Chapter Text
—Even now I deeply recall the feelings I had at the time.
On a dull and dingy day in the season of Ewigliebe, little Rozemyne arrived at the antechamber almost breathless, hoping to seem stately before the other esteemed guests. With a noble smile plastered, her eyes scanned for the earliest opportunity to escape.
There was a genteel air about the great hall: measured smiles, furtive gossip, the faint scent of sweet pastries and bitter tea, all the conventions of etiquette on display like a well-rehearsed theater. Not so dissimilar was this grandeur from any other social gathering in the ancient great capital. But the sky beyond the windowpane was clouded. And if not for the absence of music and the black drapery, one would forget this was a funeral.
“Ah, Lady Rozemyne!” Before Rozemyne came a daughter of some count, then knelt as per the rules of Gebordnung. She probably came as a representative of the great house of Ostwind which they served. And thanks to her, any opportunities to ask a retainer for a time piece were thoroughly obliterated.
She rose after the greeting was over. “My condolences for your attendant,” she started, then followed with the usual customary exchange almost lyrically—may our prayers reach to those who ascended the towering staircase, and she finds solace before The Supreme Couple, and so forth, speaking with such practiced sincerity that could almost be mistaken for genuine.
Ideally the exchange would end right then and there, and more ideally Rozemyne would speak to no additional person. So anxious was she to do away from this dreadfully stuffy room, and retreat to the bliss of a dust covered book far away from that oppressive ghost. But of course, since Rozemyne’s attendant and she bore the same Sturmburg name, it was her obligation to recount tales honoring the dead. Caught in this snare, it grew harder with each passing second to not look blatantly indifferent, and thus it inadvertently came out lackluster. Though the dear guest from afar seemed to be satisfied enough.
“I imagine your heart is heavy,” she said, “especially after what befell that laynoble you intended to take as aide, out of Flutrane's gaze…”
Huh? The declaration pulled Rozemyne back to her senses, and almost staggered her into another stupor.
Out of Flutrane’s gaze… could she be implying…? No, my ears must be failing me, she muttered in her head. She asked the count’s daughter what she meant by that. “Oh, was Ordoschnelli idle?” she said, then elaborated further. And like a flare, it was revealed to Rozemyne the bitter fate of that boy, and which he shared with his immediate family.
Dazzling colors flashed through her vision. What a terrible mistake it was! she thought. She could conjure no possible explanation as to how it happened, yet she knew with certainty the identity of the person who walked those laynobles to the towering staircase. A blazing pool welled up in her stomach. Chaosfliehe groaned, Entrinduge flailed in panic as Verdrenna, half-drunk, struck the earth with ardent vigour. And as though that realization was a catalyst, it felt as if a seal somewhere deep inside cracked, crumbled, peeled away—She did not understand. She could not understand any of it.
Everything hereafter passed in a blur, yet some parts shone bright enough despite poor numb memory: the smooth texture of the frilly jabot of her dress; the unchanging face of that girl; the bewildered faces of her oh-so dear retainers as she tipped them off with the excuse of a call to the earth; such thoughts as “what is…? Why?” “…not here” “…so tight…my chest…” taking turns in Rozemyne’s jumbled mind as she burned with the desire to flee to some small secluded hole, away from prying eyes.
While she raced through the carpeted corridor, with as much grace as those servants clumsily retreating after making a wrong turn, she held up her skirt gripping it so tightly it left burn marks upon it. And in the breathless moment as she made her way to the balcony of a dolefully empty guest room, she stood unmoving for a while, lit by the pale limelight and thinking about nothing and everything. Most of her magic tools, among which was a portable sound-blocker, she had left with her retainers. Even in an empty balcony so far from other people, any sound she would make here would be heard clearly. What kind of unsightly expression is my face making? she wondered. She tried to force a neutral expression but could not. Then, despite knowing well how frowned upon it was to fly a highbeast in the central quarter, she jumped over the railing.
And presently, over the public square where surely several people were watching her in scrutiny, Rozemyne flew on—fly, O forlorn Rozellia! And as the buildings each passed below her in a whoosh, the sky above appeared as though pure white.
—Yet even now, those feelings refuse to fade away.
Every time I come back to this miserable memory, I keep asking myself: Why is it that this memory in particular shone so brightly? Compared to all the rotting monsters of my inane life, it seems so trivial. Yet I sometimes entertain the notion that it served as a sort of singularity, that the rift in the life of Rozemyne T. Sturmburg started on that fateful day, in the lusterless great hall of Sturmburg Estate.
Therefore, every day since, I dedicate myself to purge those feelings above all else.