Thirty years later, when he'd been the Emperor for so long that he almost lost his earlier name, he allows himself to forget - or rather forbids to remember. Days bleed into each other seamlessly, full of court politics and diplomatic decisions and spiritual matters; he bears heavy royal clothes with easy dignity, and Shuga accompanies him as a guarding shadow, always one step behind with needed advice or quiet warning. This life fits him perfectly, as it should; he knows his duty for Empire's people, and really, what good can memories do? So he forgets, because he's an Emperor, and everything is in his will.

But sometimes in his dreams he returns: warm grass under bare legs, city's welcoming bustle, Tohya's lessons, friendly races across rice fields, Tanda's kind visits, kites in the high sky, taste of unexpected freedom on his tongue; strange, other thing growing in his chest, oddly benevolent and warm. Sometimes he hears measured, calming thumping of the mill, sweeter than any lullaby, and always there's Balsa's steady, deep breathing in the dark, telling him safe, protected, you're safe here; sleep well, as familiar and needed as his own.

When this dreams come, he smiles in his sleep unknowingly, but never remembers afterwards, because he wishes it so. Still, it's is a good thing nobody sees his face when he awakens.