Chapter 346: If Possible, the Dream (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 346: If Possible, the Dream (3)
To Freya, Whitrin must have been what Bern was to Kyrie and Hina. Hina might not have known the exact significance of that surname, but its importance was undeniable.
So, what kind of person was Whitrin to Freya?
Whoosh—!
The world outside the window was noisy, but the house was quiet.
A bitter wind rattled the panes, and the sky, shrouded in dark clouds, plunged the interior into darkness. Of course, the noise and darkness posed no real obstacle to inspecting the house.
However, it was more than enough to fill Calian's mind with unease.
Click.
Letting out a short breath, Calian closed the door and looked around.
An elf’s lifestyle wasn't much different from a human’s. The greatest difference, perhaps, was their diet—something Calian was certain he would never understand. He could confidently guarantee that if Franz were dropped into any random elven village, he would thrive, enjoying a highly satisfying diet without the slightest complaint.
This place was no different. A fireplace, a sofa, a low table, a bookshelf, and a kitchen with shelves visible in the distance. It looked much like any ordinary home Calian had encountered during his travels outside the royal palace as Bern.
Step, step.
Calian’s feet moved.
Though he knew the house was uninhabited, he made no effort to quiet his footsteps. It was his own way of showing respect to the owners, who he hoped had safely settled into a new home.
Calian’s gaze shifted.
An open book lay on the table beside a dried-up teacup, as if the residents had fled for their lives during the sudden battle, unable to pack properly.
After confirming there was no basement and nothing unusual on the first floor, Calian slowly made his way up the stairs.
A small, empty space on the second floor connected to the staircase.
A rocking chair sat by the window, positioned to catch the most sunlight. Passing it, he found four doors. Suppressing the urge to open the farthest door first, Calian started with the ones closest to him.
Two bedrooms and a bathroom.
He searched for hidden spaces, books or documents with noteworthy titles, and any lingering scent of blood. Mindful of those waiting outside, he moved quickly, yet thoroughly inspected every corner without missing a single detail.
Step.
And then, he stood before the final room.
Calian took a deep breath and opened the door.
“This place… is different.”
Even the air was different.
As if his desire to enter this room first had been more than a mere whim, the smell of dust that greeted him was distinct.
This was a room that had been left vacant for a long time. A room that had been empty long before the owners had to flee. It smelled of the ancient, stale dust that could only accumulate in such a place.
After briefly debating whether to draw back the thick, tightly closed curtains, Calian simply looked around in the gloom.
An old bed, an old piano, an old desk.
And on top of it…
Step.
An old frame containing a small portrait.
Calian’s feet came to a silent halt.
In the portrait, the person sitting in an old chair and looking forward had red hair.
A splash of red. Not the red of the roses blooming in the gardens of Chermil Palace, but a red so vivid it made one’s eyes ache. It was a bright crimson, like the Lafrania that celebrated birth or the Annerusia that comforted death.
She was someone Calian knew well, yet knew nothing about. Someone with a hair color he had only ever seen on one other person. An elf, but with ears that weren't particularly long. A beautiful girl, slightly younger than Calian was now, who looked remarkably like him.
It was Freya.
“I figured as much, but…”
Calian quietly reached out.
He placed his fingertips against the face in the painting.
“You were beautiful, even as a child. Truly,” a whisper escaped him.
It was perhaps the first time he had ever uttered the word while looking at her face—not as the old Calian, nor as the current one.
“…Mother.”
Calian gently moved his fingertips.
He traced her forehead, eyes, nose, and cheeks.
He caressed the face that so closely resembled his own, so much so that he might have thought he was looking in a mirror had she not been wearing a white dress and letting her long, crimson hair flow down. He lingered for a long time, as if wanting to feel a warmth that shouldn't exist and gaze upon the face that smiled so brightly, unlike the portrait left in the royal palace. As if he wanted this body, which currently housed him, to know her too—not just his mind or his heart.
Straightening his back, Calian looked around and muttered to himself.
“I don’t want to leave it in an empty house.”
He was reminding himself that this was an abandoned home. The situation had clearly been urgent enough for them to flee while leaving a book open on the table, so he had no intention of blaming them for leaving behind the only painting of the queen’s childhood. He was simply debating whether to leave it or take it. If they ever returned, taking it would be theft.
After hesitating for a moment, his fingers hovering over the frame, Calian opened the desk drawer. He had decided to take the portrait but leave a note in case the owners returned.
Screeech!
The long-unused drawer let out a grating screech as it opened. Frowning slightly, Calian lowered his head and peered inside.
He focused on what lay within.
“What… is this…”
He was so shocked that he forgot to blink. His steady breath caught in his throat, and his heart felt as though it had plummeted.
His pale fingertips moved slowly.
He lifted the larger item inside—another painting, not the portrait from the desk. As he did, something else rolled to the edge of the drawer.
The rustle of paper. And then—
Jingle.
—the sound of a bell.
*
He had once seen a world inside a large glass orb. A pure white world crafted from fine porcelain. When the orb, which contained trees smaller than a fingernail and houses the size of a finger joint, was turned upside down and set right again, pure white snow would fall.
“It is a mockery.”
He remembered the voice that had spoken while he gazed at it, captivated by its silence, and the deep blue eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of his heart. Back then, they had still been on terms where they could exchange brief conversations.
“Why is it a mockery?”
“Is your current self, peering into a world held in your palm, any different from your mother?”
Bricks and windows smaller than mustard seeds. A tiny world where every leaf and the texture of every tree trunk had been crafted with devotion and carefully baked.
The creator’s devotion had vanished, leaving only the intention of the one who delivered it. The beauty of the glass orb, where snow fell even in summer, was gone, leaving only the mockery of a prince whose eyes were shielded by his mother’s hand.
“Mage.”
“Yes, Vice-Commander—”
“The shield. Take it down.”
It was because of the snow piling atop the shield. Because the round shield Arsen had created looked just like that glass orb.
“What is the matter? The wind is blowing hard.”
“……It’s suffocating.”
Because today, of all days, he felt suffocated.
Seeing Franz like this, Arsen manipulated his mana. Normally, he would have pointed out that air circulated perfectly fine inside the shield, but he removed it without a word. However, he didn’t dispel it completely; he only removed the half blocking the blizzard.
He didn’t suggest going inside the house, either.
If this place was related to Freya, going inside wouldn’t help Franz’s current state.
Arsen watched the crown prince, who had traveled all the way to Secritia to escape winter only to stubbornly summon it back in his own mind. He kept his mouth shut for a long moment before finally speaking.
“On the day I first met my master, I didn’t greet him. I don’t know what grudge I was holding, but I tried to act proud.”
Franz turned his head at the sudden remark, which was as out of the blue as something Calian might say. Arsen continued, speaking to the pale face, unsure if it was drained from the cold or from memories.
“In response, my master made me stand facing the wall with my hands raised for three hours. He said, ‘Whether you’re facing an elder, a master, a dog, or a horse, you greet them when you meet them. Why didn’t you?’ So I was punished, and I couldn’t use my arms properly for three days. After that ordeal, whenever I meet someone for the first time, my arms ache faintly. It’s been over twenty years, but I still can’t forget it.”
As if recalling that time, Arsen massaged his forearm a few times before speaking again.
“So, I just live with the thought, ‘Ah, I remembered it again.’ Whatever came to your mind, it would be good if you could shake it off, and even better if you could cast it aside, but it’s fine if you can’t. It’s not because you’re different, Crown Prince. It’s because you are a human being, just like everyone else.”
Soon, Arsen tapped the shield a few times. The snow that had lightly accumulated from the blowing wind fell to the ground with a rustle.
Franz, who had been quietly looking up at Arsen, spoke after a long silence.
“In the past, you wouldn’t have said such things to me.”
“Why? Do you think you wouldn’t have started a war if someone had been there to say things like that?”
“No.”
Franz tilted his head slightly. With that same look of disdain, he spoke in a low voice.
“I am not the kind of person who would lose his mind even if I rotted away in my mother’s hands for my entire life. If a war could be stopped by a few words from a crazy mage, I wouldn’t have even thought of starting it.”
At these words, Arsen, who was already mentally and physically exhausted from offering such unfamiliar comfort, nodded half-heartedly.
And this time, Franz continued.
“But the war still wouldn’t have happened.”
He was not the type to stop a war over a few words from Arsen, but if they had been close enough to exchange such words, the war would not have broken out. Franz spoke of something difficult to comprehend.
“If I had known how to have this kind of conversation with someone, I would have sent a letter that my ill-tempered royal brother could have recognized and understood.”
Only after hearing the explanation that followed did Arsen understand Franz’s words, and he let out a dry laugh.
“Yes, well. I’m sure you would have.”
“I’m saying thank you for your concern.”
Arsen, who was about to reply, “Yes, of course,” shut his mouth. He had never heard the words “thank you” come out of the crown prince’s mouth before.
Whether he knew it or not, Franz had never personally thanked Hina for her strawberries or Needlen for his seashells. It was a phrase he naturally never said to Calian, with whom he had an implicit agreement not to say “thank you” or “sorry.”
“How does that translate to that?”
“Quite well.”
Unimpressed, Arsen grumbled as usual, and Franz gave a characteristically brief reply.
All while bearing the brunt of the raging winter, thanks to the half-removed shield.
*
Calian forced his eyes closed and then open again.
His mind, which had momentarily gone blank, barely cleared.
Holding the new painting in one hand and the jingling bell in the other, Calian forced himself to inhale and exhale.
If he didn’t, he felt as though he would truly suffocate.
Jingle.
As he lowered his hand, the sound rang out without fail.
It was only natural. The object was made to make noise, and this bell was created specifically to ring. It had no choice but to make a sound when moved.
However, Calian’s shock did not stem from the fact that it was a common bell. It was because its appearance was already all too familiar.
“Why… is the same thing… here?”
A disjointed murmur escaped his lips.
The Sword Master had said she would stay in the capital and dig into Zeon’s affairs in his absence. This was the very bell that hung from the tip of Siona’s sword. The exact same one.
Although there were countless bells in the world, there was no mistake.
The string was the same one Calian had once cut, tied back together rather than replaced. The knot, the bell’s appearance, its sound, its size—everything was identical. It was the exact same object.
Of course, if it were just the bell, it wouldn’t have been so strange.
Siona had already mentioned spending her childhood with Freya. As a token of friendship, they could have easily shared a toy-like bell. Even if she had been close to the person who stayed in this house instead of Freya, it was the same. They could have shared it. There was nothing strange about that.
But.
However.
Flutter.
The rustling of paper echoed through the empty room once more.
He felt as if the scent of blood running cold, rather than the smell of stale dust, was drifting through the air.
Another portrait.
Freya, wearing the same white dress as in the portrait on the desk, was smiling brightly with the same face. Beside her was Siona, looking much younger than she did now, with pale pink hair and golden eyes.
And another person standing beside Siona.
Calian could not tear his eyes away from this person’s face.
Silver-white hair.
Black eyes.
The ears were longer and the hair was much shorter than the version of her Calian knew. The person in the painting was also likely taller. But they resembled each other. There was an undeniable resemblance.
A smile as bright as Freya’s.
A smile that seemed capable of lighting up the entire world.
“…Hina.”
It was someone who looked exactly like Hina, yet was clearly a different person.
And beneath the portrait, three names were written:
Freya, Siona, Whitrin.
Calian held his breath once more.