Isabella and 'Isabella'
Isabella and 'Isabella'
The misalignment began to settle into place. With a sound like grinding gears—kkiik—the twisted cogs of memory started to connect one by one, narrowing the gap.
The past before it was erased and the present after it was erased meshed together. Slowly, the process of two divided halves of a single being becoming one again approached its end.
Her memories began to return.
A girl born and raised in the Holy Kingdom, chosen by Mikel and sent away to Fran. There, she freely blossomed her talents, lived happily under the finest master, and enjoyed unparalleled luxury. Then, sensing something amiss and heading for the Holy Kingdom—from that day onward, every memory came flooding back. She even accepted that these were her original memories, her true self that had merely been stored temporarily beyond consciousness.
The emotions from that process returned all at once as well.
Memories like twilight from her childhood. Hazy yet bright—those were the beginning. The despair she felt when she brought her younger siblings to the orphanage. Then, the brightness of the day she accepted that place and met Rosaria. The other brightness after Canaria arrived there. Her childish self envying all of it. After that, the feelings of wanting to grow closer to those two, working hard every day, the happiness of being acknowledged, and the strange emotions when she promised the future and left the Holy Kingdom—they all bloomed.
What filled the space afterward was, naturally, happiness. Growing skills. The immense bliss of living in the best environment with good people. But a sense of dissonance followed. And after that, all despair. Self-loathing. Self-reproach. Disgust and contempt. Hatred and denial. Because the purer the water, the more clearly you could see it turning murky. Because it had been so white, it must have been dyed black so quickly.
What followed after was filled with different memories and emotions. At her own request, the muddied water had been temporarily stored elsewhere, and she had asked for that bucket to be filled with new, clear water. Even so, the black paint that had clung a little to the bucket made that water slightly murky—but it was undeniably pure compared to before.
Her new self gave up on her dreams. She left Fran, returned to the Holy Kingdom, and lived as a maid for her siblings, serving Rosaria—the friend she had once known but could not remember—as her lady. Hers were hands unaccustomed to cleaning and laundry. Hands more familiar with drawing pictures than housework. She was scolded and criticized often. Yet a strange happiness dwelled in her heart. Probably an instinctive happiness that arose simply from being at Rosaria's side.
Even when struck on the head, the sleeping body still moved. That was because instinct carved into the body—deeper than thought—would move that flesh and make it act even when the mind could not. And so, Isabella's heart must have felt that same carved instinct of happiness whenever she was beside her.
After all, she had been her first friend. A friend who shared the same pain, and a child who—unlike herself—shone noble and alone. That must have made her appear like a flash of light in Isabella's eyes.
That was why she could not forget. Even though the memories were erased, the instinct rooted in her soul remembered.
Through all those days, Isabella had been happy. No matter what the seniors said, even when she blamed herself for being bad at her work, just looking at Rosaria in that room made her happy. The promise her soul remembered, and the sourceless fulfillment of having kept it, had filled Isabella completely.
But it seemed Rosaria had not been satisfied with that alone.
Did she want even the other Isabella—the one who had lost her memories and was not the original—to be happy? Once she learned that Isabella had given up her dream, 'Isabella' also began to help. She went out with her on walks. She helped her fit in during the reluctant outings she had first instigated. And she used the other memories she still held to help 'Isabella' pick up a brush again.
She had released one of the four shackles. And soon, the things 'Isabella' created made their way to Fran as if by fate. Those creations would return, becoming the catalyst for Isabella to head back to Fran.
Rosaria had released two of them. But then the atmosphere shifted, and the current changed. 'Isabella' came to love the man she had so loathed before losing her memories. Well, 'Isabella' had no reason to hate him. She did not know his hypocrisy, nor did she know the sins he had committed in the past.
That fool loved a sinner. The worst kind of sinner—one who had killed her friend, scarred another, and ruined even herself. She had wanted to hold the hand that killed her friend. She had desired to covet the lips that left the scar. And she had loved even the heart that had broken her.
Would she have stopped if she had felt the dissonance? But regrettably, Isabella had not carved that being into her soul. She thought Rosaria and Canaria were enough. The vile love born from ignorance kept kindling fire in her heart. If there was a stroke of luck, it was that she realized midway it was a phantom and tucked it into a box. But the problem was the day she headed for Fran.
The moment she saw that detestable face, she renewed her feelings. The connected past found it repulsive. Because she could not understand why her own self had done such a foolish thing. The contradiction of Isabella not understanding 'Isabella' only continued to fester in her sick heart.
She rode in the same carriage as that detestable man.
'Isabella' liked that.
But Isabella hated it.
She took a walk with the man she had cursed.
And then that vermin, wearing his hypocrisy again, embraced her.
'Isabella' was happy about that.
But Isabella was nauseated by it.
She saw the shadow cast by that trash's face.
'Isabella' wanted to comfort him for that.
But Isabella thought it suited him.
Conflicting emotions. The gap between the two misaligned memories was far too wide.
Happiness became misery. Love became abhorrence. Admiration became contempt. Forgiveness became a curse.
The distance between two beings—different yet the same—grew ever wider.
The peak came on the day he made a star. Belatedly confessing all his sins and offering a gift, he painted the star 'Isabella' had wanted upon that sky. Only Isabella had seen him clutching the pendant around his neck. Thinking of it as atonement in his own way, he must have been holding onto that token the fake love of 'Isabella' had hung there, trying to forget the pain squeezing his heart.
'Isabella' thought that star was so beautiful.
Regrettably, Isabella felt the beauty of that star just the same.
It was the first time they had been the same.
But the essence of it was different.
'Isabella' liked it because it was a star Zeke had drawn. But Isabella simply liked it because it was a star. For the moment she saw that brightness, the memory carved into her soul had come to mind.
The flash of light she had felt from the friend he had killed.
From Rosaria.
Because that light, as bright as a star, had warmed her heart.
Isabella just liked stars.
Even if it was a star drawn by the Hero, it was still a star.
Isabella was simply the sort of person who liked looking at stars.
The cogs of memory were nearly meshed.
Just like the little time that had remained back then.
The clock hand was moving, approaching the time to open her eyes.
And so, Isabella reached the end of those memories.
- 'I' love you, Zeke.
It was 'Isabella's' confession.
It was like looking at a disgusting self-portrait.
Of all the countless people in the world,
why did she have to love that trash?
If only it had been someone else, it might have been less repulsive.
Though Leo could be left out of those people too.
...Anyway, she hated that begging figure.
She hated that posture of asking to be allowed to love.
The tears flowing down those cheeks were so foul she wanted to gouge her eyes out.
But there was just one thing she affirmed.
The heart that wanted to carve a scar into that heart just the same.
The heart that wanted to make him feel the same pain.
That heart alone—in that moment—she affirmed.
It was a span of barely a minute.
And then 'Isabella' moved.
To covet those lips that had ruined her friend.
Zeke, who still had a sliver of conscience, refused it.
She thought it was fortunate.
Because she did not want to give her first to something like that.
The hypocrisy that had saved Isabella had saved Isabella once again.
Only, it could not save 'Isabella'.
But that Hero was a fool.
A greedy one who could not abandon a single thing.
One who had to fill both his hands full with his hypocrisy.
That was why he covered 'Isabella's' mouth.
And then he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
Giving his heart. Pressing a kiss to the apology.
It was a foolish act, fitting for an idiot who could throw nothing away.
Thanks to that, Isabella realized it.
That this trash had not changed.
After that, 'Isabella' vanished.
Because all that was left was Isabella.
Isabella, with yet another scar carved into her, opened her eyes.
*
The flickering of consciousness ended.
Her blinking eyes finally opened now.
Her eyelids had been so terribly heavy.
The long wandering was over.
And what Isabella saw when she opened her eyes...
"...Rosaria."
It was the sight of her friend, who had been dead the last time she saw her. She saw her Saintess, with silver eyes that shone brighter than a star and golden hair as bright as the sun. The Saintess had laid her friend—her flight ended—upon her own lap.
"...I'm sorry, Rosaria."
And she apologized to her again.
"...There's no need to be sorry, Isabella."
But even that was refused by the Saintess.
"...I'm the one who should be sorry, Isabella."
She thought the apology was hers to make.
And apologizing, she gently stroked Isabella's hair.
The heart that even divine power could not heal began to mend under that kindness.
Only then did she realize that what she had truly wanted was forgiveness.
The pus of the heart began to flow from Isabella's eyes.
The pus that had filled the deep wound was coming out as the wound was finally sealed.
"...Even so, I kept the promise at last."
The promise that the three of them would be together, that is.
So Isabella turned her head, searching for the last one.
But that figure was not in sight.
"...Where's Canaria?"
She asked Rosaria.
But her expression was not a good one.
Isabella felt anxiety at the sight of her hesitating to answer.
For in Isabella's memory, Canaria's state had not been good.
It was just as that fearful thought kept growing.
She heard a sound. Kkiik.
A door was suddenly opening.
But to Isabella, it seemed to move slowly.
And then, she saw that figure for the first time in a long while.
Canaria. With the same black hair and golden eyes as that day.
The image of that friend she had envied in childhood.
"...What, you're finally awake?"
Over a bucket of water, she had placed a towel. And in her remaining hand, she held the desserts Isabella loved. She stood there with a smile she could not hide.
That Canaria opened her mouth.
"...You idiot. Do you know how much trouble you caused Rosaria?"
The one 'friend' who spoke informally to her approached.
"...Aren't you being a little too harsh, Canaria?"
Rosaria was relieved by that unchanged sight.
"...I can treat Isabella like this, Rosaria."
And seeing that, Isabella began to cry again.
It was seeing that image—the one that had been out of joint for so long because of her. For Isabella had only now gotten to see those scenes they had shown every single day when the three of them spent time together in the Holy Kingdom.
- I absolutely refuse to cry in front of Canaria, okay?
She broke her childhood pledge again.
Tears like beads began to stream from her eyes.
"...Thank you."
And for the first time, she thanked them both.
"...Thank you for coming back. And for waiting for me."
She was simply, truly grateful.
A reunion that should have been easy but was hard—
that should have come quickly but took far too long.
Such was this reunion.
*
The long-awaited catching up was immensely happy. They talked about many things that had happened in the meantime. And while eating the desserts Canaria had brought, the three of them played the card game Rosaria and Isabella had made together long ago.
But beyond that happiness, something kept flickering.
Naturally, its name was unpleasantness. Of course, it was not something she felt toward the friends before her. It was an emotion she felt toward the being who had twice tormented her with his hypocrisy.
"...Do you mind if I go somewhere for a moment?"
Isabella bit her lip and opened her mouth with difficulty.
"...Go ahead."
"...Go on, then."
And the two friends who had noticed answered at once.
"...I'll just go to the restroom."
It was a painfully obvious lie.
But even that was so like Isabella.
So, even knowing it was a lie, the two Saints turned a blind eye.
Because they could not send a friend to hell.
And as soon as those words were finished, Isabella put on her outer coat.
Isabella dressed herself in a hurry. Soon, she entrusted herself to her intuition and began moving her body to find the root cause of all this.
Of course, it was not certain.
There was no guarantee he was there,
nor did she even know where 'there' was.
Still, Isabella moved, convinced he would definitely be there.
She ignored the streets of Fran she had not seen in a long time.
Isabella ran madly, her breath puffing out.
The beautiful streets ushering in the new year. The music. The people.
None of it was visible to her eyes.
Only the other path her intuition guided her down was visible.
Isabella followed that thread-like guidance.
But as she ran, the memories of 'Isabella' kept surfacing.
Every time she walked a street where they had spent time together, the memories of those days reflected back. The images of those days reflected on the lake of her unconsciousness kept tormenting Isabella.
'...There's no way that could be my heart.'
Because I hate that bastard.
That son of a bitch who killed Rosaria, broke Canaria,
and shattered her own heart.
Isabella kept running.
Her breath reached the top of her throat.
The memories kept harassing her.
It felt as if 'Isabella's' hand was grabbing her ankle.
Memories riddled with falsehoods kept coming to mind.
The scars of that time spent in Fran just hurt.
- The desserts they make here are really delicious, you know.
The ordinary time she had spent with everyone at the bakery.
- It's a piece by my favorite artist, Kreed.
The time she had spent intimately, just the two of them, at the art gallery.
- My first love is Cri...
And even that time she wanted to erase from memory.
So many memories began to turn into shackles.
At the same time, Isabella resented her.
Why had she loved that trash?
And why had she spouted such shitty nonsense?
The unchangeable past tormented Isabella once more.
From heavy emotions like rage and hatred,
to lighter ones like shame and embarrassment—
far too many emotions tormented Isabella.
And because they made it hard to run,
to shake them off, Isabella began to shout, forcing strength from her core.
"Aaaaaargh! Isabella, you son of a bitch!!!"
Isabella's voice echoed loudly through the streets of Fran.
"What the hell kind of bullshit did you go around spouting?!!!"
On the first day of the new year, the cry of a girl consumed by fury filled Fran.