The Bouquet
There were nights when I, too, could not truly sleep.
There was a time when I was inferior to everyone around me.
Moments when I was ashamed of myself came more than once.
Born with a frail body, I could not even swing an axe properly as a child. Inferiority and dread of the future clenched tight around my chest. What if I failed to earn my father's recognition, or that of his vassals—what if I were cast aside and never inherited the house at all?
Looking back on it now, none of that seems to have mattered much.
Mother told me that on the day I was born, the sky was impossibly high and clear. She never showed it outwardly, but I wonder if she didn't glance between that sky and her newborn son and wish, just a little, that he might turn out to be someone decent.
I know. I know she never went out of her way to scold me or drive me hard. Even so, accepting my own inadequacy was difficult. What if I became her shameful son—the finger that always ached? That was the only fear the child I once was ever truly felt.
Whenever that trembling little boy lay awake with anxiety, the girl with the vermilion hair would often hold him close. And she would stay up with him until the moon vanished from the sky.
Wherever she had come from, she was an angel who had lost her wings. There were times, watching her noble bearing, when I found myself doubting she was even human—despite knowing she was my own mother.
In any case, to be born a descendant of barbarians meant facing trial after trial and overcoming them. And if you could not prove yourself as a man, the rough Huscarls would never acknowledge you.
So I had no choice but to keep swinging the axe without rest. Hail or storm, I stood in place and swung it again and again.
The people of the territory do not wish to serve a weakling as their master. Failing to answer the expectations placed upon the young lord of Bayorn was unthinkable, and there were times that responsibility crushed me until I wanted to scream.
The boy I was must have been quite fragile. The anxiety that visited me now and then left me feeling as though I might suffocate.
The girl with the vermilion hair would gather me into her small arms and offer comfort, smiling gently all the while.
"Mommy has been through hard times like that too."
"Even when it's difficult, do your best. Effort doesn't always bring results—but it will certainly help you grow."
"Everyone needs a hard season. And if it still proves too much, it's all right to give up."
"Your mother will always stay by your side when things are hard."
Any man born into this world will face a cruel and difficult stretch of life. And if, in that stretch, someone appears who truly becomes your pillar—then you cannot help but fall in love.
I know. Harboring romantic feelings toward one's own mother is a transgression beyond all bounds. To twist the natural order simply because you love someone is an unforgivable act.
And yet…
"Mommy loves Kael more than anyone else in this world."
Every time I met her smile, every time I heard that confession she so often spoke aloud, I could not contain the desire that rose in me. Put simply, I thirsted. I did not want to be the most precious person to her as her son. I wanted to be the most precious person to her as her lover.
No matter how I looked at it, the things I could do with her as a man far outstripped anything I could do with her as a son. Once my thoughts reached that point, I wanted to draw closer still—to forge a more intimate bond. Again and again I had to smother that longing because of the chain of blood that bound us.
Selfishness.
Ugliness.
Sin.
I will not deny the crime of forcing my mother into the role of a woman. I will not deny that I am a beast. The only excuse a foolish man can offer is that he loved her to the point of madness.
This is not an attempt to prove any justification or rationalize what I have done. It is merely a statement of why I acted as I did.
Being of Bayorn blood—a people of plunder—I felt sadism well up when she shed tears. And yet, being her son, I also felt her pain. Treating her gently was not impossible. I knew that. I simply did not want to.
Incest is a filthy, damned act whether you commit it softly or roughly. To pretend otherwise, as if you were some romantic, is nothing more than a beast-spawn aping a human being.
That is why, from the very beginning, I confessed to Mother and showed her my honest self—ugly or not, the beast in its true form. For two people to become true lovers, is it not essential that they reveal everything to each other without concealment, right or wrong?
Yes. For the sake of a genuine relationship.
It must be terribly hard for Mother. There will be moments in the process when she wants to scream. But no sky stays white and blue forever. Only after the rain does the flower bloom fully; only after darkness clears does the sky open again.
Time and affection will resolve even this. If Mother becomes a beast like me—or if she accepts me even a little—happiness will not be so difficult to reach.
And if, by chance, she cannot endure the despair and breaks… then I will have to admit that my selfishness brought her to that point. That, too, is naturally my responsibility to bear.
Stopping now is already impossible. A mother-and-son relationship that has crossed the line can never return to what it was, no matter how hard one tries; any such effort would be nothing but a performance. I have already lost her as a mother.
Therefore, whether ruin or catastrophe waits at the end of this road, I have no choice but to go forward. Whatever hardships accompany that path, I—who will be her husband—must tear them all apart. As a man, as a male, and finally as the beast who committed the sin of incest, these are the trials I alone must endure for my mate.
For some people, joining with the one they love may not be such a difficult process. For me, however, the path to that wish seems a little more troublesome than it is for others. A little pitiable, really.
But is love not all the more precious for how hard it was to win? And since this, too, is the result of my own choice, I must see it through.
You bear what you yourself have done. That is what it means to be a man of Bayorn.
Long after I first recognized my feelings for Mother, the weakling I still was remained afraid of everything. The cold stares of the emperor and the nobles. The majesty of my liege, the Grand Duke of the North. The vassals who would be disappointed in me. My father, the head of Bayorn. And last of all, the tears Mother would shed because of what I had become.
Fear of those things kept me from even daring to try. To give her up—and to keep from becoming a monster who would rebel against my father and the Grand Duke of the North—I left on campaign. For the first time I stepped out of Mother's arms, seeking independence, hoping I might change.
I spent that time piling the corpses of countless demonkin beneath my feet, and those trials forged me into a warrior. Even when we stormed a demon fortress, someone I could not drive from my mind kept my arm from ever slackening on the axe. It was the same in the hours when a wastrel would have been tumbling with women in bed.
That time stretched on, and at last, on a blood-soaked land where a bottomless hell had unfolded, I slaughtered one of the Four Heavenly Kings and faced the brilliant sunlight. Only when I reached the end of that journey did I finally understand.
This foolish barbarian could not live without the vermilion-haired woman called Mandarin.
A caterpillar eats leaves and becomes a butterfly. A tree basks in sunlight and grows. A bee seeks a flower in full bloom. That is a truth that will not change, whether catastrophe strikes or ages pass.
To me, Mother was…
No.
To me, Darin was that kind of existence.
For a barbarian who had realized that, no other choice could possibly exist. Only then did the towering mountains I had feared begin to look like small, insignificant hills. What I needed most to cross them was to learn what truly mattered in my life. Strength was merely a secondary tool for achieving that.
Always. Continuously. And even now.
I have loved only one woman.
Remaining her son is not the life I want.
My hand clenched tight. Cold sweat kept welling in the palm that held the tangerine blossoms. Compared to the weapons I ordinarily swung, the bouquet was absurdly light—and yet it felt strangely heavy.
The confession I made when I held out flowers to her after the triumphal ceremony—the fact that she refused me—seems to have left a wound I hadn't noticed. I had known she would refuse, and I did it anyway. I never expected it to linger like this.
Still… perhaps this time will be a little different. Lately, when our bodies joined, there were moments when Mother leaned in and kissed me of her own accord.
Carrying a sliver of hope, I set out for the tangerine orchard. No matter how hard things became, she always tended the trees at this hour. Was that why a tart-sweet scent of tangerines drifted from between a woman's thighs? I would have to confirm it again soon enough.
The first time I offered her flowers, both the situation and the words had been thoroughly inappropriate. This time I would watch what I said and did. The strategy of treating her roughly at first and gently later seemed to have worked rather well, so today I would be kind.
And even if she rejected my heart again, there was no need to grow despondent. In courtship, the one who loves more is always the weaker party; it is only right that the one who yearns keep pursuing. If she turned me away again today, I would simply keep confessing until she accepted me. Tomorrow. The day after. Forever.
And if the day ever came when the queen of the tangerine orchard accepted my heart, I wanted to cry it out with everything I had—
That no matter how many times I was reborn, I would love only her.
……
…But something is truly strange.
Why… can I not see Mother anywhere?