. And then we f—

No need to put it in so vulgar a manner, dear.

You asked. Her wife smirked. You broke my nose that night, as I recall.

Broke it? She scoffed. Improved it, you mean. It was crooked when we first met and it set at a proper angle after. And you never thanked me!

My nose was not crooked! she objected, touching said nose.

Yes, she said as she laid out the cushions for them to sit on, it was.

There was a groan, and then a laugh. It lingered there between them for a long moment, boisterous and raucous and seemingly unaware of what was going on around them. No concern in her mind for the thought of their impending deaths, of the possibility that as they sat there, samurai from an opposing army made their way up with blades bared ready to cut their throats and present their heads to their daimyo. She laughed all the way through fetching a pot and preparing the coals in the pit, making sure there was still some water and leaves in there. The sobering notion of her preparing the last cup of tea she and her wife would ever have together washed the laughter away.

And it wasn't even good tea. They'd run out of that around the time the shinobi they convinced to betray the Tsujimoto failed to eliminate Osaki Sakuya, and for the past few months luxuries such as fine leaves slowly dwindled. Everything that the Morinaga had was put towards the defense of their provinces and holdings, and that proved a losing effort.

She sighed.

There is no hope for us, is there? Yukimi asked as she began to remove what pieces of her armor were still on. Blood stained almost all of her right arm. We're surrounded, so we don't have a way to escape. And nowhere to escape to anyway.

She shook her head. No. Any friends we might have had, we lost when my brother ended up dead. Or when the Osaki attacked.

And she probably won't let us live, either. Not after...

She frowned and rubbed her temples. I should have listened to you.

I love you, her wife said as she set down her wakizashi in front of her. I want you to know that. To say that.

Here, at the very end? She smiled, and to her surprise meant it. I love you too, Yukimi. I feel like I don't say that often enough.

You picked a damnably sour time to change that, don't you think?

Better late than never, she said as she took her own wakizashi. It had seen use earlier, but for some reason, she'd sheathed it and picked up some dead man's ax instead. As if the blade was to serve a different purpose, a more meaningful one. I wish I could have fought beside you one last time, though. I wanted to be there with you, holding the line.

Yukimi shook her head and dismissed the words with a gesture. You were needed elsewhere. And besides, with Matsunaga dead, someone had to take command of the northern ward.

Still. This is our last battle together.

As if I'd have wanted you to see me die. Her wife scoffed. If we die, we die together. That's why you came here, didn't you? You remembered those words.

Sumeragi smiled, and felt the weight of the memory almost overcome her, almost pull her into the abyss that was the floor. The words were spoken when word of the failed assassination reached them, and they both realized — though her brother failed to — that the Morinaga were doomed. You told me that when the time came and all hope of survival was lost, we would come here. We would have tea together, and we would spend our last moments in what peace we could manage to have.

The wounded woman put up her left hand, wiggled the little finger. "The red string of Ai-kami binds us, in life and hopefully in death. Even if we were too blind to see it at first."

In my defense, when we first met, you almost tore my throat open with an arrow, Yukimi.

Only because you were in the arrow's way.

They laughed again, though the moment was cut short when Yukimi pressed for a kiss. Sumeragi let herself melt into it, surrendered to the instant, to that gentle pressure, and fought back the longing as her wife pulled away. What was that for?

Her wife shrugged. Someone had to. And you seemed intent on doing everything else.

I never wanted it to end like this, she said as she took the kettle and began to pour out the tea. I suppose I had the unrealistic dream of us growing old together, surrounded by adopted children and their children.

Dreams like that are a luxury in times such as ours, dear.

I know, she admitted, closing her eyes as if to dream still, but you can't fault me for dreaming, can you?

Yukimi shook her head. Never.

They each took a cup of tea and drank a sip. Their faces both turned sour from the taste, and then they broke into laughter as wisps of smoke began to waft up from below. Kensho-In Castle was not long for the world, and its defenders were no doubt dead, dying, or dwindling away against the onslaught of their enemies.

A part of her was tempted to hate them for that, for their ruthlessness, but she couldn't really blame Osaki Sakuya. By her inaction, she allowed her brother's schemes to take away the woman's brother and wife. As she looked at Yukimi, she wondered what horrors she would have unleashed if anyone did the same to her wife. How much death she'd cause in the name of her grief and rage.

Too many, a part of her whispered.

But not enough either, another part of her admitted as she began to remove her armor.

Yukimi stripped off her defenses too, acknowledging the unspoken intent. The somber finality of it.

There is only one way left for us, isn't there? She put down the tea and touched the sword in front of her. If we want to leave on our own terms, at any rate.

Yukimi's face turned solemn, as if the weight of the moment, forgotten for a little while in the bursts of memory and laughter, poured down like an avalanche. The only thing I want now is to see the end beside you, she said. All else is irrelevant.

She looked at the red string around their little fingers. As a child, she heard tales about how the spirits of lovers were bound by red strings that were placed around their hearts by Ai-kami herself. She didn't believe in such things, didn't believe in the universe taking such direct action in the lives of mere mortals. But she looked at those strings and at Yukimi, and didn't need to wonder why she changed her mind on that matter.

She reached forward and took grip of the sheathed blade on Yukimi's side, but she locked eyes with her wife and made a silent plea. The sentiment was there, waiting to be acknowledged, waiting for permission to be given voice. It was too important a choice to make herself. It was a choice of finality and she couldn't condone the idea of making the decision herself and expecting her wife — her equal in all ways, even if she sometimes forgot that — to just follow along.

There was silence there, the chaos that went on outside and perhaps below being drowned out by the moment. She ignored the sounds of hurried footfalls and crashing, wet thuds, the muffled sounds of pistols firing and warriors screaming. She ignored those things, but understood their meaning, their implication. They were running out of time to make a choice.

Yukimi placed a hand on hers. Warm and hard, a hand marked by calluses from years of holding a sword, and enduring as the mountains. There was that smile that was an open gate with torches lined up behind it on a cold night, a welcome for a weary traveling after a long journey. And in that moment, Sumeragi knew and understood once more what she'd known and understood for many years. An unspoken thing, something that could only be communicated in peculiar moments and light touches rather than clumsy words. Her wife was there for her, and they would be there for each other no matter what. Even when there was no other way forward and no hope for them to escape the damnation they brought upon their house and clan.

Her arms, her hands, they trembled. Trembled violently, and she couldn't get a solid grip on the blade. Couldn't bring herself to calm the tremors that came or the panic that began to set in, bringing insidious fangs to bear on her like a hungry beast. Yukimi steadied her arms for her, but her hands trembled still as her throat began to parch.

I'm sorry, she said, looking away. Of all the times—

You have nothing to apologize for. Her wife took in a deep breath, and coughed most of it out because of the smoke. The fire was coming from somewhere below them, and both understood what that meant. We don't have much time, and we can't wait for it to pass.

Sumeragi nodded, her eyes hanging low from shame. Her wife told her before that her affliction was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was no weakness or blemish of character, but it was hard to shake off that mindset. Her lifetime with her brother left it ingrained in her mind and spirit, and it was a struggle to ignore it as much as it was a struggle to will the shaking to stop when the fits came.

But her wife was there, and that made things better.

Yukimi took the weapon and tossed aside the sheath. The edge was pristine, unblemished and unused. Ready for the grim purpose to which they came to that room to perform. Her wife was much the same, banishing any signs of doubt and leaving only a resolve as unshakable as steel and bright like a gleaming flash of the lightning of Zoryu-kami behind. The only thing that failed and cracked was herself, too weak to control the tremors that came upon her. Too weak to do what she came there to do.

Once again, I am placing a burden on my wife's shoulders. She glared at her hands, as if the act would chide them into sitting still. What a failure I am, to trouble my beloved so much and so heavily.

It is no trouble at all. The blade was ready. The smoke in the room grew thick, the sounds of clashing below louder and closer. There is little time left.

She