Necklace (Ashurran #2)

Sapphire

Lady Yukinozen often sat on the cliffs looking at the limitless expanse of the sea, while the surf was breaking under her feet, scattering into pearls and diamonds. Her wide sleeves were wet with salty water, and her cheeks also — the sea saved Lady Yukinozen's pride by hiding her tears. From her childhood years no living soul had seen her cry. The more reasons there were to cry, the more reasons to hide it.

She had been happy and carefree once: the prettiest girl of the court, King Hashizawa's favorite lady-in-waiting, her skill in singing and playing the lute unmatched. At twenty-five she had been married to a rich, noble-born courtier. Her husband was young, handsome, in love with her, and Lady Yukinozen fell in love with him either.

She had been a devoted, faithful wife, in spite of loose morals of the court. She had known no other man after her husband (and her sovereign before him). She joked, "My heart is too small, my soul too shallow, there is place only for one." Alas, no one stays young and beautiful forever, and love can be even more short-lived than beauty. After ten years of marriage Lady Yukinozen was still good-looking, but only a flatterer — or a man deeply in love — would call her beautiful. But her husband loved her no more.

They had lost their love but could have preserved their marriage with respect and affection to one another. But the Gods had chosen not to bless them with children. Or, more exactly, it was Lady Yukinozen who was not blessed with children, because her husband had had plenty of offspring out of wedlock.

As a bride Lady Yukinozen thought it was her duty to birth children — an unpleasant but unavoidable duty for a virtuous woman. Then she saw how much her husband had wanted an heir and wanted to give him one — out of love, not duty. After a few more years she had been longing, craving to have a child. She thought it would restore her husband's love, or at least his attention, and make her again the center of his household. Years had passed, yet she couldn't conceive. Her husband had taken a second wife and sent Lady Yukinozen as far away from the capital as possible — to the shores of Aolaigo, under the pretext of her poor health.

She had been living in Aolaigo ever since: all alone in an old neglected manor (not counting the servants), abandoned, cast away like a worn-out cloak. Only then she had finally felt the terrible, overwhelming force which had been driving mortals from time immemorial: the instinct to procreate.

Lady Yukinozen had to overcame her pride and her resentment of men in order to start an affair with the owner of the neighboring estate. His name was Lord Inori, and he was a typical country bumpkin compared to the people of the capital: not handsome nor refined, and barely educated. He fell fervently in love with Lady Yukinozen but for the life of him couldn't write a single verse about his feelings or even pour them into any coherent words. Dull and hopeless, Lady Yukinozen thought with disdain. But Lord Inori was healthy and robust and had sired three sons who had grown to be as healthy and robust as him.

In time Lady Yukinozen had even learned to appreciate that simple man and his sincere passion. Lord Inori was ready to give her everything he had. But he hadn't given her a child — not in a month, nor in a year.

Lady Yukinozen had been growing thin, and pale, and anxious. Playing the lute seemed boring and difficult, embroidering patterns blurred before her eyes, letters refused to form words. All her favorite things ceased to be enjoyable. Lady Yukinozen saw her unborn children in her dreams, and she heard their laugh and the patter of their little feet on the floor even when awake. She covered her ears, run off to the sea coast and sat there for hours, crying.

Lady Yukinozen hadn't seen her lover Inori for three months now. His enquiries were answered, "The Lady isn't feeling well." His clumsy letters weren't answered at all. Lady Yukinozen didn't want to see him. What was the point, if he couldn't fill her barren womb!