The Tragedy of Emmental, Part Two

Since morning, I had been summoned and sat on the sofa in the reception room, ill-tempered.

After recently having spent time guarding uninteresting people in the frontier, my mood was at its worst.

Next to me sat my elder brother, who had regained his sight thanks to Spica’s sacrifice.

That alone was unbearable…

The occasional glance of concern directed toward me—eyes the same color as Spica’s—same color, yet a different face—this was unbearable, and only deepened my irritation.

Our parents were present too, yet not one of them spoke.

The silence, with no tea offered, made the atmosphere utterly oppressive.

Just as I was about to curse aloud, a messenger announced the arrival of my eldest brother and the prince I least wished to see.

Of all the people, why him?

I glared at the prince, filled with contempt.

My father bowed to the prince, who replied and set it upon the table.

It was Stella’s Sacred Stone. Why must I now be forced to receive back the relic of that wicked woman?

I seethed inwardly.

After all—she had ransacked homes, wounded Spica grievously, sought to steal her place…

And now, a keepsake from a woman whose name was sullied by execution? I would not look upon such a thing!

I thought I’d be better off sinking it in a cesspool.

Yet my brother began to speak of something that rendered even that woman’s memory insignificant.

What? Leaving Emmental?

Then who will guard this house? Who will protect the lands where Spica resides?

For a moment, shamefully, my heart quickened—perhaps I might be chosen.

The eldest brother, renowned for his exceptional talent, long expected to leave the noble class; the second, who had dedicated himself to mastering his own craft…

Compared to that, all I had to boast of was my skill with the blade and horsemanship…

I had always felt inferior.

Yet I dared to hope—perhaps, right here, I had become my father’s wish.

I even considered, once I became head of the household, to petition the Emperor for Spica’s liberation, as a great lord of a vast domain.

But from my father’s lips came the name of an uncle I rarely saw.

I let my shoulders drop, trying not to show it.

It wasn’t unreasonable to hope, just a little. But my father gently cautioned me—such a possibility was unlikely.

How could he say such a thing…

I thought, yet something my eldest brother had said earlier began to trouble me. So I decided to ask outright.

My brother replied that they would investigate the kinship between Stella and Spica…

Our parents wished to know…

Even my brothers…

It isn’t a joke. It doesn’t matter what becomes of Stella.

But why are they investigating Spica too?

If it were revealed that she was truly my sister…

I…

Even as I faltered, my elder brother began explaining the magical artifact.

It seemed proof could not be made without the Sacred Stone.

After all, the individuals themselves were no longer present…

And Spica’s Sacred Stone must be either in my possession, or in the hands of the troublesome third prince.

I had no intention of lending it, of course.

I assumed he would not lend his either.

As we spoke, Stella’s Sacred Stone was placed upon the artifact.

Nothing happened.

I could not help but speak it aloud.

My elder brother, with a look that said it was obvious, patiently began his explanation.

A foreboding settled in me at the direction this was taking—I tried to speak up, to end this farce—but was silenced by the hateful third prince.

And now, it seemed, the preparations were complete. The stone was placed once more.

And again… nothing occurred.

The doubt had come from Mother. And now, her elder brother explained, Stella was not of blood relation.

My heart rings a warning… This is bad… If this continues, he’ll begin to declare proof of Spica…

I had no intention of lending it, not even slightly, but perhaps Arthur might…

Holding that thought, I reproached my elder brother, wondering if this were his failure. But he proved otherwise, demonstrating through his own sacred power that this was no failure.

Then, saying, “There is someone I wish to meet,” he withdrew a Sacred Stone from his chest pocket.

There could be no mistake… That stone, so like the one I gaze upon daily, the one I linger over in thought—undoubtedly, it was Spica’s Sacred Stone.

Its size was not inferior to mine…

Why does my elder brother possess one too…

Was it not meant to be something special, just for me…

I pleaded with him to stop, but he would not listen…

In the end, Father seized me by the shoulders and held me still.

I could have pushed it aside if I had been serious, but my heart wavered, and my strength slipped away.

While I stood there, dazed, it was carried out like a ritual.

The magical artifact lit up with a clean, steady glow…

My heart felt as though it were shattering, piece by piece.

I did not want to know.

I did not want to be exposed.

I had no knowledge to point out the flaw in my brother’s invention.

And I already knew—how could a brother who bore the name of genius ever test something so incomplete?

It was only because I believed her to be a stranger that I could love Spica without fear…

And now, of all people, she is truly my sister…

The thought made every moment I had spent with her flash before me, a relentless procession.

I could almost laugh at myself—how utterly wretched I had been…

If I had remained ignorant… if there had been no proof to believe…

Then I could have loved her as my step-sister, at ease, without guilt…

But my love was never meant to be.

How wretched and pitiful I am.

My heart trembles with sudden fury.

Why has it come to this?

Whose fault is it?

Yes… it is this one… this one is to blame… all of it is this one’s fault… the suffering Spica endured, her leaving home—entirely this one’s doing…

I reached for the hilt of the sword lying some distance away.

And slowly drew it from its scabbard.

No one looked upon me.

I screamed and struck forward.

The blade descended toward the one crouched and weeping on the sofa.

Though slightly obstructed by the sofa’s backrest, the blade pierced through, leaving a single crimson line across the back.

Blood scattered through the room.

"Ahhhh… it… it hurts… help me…!"

The one writhing in misery upon the floor was my mother.

Had this one not taken Spica, none of this would have happened.

Had I taken Stella as my true daughter, this would never have come to pass.

I drove my sword into my mother’s foot, as if stitching her to the ground, the one who was the root of all this suffering.

A thick tendon snaps with a sharp crack.

Good. I would now carve my hatred into her flesh, in full measure—only to be restrained by my brothers.

Even my eldest brother, who rarely involved himself in such matters, joined in, pinning me down.

And I was pressed to the floor…

My father crouched beside my mother, crawling like a grub across the earth.

A voice near me spoke…

It sounded like they were telling me to stop, to calm down…

I am calm. I have no intention of stopping.

Only Spica could halt me now.

At that moment, I met my brother’s gaze. There she was. Spica.

Her two eyes were Spica, holding me captive.

Ah, Spica… you were here all along. Come here now, there is nothing to fear.

Come, let us become one. Let us become one. Then we shall be true family.

They will object, so let us swear by the gods… even the all-knowing, all-powerful Creator will surely bless us…

If I may become one with you, I care not if my body crumbles to dust.

I reach toward those eyes. With no hesitation, I tear them from their socket.

So sudden was the act, that Alex Elder cries out in pain, clutching the left eye I have torn, rolling upon the ground.

I pay him no mind. I press my cheek against the eye, kiss it.

At last, I am becoming one with Spica. My heart swells with joy—true family, at last.

And then I swallow the eye whole…

Now Spica belongs to no one but me… not even brothers, not even princes—only mine.

Suddenly, my younger brother lunged at our mother with a cry.

A single, deep cut drawn from behind across her back…

Blood splashed against my cheek, a sharp, unpleasant sound and warm sensation spreading across my skin…

“Yours—yours alone! All of it, all of it, all of it!!!”

Fret’s mad scream seized control of the room.

I moved too slowly, for just an instant.

The steward and my elder brother instinctively stepped to shield Prince Arthur.

I circled behind Fret to restrain him.

Fret sees only our mother now.

He hurls, like a child, the overwhelming tide of fury and hatred toward her…

My elder brother, having safely guided Prince Arthur to cover, joins me—both of us pinning Fret from behind, subduing him.

“Stop, Fret! Calm yourself! What madness is this?! Stop it! Stop now!!!”

I press my younger brother down onto the floor without hesitation. My elder brother, seizing the moment when the weapon was dislodged, kicks him away with a swift, precise motion.

I mount him, leaning down to peer into his face.

It should be a familiar face—yet something has broken loose in his mind. His bloodshot eyes reflect nothing but hatred and selfish desire.

“What are you doing, you wretch? Come to your senses! Stop this madness! Stop now!”

I call out to him, but there is no reply.

He is mad. A primal fear rises within me, yet even as I recoil, I feel something soft stirring in his gaze—faint, fragile, but there.

I instinctively believe he has returned to himself, and I relax my grip.

And I allow him, with a pitiful smile, to slowly extend his hand toward me.

Then, with two fingers, he tears out my left eye in an instant.

First comes bewilderment.

Then a searing wrongness, unbearable pain—

I recoiled from my younger brother, who had mounted me without warning, and fell back, rolling across the floor.

With both hands pressing back the unrelenting pain and the tears of blood, she forces open her remaining, unharmed eye to look at her younger brother…

The younger brother was smiling.

She presses her eyes, plucked gently from me, to her cheek.

Her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes trembling with tenderness, she pressed her lips to his—soft as if to cherish him...

Mad… I have come to understand at last that my younger brother has broken beyond repair. There is nothing left for me to do.

Stop… Stop, Fret… Doing such a thing will not bring Spica back, and Spica will not be pleased‼︎

Stop it—don’t defile our family any further! Don’t take my family from me!

I cried out, but my voice did not reach Fret…

Fret swallowed down what he had taken from me, right before my eyes…

The ocular magicks are the heart of sacred power.

The common people lack sacred power because they do not possess the heart.

Thus, nobles may be said to be a kind of gifted, sustained through bloodline.

Among these gifted, the rarity of ocular magicks stems from a unique ability to house two sacred power furnaces within the body.

Those who endure what the ordinary cannot—this is the gift bestowed upon them.

The ability is merely a byproduct.

And if even a noble, who possesses a heart, forcibly takes another heart—what then?

If the heart was originally whole but failed to function due to some cause, and if properly tended, the body would gradually adapt to the new sacred furnace, with only minor aftereffects.

But if taken in any other way—what then?

The answer is internal collapse, brought on by the burden upon the sacred furnace.

Thus, to absorb a demon’s core into one’s body is forbidden.

Once ingested, the body is torn apart from within, leading inevitably to death…

Fret was no exception.

The eye he had swallowed provoked a violent reaction with his innate sanctity, and with the searing pain of burning viscera rising up his throat, he vomited forth—

it was fresh blood…

The eye had become a mass of sacred power, racing uncontrollably through Fret’s body.

It scorched his organs, tore his flesh, and surged as a wild wave of force.

Fret was consumed by despair.

He felt, as if rejected by Spica.

The pain assaulted him like a harsh truth, and before his eyes, the hateful stares of people flickered like a hallucination.

Unaware to Fret, this was the memory of the eye Spica had witnessed… and the nightmare Alex saw each night.

"Please stop... I was wrong," he murmured, his voice trembling through the splitting agony in his head, as if his organs were being dragged from his body.

His family stood frozen, staring.

Too terrified to draw near, too paralyzed to speak—there was nothing they could do but watch Fret writhe in torment from a distance.

Gradually, Fret grew still.

It was a wound so severe that death should have come instantly.

The bleeding was astonishing—almost miraculous that he still lived.

Yet Fret lived.

The truth, if revealed, was simple: Fret had been cursed.

He had prayed to the gods, not for himself, but that he might become one with Spica, to be part of a true family, to receive their blessing.

Ordinarily, such a wish would have been dismissed as idle fancy, a child’s dream. But the price—Spica’s eye, the one that bore the name of the divine’s lowest seat—had made it a vow. And so the gods had judged.

Spica regarded Fret as her true family.

And she wished, with all her heart, that he might live and be happy.

Yet she had refused to become one with him.

From that irreconcilable answer, and from Fret’s past deeds, he had become a body broken beyond repair—fated only to die by divine decree, unable to die in any other way.

Even if he wished to die, the gods would not permit it.

He would gain death only when the gods acknowledged that he had atoned for his sins…

As proof of this, a mark of divine punishment was branded upon Fret’s brow.

When the others saw it—witnessed in the church service, spoken of like a legend—they could only tremble with dread.

Only one approached the dying Fret, breath ragged, barely clinging to life.

“You have forgotten even the meaning of the garland.

It was a gift, meant for the elder brother who would become a worthy knight—offered by Spica.”

To defile it in such a way—how can you claim to be a knight? You have no right to speak of knighthood! You are not even a decent person—worse than a rabid dog!

A decent person does not attempt to kill the mother who bore and raised them… That is beneath even a stray hound.

A decent person does not gouge out the eyes of a brother, blood kin, nor—worse still—consume them… Not even a cruel and mischievous fairy would do such a thing.

To lust after one’s own sister—no goblin would tolerate such a thing.

And a decent person does not deserve divine punishment… Not at all.

Fret… The Fret that Spica knew—there is no such person left in this world.”

Within fading consciousness, Fret caught Arthur’s words, laced with scorn, revulsion, and pity.

Yes… Perhaps you are right.

I no longer know who I am.

With the searing pain of his body, Fret let go of awareness.

Fret regained consciousness in a room with swaying walls of dark wood.

His body still offered no sign of movement.

Above all, a searing pain and unnatural sensation gripped his lower half.

As if layers of cloth had been wrapped tightly around him.

His limbs felt heavy, yet not bound.

“Where… am I?”

His voice was hoarse, but it came through.

“Noted, then.”

A voice he knew well spoke from the shadows.

From the darkness emerged his uncle, and his master—Pastrie.

“Master… me…”

“Do not call me master. I did not teach you the blade so you could do such things.

I meant to instill in you the knight’s code. It seems I was mistaken… my own delusion…”

The anguish on the face of the man he had once revered now struck him with a wave of regret—too late, too late, the weight of what he had done became clear.

And my uncle explained the situation with calm detachment.

I was told that more than a month had passed since that incident.

Afterward, Mother had barely survived.

Alex Elder had lost the left eye I had taken, but his life had been spared.

I learned that I could not be executed—those marked for divine punishment were exiled, cast beyond the sea to a forgotten land, a place abandoned by memory.

I was informed I had been stripped of my name and subjected to castration.

The pain and discomfort in my lower body, I understood, were the result of that punishment—on the ship already at sea, the bandages had been wrapped tightly, reduced to minimal care…

Slowly, I came to understand that my time henceforth would be spent on a journey of atonement, a pilgrimage seeking forgiveness through death.

I would never see Spica again, nor any member of my family.

Not even to apologize…

I have come to understand it myself—that this sin, this tragedy, was brought forth by my own folly, by my own weakness...

In the long sleep, I dreamed again and again of hearts torn asunder...

It did not take long to realize that I had been complicit.

Truly, I am foolish...

Only now, when it is too late, do I understand...

Having destroyed it myself...

What have I done... truly, I have ceased to be human...

The image still burned into my mind—the one I caused—I now find it terrifying, even now...

And yet, I do not believe I deserve redemption, nor atonement, nor forgiveness...

I think of it, and yet I wish to be forgiven... I wish to die...

My uncle looked upon me, weeping, as I stood in nothing but remorse...

I was cast from the ship, given neither food nor clothing, left as I stood, stripped bare...

As I departed, my uncle said:

"Ah... I have dropped this."

The hour of departure has come. There is no time to pick up.

Someone will surely find you…

I await you at the end of a noble pilgrimage of atonement. Farewell.”

And with that, he left behind a single sword.

Later, I understood.

That my uncle had sent me, not as a mere guard, but to the farthest edge of the world—the forgotten land—was the final act of familial love…

True love is this.

Thus, foolish as I am, I stepped onto a long, endless journey alone, facing only myself.

The path of confronting one’s self, of meeting one’s sins—had only just begun.