The Tragedy of Emmental, Part One
—Fret—
On the night following the Foundation Festival, a man cursed in the lodgings within the Imperial Palace grounds.
He had been humiliated by his younger sister during the festival.
“Damn it…”
Even now, the thought of being mocked by the very sister he had cherished so deeply still burned within him.
The sight of Spica in a white dress had only added to his irritation.
He was annoyed in a strange way—why hadn’t she waited until their own ceremony to wear such a thing?—though he was unaware of the absurdity of his own grievance. He did not understand that it was precisely the absurdity that made it wrong.
Recalling that he could calm himself by speaking with his other sister, Fret set out the next morning toward the detached wing of the Imperial Palace where Stella resided.
Yet he could not meet with her.
She was told he could not see her—she had fallen ill with fever, worn down by exhaustion from the previous night. There was nothing left to do but turn back.
She was denied visits each day, always with some excuse.
The headache that had persisted since the day after the Foundation Festival was genuinely severe. Though angered by being turned away despite daily attempts, he accepted it as unavoidable when illness was the reason.
He had been told from home that Spica had run away, and though he had considered she might come seeking help, he remained at the Imperial Palace, unwilling to leave. Yet Spica did not come to see him. Nor had he seen Stella.
For some time, Fret endured these days of vague unease.
Rumors began to circulate about the new lord of Emmental, said to possess extraordinary power.
Described as beautiful, with a heart full of compassion, like a noble angel, he was sung of by wandering bards.
At first, Fret vaguely dismissed the rumors, wondering if someone like Spica truly existed.
Yet, as the rumors suggested, she had been a great sacrifice—soon after, during the general military assembly, it was announced that the boundary of the sealed realm had been extended to the border.
One could still marvel at those who accomplished such feats.
It would have been better if Spica had simply given in and returned home...
The summons from home came about three weeks after the Foundation Festival.
There, it was revealed that Spica had ascended to the divine register as the current heir.
That Spica was the true sister, and Stella was not.
That Stella had committed treason against the imperial house and now awaited execution.
That Stella had used some strange power to align the family.
That Spica was the one who had provided the cursed eye to our elder brother.
I cannot comprehend any of this. I am silenced, told only to swallow the information whole.
Stella’s power, it seems, is under a strict silence even beyond us. Something about an irresistible divine force… What is that even? There’s no way I would submit to such power.
Even if it is unyielding, there must still be a way to resist.
At last, Spica’s letter is shown to me and Alex Elder.
Father, mother, and Cain Elder have already read it, I assume.
And before me, a wooden box is presented.
Inside, a tassel woven with the Sacred Stone.
Something Spica left behind for me…
Not something made out of duty to position, like Father or Cain Elder; not something created indirectly, like Mother; not something reluctantly handed down, like Alex Elder… but something made solely for me, by Spica’s own hand. My heart grows dim with sorrow, yet lifts with quiet elation.
At the same time, I want to look away from the truth that Spica is not here, and from the truth that she is my own blood sister… No, I will not admit such things.
Am I the one who oppressed Spica? Don’t be absurd. Who else has ever cared for her as deeply as I have?
The proof lies in the fact that Spica entrusted the Sacred Stone only to me.
Not to anyone else—only to me!
And even if I had oppressed Spica, wasn’t it all because of Stella’s twisted power? Then surely I am not to blame.
The true culprit is that woman who infiltrated our true family, assumed Spica’s place, and tried to cast her out.
Father speaks of Spica and Stella both being family, telling me to reflect upon my own actions and repent—but what foolishness is this?
To mock the very source of all suffering Spica has endured, I let out a bitter laugh.
In any case, if what’s being said is true, Spica won’t be returning for some time…
Spica has great sacred power—she’ll fall into a long slumber…
Ten years from now, or perhaps even longer…
I clench my fist without meaning to, compelled by the thought that I must remain her ally, at least as long as I live.
But truly… what have our parents done?
To bring in a troublesome creature like Stella and lose Spica—then place the blame for such a failure upon us…
Father declared that we would all go to Emmental together, without delay.
He said we would see Spica, offer our apologies, and send her off once more.
I stood waiting by the carriage, my heart heavy with conflicting thoughts.
As I wandered the back garden, aimless, a maid I did not recognize caught my eye.
A child without any distinguishing features—but then I saw something familiar on her chest.
“Hey! You there! Stop!”
I rushed forward and seized the girl by the shoulder roughly.
"Ow…!" She fell backward, but I paid no mind, lifting the object that hung at her neck.
It bore a design I recognized immediately—something unique to the world, the cherished possession of Spica, one of a kind.
"Hey! You little thief! Where did you get this? Where did you steal it from?"
The girl blinked, startled both by being knocked down by a man and by the sudden accusation, her eyes welling with tears. Yet she met Fret’s glare with unwavering resolve and retorted.
"I didn’t steal it! I was given this as payment! A reward from a kind lady! So give it back!"
"Stop lying, girl! This is no item for someone like you!"
"Liars don’t speak the truth! I’ve got proof—my lady gave me a letter herself! She gave it to me on the night of the Foundation Festival! You’re the thief, not me!"
Saying this, the girl struck Fret repeatedly with her fists. She kicked his feet hard, demanding he return what was stolen.
The iron-shod military boots had no effect, but Fret could not imagine how such a poorly raised child might connect with Spica, deepening his suspicion further.
Hearing the commotion, the kitchen door creaked open, and Yaya stepped out.
"What’s all this ruckus about? I told you, once the root washing is done, there’s more to come, Luca… wait, little lord, what are you doing here?"
Fret lifted the girl, replying, "Caught a thief, and she fought back."
Yaya glanced between Fret and Luca, then sighed, as if finally understanding.
"It's a misunderstanding, young master. That necklace was truly given by Lady Spica to this child.
Luca, didn’t I tell you clearly not to wear it just because you’re happy? You’re not to act so openly."
Fret set Luca down, unconvinced but yielding.
Luca pouted, sulking, yet did not stop glaring at Fret.
"This one—this one’s the fake family that hurt Lady Spica… I should’ve beaten him harder!"
With that, he snatched the necklace from Fret and fled like a startled hare.
"This child was rescued just before Lady Spica departed for Emmental. That’s why she feels so deeply toward her… I shall speak to her myself. Please, allow this matter to pass without further notice?"
Though doubt lingered and discontent remained, Fret let the matter drop, sparing the long-serving servant his dignity.
Thus he failed to notice. That Yaya knew Spica had departed for Emmental…
Even though Fret had only just learned this himself, he did not realize the servant had known it already.
The word “family-like” repeated in his mind, circling like a serpent coiled in thought.
What could a child like her possibly understand…
With dissatisfaction still lingering, he reached the front gate just as the carriage arrived.
In that moment, the entire party from Emmental flew straight to the Emmental estate.
The transfer had pushed the guild’s daily limit to its very edge, so it took a little time.
The church had apparently already been informed, and they were swiftly escorted through to the transfer chamber within the sacred domain. I’ve never been here before. The blindfold, the prayers—tedious, but it is tradition. One must endure.
He had never known such a place existed within the church.
Spica could not possibly be sleeping in a place like this. If she were, I would have awakened her and brought her back—everything would return to how it was.
Yet such thoughts were ill-advised; I was the only one among my kin never invited to the Sanctuary.
Alone in the chamber where light had been withdrawn, I remained behind…
That could not be. If Spica were the current incumbent, she would not reject me.
Then Spica being the incumbent must be a lie—utter falsehood!
I waited, consumed by such thoughts, for the others to return.
When they came, they said, “The current incumbent is Spica. She has served with great dignity.”
I refuse to accept it. I refuse to believe it. My Spica would never reject me!
The foolish man, unaware of his own contradiction, returns to his life without what truly matters.
With such thoughts, it is hard to focus on my duties…
I was rebuked and sent off to the Holy Knight Expeditionary Force bound for the frontier, told to cool my head.
The commander is Spica’s former fiancé candidate—the third prince, who recently pledged himself to the detested Stella at the Foundation Festival. I am to serve as his guard.
I had only been contemplating, to what end does this man stand, given that the execution of that woman has already been decided.
Until I saw the Sacred Stone he concealed against his chest…
Why does he possess Spica’s Sacred Stone?!
He was merely a fiancé candidate—such a stone, of such magnitude, was never meant for someone so insignificant…
I involuntarily clutched the tassel on the hilt of my sword. A Sacred Stone—many times the size of that ornament—was given to him by Spica… a thousandfold more than mere sentiment…
My heart burned with a dark flame of jealousy.
I am not some pretend family...
We will become... a true, real family...
—Biovale
After the baron's confession, the Countess of Emmental had moved through the days listlessly.
What sin, I wonder, have I committed?
Spica was the real one...
I raised her with tender care.
I shaped her into a lady so flawless that I would not have been ashamed to present her before any court.
Though not my true daughter, I gave her love just as I did to Stella.
I never suspected that my thoughts had been taken over by Stella...
And yet, I believe the love I gave was genuine... I wish to believe it was...
I never thought, for even a moment, that I was mistreating Spica...
The Festival of Divine Gift had been a rare tradition here in recent years—no, in decades—so it was not surprising that I could not recall it right away. Surely, the fault was not mine...
Advice regarding matters I had forgotten or overlooked was meant to be provided by the steward or the head maid… I was not at fault for forgetting…
I am the victim, am I not? Then why does no one come to my aid?
Even my husband says, “Now is the time to reflect and repent. Let us spend the day in penitence together…”
I am a pure victim… yet no one offers me comfort…
My days of lamentation have begun anew…
Ah, my radiant days with my family… please return to me…
But if, as things stand… Spica continues to sleep as a maiden, and Stella is announced dead after punishment, perhaps I might be seen as a sorrowful mother…
Perhaps I might be forgiven by society…
Sacrificing two daughters I had come to love…
But reality is cruel…
You have commanded me to see reality…
My lord insists that the truth must be told to the family. He has spoken of going once more to Spica to apologize.
If I do such a thing, will I not be rebuked all the more…?
After all, it was I who said I would welcome Stella…
It was I who declared her the true one, based only on the color of her latent sacred power and the hue of her eyes—so like my own…
When I speak of wishing, again and again, that I could return to that moment, my sons do not reprimand me as I feared.
I am relieved, though I cannot tell if they truly do not blame me. And yet, I am filled with regret that they do not.
The heart of man is never as one would wish…
I traveled to Emmental, caught between reality and dream.
For some reason, Fret alone was barred by the barrier, unable to enter the sacred domain. Most likely, it is because of him.
Perhaps she thought to awaken Spica and bring her back.
How pitiful—she cannot stand before Spica again without first renewing her heart…
I have come here. I have been summoned to the sacred domain.
Could this be Spica’s permission?
Spica had always cherished the role of the Virgin of the Barrier.
She would surely have answered her duty when the time came.
Though she may have faltered in her family’s presence, she could not have changed…
So why… why is she… lying before me… in this state… oh… why… why…
The woman before me was beautiful…
Even her hidden eyes, her tightly drawn lips, even her clenched hands—each was beautiful…
The dress she wore, the air around her—everything was beautiful…
The more I think that I am the one who drove her here, the more I feel repulsive, foul…
She was so pure… so utterly pure…
So mysterious that she seems beyond being my own daughter.
How could I speak of atonement…?
Tears spill forth, unbidden, not small but spreading like stains upon the stone tiles, even the shallowest apology choked in my throat.
Madame Biore’s heart cracked slowly, piece by piece.
—Alex—
Every night, I gaze upon my nightmares as though they were a single illustrated tale.
Even when morning comes, the dream remains blurred, on the verge of dissolving—yet I clutch at it with desperate urgency.
At last, unwrapping the bandage, I savor each day the joy of seeing the world in vivid color. I thank these eyes that show me such a world.
Yet, on the other side of that joy, a heavy silence settles through the manor.
Ten days have passed since the Foundation Festival. Spica and Stella have not returned.
Our parents seem to know something—but perhaps they still cannot tell us…
With such thoughts in mind, I walk through the manor.
There is a kind of wonder in a view that one has seen yet never truly perceived—something beyond words.
Just seeing it, so unlike the scent alone had suggested—its form, its color—filled her with wonder, and her face softened in quiet astonishment.
Today, she turned her steps toward the gallery, as she always did, to touch the sculptures.
Portraits of past heads of the household and family members adorned the walls, yet I had always passed them by without notice.
The room, once terrifying in childhood for the weight of countless gazes from every direction, now overflows with joy at the sight of its colors and intricate craftsmanship.
As we walked forward, pausing to gaze upon it, we came upon a portrait of our younger selves. A painting warm and tender, centered on Spica, who was barely three years old, surrounded by her parents and siblings, all smiling.
How nostalgic, one might say.
Yet I feel I have seen her somewhere before...
Spica… where have you gone?
She asks within, but no one answers.
Of course…
I advance further into the house.
My feet halt once more before a painting made only recently, sandwiched between several others.
A woman with faint golden hair and violet eyes smiles at the center—my parents, myself, my elder brother and his wife, my younger brother encircling her… Spica is not painted.
A sharp pain stabs behind my eyes…
The pain vanishes in an instant.
Perhaps this is the first time I have seen my brother’s wife and Stella clearly, since my vision improved.
I have known my brother’s wife since long ago, through gatherings at the salon—but I never imagined her face could bear such sorrow…
And Stella…
Even now, just looking at this face, I feel something tighten in my chest, as though I have never truly seen her before.
Only a simple, carefree smile—yet still, it is not love.
It is closer to anger, to suspicion.
...It is as though one must cry out in sorrow, as after waking from a dream.
Stella has not returned home since the Foundation Festival.
That girl is a sorrowful one. The more I listen to her in interviews for the play, the more I am convinced she is starved for love.
The prince was utterly infatuated with Spica—whether by decree or not, I wonder if he can manage it well...
Her longing for love runs deep. And so I fear, for all her hunger, she may turn cruel in its pursuit. Her heart is perilously fragile...
I could no longer bear to look at the paintings, and so that day I returned to my room.
Each day, I am stirred by something I see, then saddened by something else—such days I live in, joyful yet weary.
Three weeks after the Foundation Festival, our family—save for my two younger sisters—was summoned.
Father looks deeply worn, utterly drained.
Mother stared at the floor, her gaze lowered, as if her mind were elsewhere. Though the dress newly tailored for her suited her well, she lacked the spirit to boast of it.
My brother… again, lost in thought. My elder sister-in-law still has not returned to the manor. Might that be connected?
Perhaps something has happened to the child within her womb.
He did not speak to me, as though he knew I could do nothing.
My younger brother seemed irritable. He could not sit still, and though he disliked being still, he disliked difficult or heavy matters even more—true to his nature.
Father began to speak, slowly.
Spica’s present state, and the truth of it.
Stella’s sin and her power.
Lastly, my own eyes…
A letter is held out before me.
I glance at the worn, creased paper, its edges frayed.
And then, softly, I cover both eyes with my hands…
It was Spica…
The letter said I would not feel loneliness, because I saw the world for her.
But she knows.
I know.
Spica, you were lonely, weren’t you? You were suffering, weren’t you? You were in pain, weren’t you?
For that dream was meant to tell her...
I had come to know the truth of a heart screaming as if it would tear apart...
What does Stella’s power matter… the outcome remains the same—Spica was harmed. That fact cannot be changed.
The fact that I— that we— drove that child away is undeniable. If that is so, then there is no path to atonement but to show sincerity openly.
When Father finished speaking, he said we should all go to Emmental together.
I went to the physician’s office during the time before my preparations were complete...
The outcome… remains unchanged…
That gentle person had been Spica…
Even Spica had known suffering...
To know the extent of the sacrifice upon which one is built is to feel as though standing atop a mountain of sand—unsteady, unmoored.
She reflects on what she has done during the journey. The memory of grand deeds is faint…
Yet she knows Spica was truly wounded. She is aware she has listened only to one side, without truly hearing Spica’s words. Realizing she has broken her promise to Spica more than once, she feels despair toward herself.
She wishes now to hear Stella’s side as well, but it seems that will not come to pass…
Spica shows her the memory in her eyes, but speaks nothing…
Stella has been turned away again and again by Fret, even after he has come to visit.
Yet at the same time, she thinks… the feeling she sensed when seeing that portrait—was it not Spica’s heart speaking?
The sanctuary gathers family members other than Fret. What was that fool thinking, anyway…
Yet she feels, in some measure, relief that Spica has allowed them to enter this place.
You are too kind… to give me your eyes, for my sake, for my future… Why did you choose such a path of self-sacrifice…
Just to see my sister lying there, her face veiled, I feel as though my own guilt is laid bare.
Why did I let you choose…
I have offered my highest reverence to my sister, who sleeps as a maiden.
Gratitude is not enough. Apologies are not right…
You have given me tomorrow.
So I will give you tomorrow… I will compose the world, through you.
With everything I am, Spica, I will write without omission—every color, every feeling, every thought, every scene, seen through your eyes.
Even if the day never comes when you see my method, my penance, I will reach you… through your ears, through your senses…
I will tell the world… and I will praise you.
I will continue to curse myself. And at the same time, I will never stop remembering you.
So please, see this world with me…
Because you see the world with me, I will surely not be lonely…
I will dedicate my entire life to redeeming you…
—Cain—
The truth laid bare left me utterly undone.
Of course it did.
How could I comprehend, all at once, that the sister I had cherished as my own blood—whom I had loved as my true sister—was not truly my sister at all, that the one I had loved as my sister was in fact a stranger, and that she had committed a sin so great it threatened to bring down our house?
And above all, it is my own nature that troubles me.
I must examine this matter from every angle.
First, I must determine whether Spica is truly our sister by blood.
This investigation may well make use of the sacred artifact developed at the academy, a magic tool that harnesses divine power for verification…
And I am also deeply curious—how has the system of the Virgin of the Barrier been altered?
Perhaps the reason I find myself curious about how the system of the Virgin of the Barrier has been altered—how it has been expanded and efficiency improved—is because it has long been the focus of my research…
Next, regarding Stella’s power.
I need data on how deeply our family has been affected, and how much harm has been done to Spica.
With such data, I might be able to view myself objectively.
And perhaps, in time, fewer people will suffer as we have.
Father called it an irresistible force—but to know how great that force truly is, and how one might resist it, is essential to any proper examination…
It is classified as state secret, but where might one learn such things?
And… I am aware, too, that I have done grievous things to my wife, beyond what I did to Spica.
What she said that day still pierces my heart.
Since that day, she has not returned home…
I do not wish to be confronted with this half-truth of three lines and a half any longer.
During intervals in the development of magical artifacts, I visited my wife’s family home and sought their forgiveness.
Though I still receive cold glances from my father-in-law, Mary has begun to soften toward me slightly.
When I came before Spica, now of age, Mary entrusted me with the Sacred Stone.
She knew, she said.
That day had been the Divine Banquet… yet she had been asked by Spica not to speak until the family realized it themselves.
She regretted not being able to send her farewell.
She apologized for not speaking up, even though she had sensed our actions were strange.
It is I who should be apologizing…
Pregnant and unable to travel, I promised her I would deliver the Sacred Stone and her intent in her stead.
On that day, only my foolish younger brother failed to reach the sacred domain where Spica rests.
He may not even believe he has done anything wrong…
Even now, the despair I felt upon reading that letter remains within my chest…
I speak to my sleeping sister, saying that I shall draw strength from that despair and do what I can, now.
There is no reply. No forgiveness.
Only that, for the sake of what is to come, I have begun to act as I am able.
Some time later, my son was born.
He was born at my wife’s family home.
How strange it is that such a small body could produce such a powerful cry—how strange that such a fragile thing could feel so unbearably precious…
I cannot imagine a being more irreplaceable than this.
The gratitude I feel toward Mary, who gave birth to him at such peril, cannot be expressed in words.
And yet, for the first time, I truly feel the anguish of parents who lost Spica so young…
A sudden chill runs through my spine.
I have never known such a tiny, frail, yet fiercely strong existence…
I resolve firmly to protect her—yet in the end, my wife after childbirth strikes me.
A magical artifact, newly crafted, had been used upon my newborn child.
The mother’s wrath, when her child was used in a magical experiment verifying a talisman that proves parentage through divine power, was something beyond fear.
The moment she coldly said, “Are you questioning my fidelity?”—a despair as great as the one that had struck her when she lost Spica washed over him…
Instinctively, he felt that if things continued thus, his wife would truly vanish from his life, and without shame or regard for propriety, he pressed his forehead against the floor before her.
Had been on the verge of losing something that must not be lost—once again, with his own hands. He wept, pitiful and wretched, wondering why he could not learn.
Meri was left speechless, yet she said, “In the end, it was confirmed one hundred percent that the child was yours, wasn’t it? Now you can finally hold your head high and take responsibility as the father, can’t you?”—and thus, she granted forgiveness.
I vowed once more to never lose anything precious again, with my own hands.
From this moment forward, I vowed to live for my wife and child. Even if bound by duty, even if entangled in hardship, I vowed to walk beside them, now more than ever.
Four months passed, each heart carrying its own thoughts, after Spica had vanished.
The family gathered once more.
And now, the family would face trial and suffering anew.
The curtain rose on the tragedy of Emmental.
Thank you always for reading.
I apologize for the delayed update—my health has been poor.
Though opinions may differ, the truth is, the family knows nothing of the mastermind behind it all.
Nor do they know the full extent of Stella’s power.
One does not suspect the existence of a mastermind when problems actually arise, nor would one be informed, even if one were present.
Writing will proceed with careful consideration of work and health. It may take time, but I would be grateful if you would remain with me until the end.