Burn Me, So I Cannot Weep [03]
Cecilia Bar Gracia.
The youngest daughter of the House of Gracia, the shield and symbol that held up the empire. Lucia still remembered, with perfect clarity, the moment she had first met her.
It was around the time the Order had anointed her a saint, and she was taking her first steps into high society. Amid a crowd of unfamiliar faces, one person kept drawing Lucia's nervous, darting gaze.
Those deep, black eyes. So hollow it was hard to believe they belonged to a human being. There was no warmth in them, no light. Many people feared her.
She's the child of a demon, they whispered behind their hands. An ill omen.
But Lucia loved those eyes.
No matter how many times she looked, she never tired of them. If anything, the more she looked, the deeper she sank.
Like gazing up at a night sky without a single star. So endlessly dark that if you peered into them, you felt you might be pulled right in. Like wine settling into the blood, those eyes kept circling back to haunt her mind.
Within that nameless void, it seemed as though something were hidden — some untold story she could not speak of. The urge to look closer, to understand, kept growing inside her.
Her blindingly white hair was the same. It was like the goddess painted in the scriptures. And on top of that, an unshakable grace.
They were the same age, and yet there was something about Cecilia that made her impossible to approach. Her skin was flawless. So that's what true nobility looks like, Lucia had thought.
She wanted, even a little, to get closer to her…
But reality was crueler than she had imagined.
Because Cecilia hated her.
Every time their eyes met, a frost of hostility came flying at her, as if Lucia were her sworn enemy. At the time, she couldn't understand it. Now, she thought she could.
The reason was, most likely, the imperial prince.
He was the one Cecilia had cherished for years and kept close at her side. Even if it had been a one-sided devotion, it would have been sincere.
Whenever Lucia spoke with the prince alone, Cecilia would appear without fail and unleash her venom — without mercy, without compassion.
"…You again? Could you give it a rest?"
Cecilia's voice was like a sheet of ice.
"How many times do I have to say it before it sinks in? Stay away from him. Even a saint of the Order has lines she doesn't cross. Or didn't they teach you that?"
At the time, Cecilia had been the prince's betrothed.
Knowing that, Lucia had not been able to offer a single word of protest. Lingering beside someone who already had a fiancée could hardly be called right.
"I—I was only… we're childhood friends, that's all…"
"Spare me the excuses. There won't be a next time. Remember that."
Cecilia's gaze did not waver in the slightest. Faced with that resolve, Lucia shrank into herself. She felt she ought to say something — anything.
But her throat had closed, and no words would come.
While Lucia stammered and fumbled, the prince at her side spoke first. He moved with the ease of a man well accustomed to such scenes.
"That's enough, Cecilia."
He stepped forward as if to shield Lucia.
"Lay a hand on someone precious to me again, and you'll regret it."
Lucia's face burned crimson.
Cecilia, for her part, scowled deeply — and then, without another word, turned on her heel. Something about her retreating back seemed, somehow, terribly lonely.
The onlookers began to murmur.
To think a duke's daughter could be so petty.
The saint is a far better match for the prince.
Criticism rained down from every direction.
And yet — why? Lucia felt no vindication at all.
Cecilia deserved to be despised, but Lucia could not share in that chorus of blame. The sight of her walking away alone kept gnawing at the back of her eyes.
Considerable time passed after that.
Day by day, Lucia and the prince drew closer. And in equal measure, Cecilia's cruelties deepened. Her actions planted, little by little, seeds of doubt and unease in Lucia's heart.
Cecilia never touched Lucia openly. Perhaps she was mindful of the eyes of others. But that ambiguous distance was precisely what made everything harder — enough to curdle the blood.
Seating arrangements at banquets. Guest lists for gatherings.
Down to the smallest point of etiquette.
There were too many instances to count.
Lucia was pushed aside every single time. And because Cecilia was impeccably, radiantly polite on the surface, Lucia had no grounds to protest even if she'd wanted to. It was meticulous, truly.
They were merely childhood friends, after all.
This really is hard. Not that I have any such intentions.
A saint can't marry anyway.
She and the prince were simply old friends. Nothing more, nothing less. So why did Cecilia bare her fangs at her so relentlessly? Lucia could not fathom it for the life of her.
The rumors that reached her ears were uniformly grim. That Cecilia had driven someone into a corner. That she had schemed behind the scenes. Every time she heard such stories, Lucia's heart grew tangled.
Is she truly a wicked person?
Or is my faith lacking — am I the one failing to see her as she really is? The answer would not come easily. Perhaps, she thought, this was a trial the Lord had set before her.
Lucia's anguish only deepened.
That day was no different. Her body and spirit were both worn to threads.
Walking through the garden behind the academy, Lucia spotted a familiar figure. It was Cecilia. Her heart lurched, and before she knew what she was doing, she was following.
One careful step. Then another.
Quick, light steps — careful not to be seen.
"…This time, I'll find out the truth for certain."
It was a quiet vow, murmured under her breath.
If Cecilia was plotting something wicked again, then this time, at last, she had to catch the proof.
With that resolve, she muffled her footsteps.
But something was strange.
Where is she going?
Cecilia's path led to a quiet, secluded stretch of wall where no one ever came. And there, curled up at its base, was a battered, wounded cat. It limped on an injured leg, its eyes wide with terror.
Cecilia slowly lowered herself to one knee.
What on earth is she doing?
Is she going to use it for experiments? If she touches it, I'll have to stop her.
Lucia held her breath and watched.
Toward the cat, Cecilia —
— gingerly extended her hand.
"…It's all right. You don't have to be afraid."
Her voice was astonishingly gentle.
"No one is going to hurt you. Not anymore."
A tone Lucia had never once heard from her.
That voice of solid ice had turned warm as spring. Just listening to it made the tension drain out of her shoulders.
This is Cecilia? Really?
The cat, which had been cowering and wary, twitched its nose. A faint smile had settled on Cecilia's lips. What is with that face?
"There. Good girl. You've been in so much pain, haven't you."
Cecilia gathered the cat into her arms. The way she examined its wounds was achingly tender. With a cloth she must have brought along in secret, she carefully bound the injuries.
"Just bear with it a little longer. You'll be better soon."
She stroked the cat's head, feather-light. The small creature tucked in her arms curled itself up, reassured, and gave a tiny cry.
Lucia stood frozen to the spot.
…So she can make a face like that.
Something dropped, heavily, into the very center of her chest.
If she would show me that gentle gaze — that soft smile — even once.
The thought burrowed in, uninvited.
Maybe everything I know isn't the whole of it.
The wicked villainess of the rumors and the figure before her eyes differed in every single thing, from first to last. It was hard to believe.
This is real?
It was bewildering. What is this? I'm not dreaming, am I?
Which side of her was the true one?
Perhaps, Lucia thought, both of them were.
And so the conviction that had once been unshakeable began to sway.
That was how it began.
The moment Lucia's heart —
— was stolen by Cecilia.
I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about you.
I'm going out of my mind wondering.
I want to hear what's truly in your heart.
Cecilia.
What kind of person are you, really?
"…Nnh. Wh-where… where was this, again?"
With a groan, Lucia opened her eyes.
The cliff she had just plunged from rose sheer and black against the sky. Having fallen from that terrible height, Lucia rose to her feet as if nothing had happened at all.
The hands that had braced against the dirt were trembling, but there was not a single wound on her. The saint blessed by God carried a protection of her own.
A sacred barrier, bestowed to guard a pure and chaste body. Thanks to it, a fall of this magnitude had left her without so much as a scratch. She didn't understand the principle behind it. A blessing granted only to virgins — perhaps it was simply God's love.
She brushed the dirt from her clothes with a few brisk pats.
And then, abruptly, a laugh slipped out of her.
…To think something like this could happen.
The hand that had caught hers in the moment of the fall.
It called to mind a distant, faraway day.
To go tumbling down a cliff hand in hand with the very person she had longed to reach and never could — fate was a cruelly wry thing.
Wait — where is Lady Cecilia?
Her wits snapped back into place. Lucia looked around frantically. They had fallen together, but there was no sign of Cecilia anywhere.
She's not badly hurt — she can't be, right?
Unlike Lucia, Cecilia had no blessing to shield her. A fall from this height guaranteed nothing.
Only then did the terrible possibilities surface. A chill crawled up from the soles of Lucia's feet. No. I have to find her, now. Where is she? Not here — not over there either—
Just as Lucia moved to hurry off —
she saw something lying on the ground.
A drop of blood, vivid and red.
A trail of crimson stains wound sparsely through the grass. The color drained from Lucia's face. Blood in this quantity meant wounds that were anything but light. She had to hurry.
"…Lady Cecilia! Lady Cecilia!"
Lucia followed the trail at a run.
The more urgent her heart grew, the more her feet tangled beneath her.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Her heart hammered without restraint.
The distance was not far.
The drops of blood grew fewer and fewer —
and then ceased entirely at a single point.
Where her footsteps finally stopped:
a valley pool, brimming with clear water.
Sunlight scattered silver across the surface, and the low murmur of the stream filled the hollow of the ravine. And there, at the water's edge, stood a lone figure.
Cecilia, white-haired and bedraggled.
A dress shredded to tatters.
A body smeared with dirt and blood.
She was washing the wound on her leg.
Wet strands of white hair spilled down over her shoulders, and the water beading on her skin caught the sunlight and threw it back in glints.
Lucia stopped dead where she stood.
She was beautiful — beautiful to the point of pain.
Lucia forgot even to speak.
Her breath caught. She could not tear her eyes away.
Cecilia, steeped in water and light, looked as though she had stepped straight out of a painting. Even her wounded, ruined body seemed, if anything, pitiably radiant.
Cecilia furrowed her brow and muttered to herself.
"What a wreck. Truly…"
A soliloquy spat out between splashes of water.
Even that self-mocking sigh, that weariness swallowed alone —
to Lucia, it all sounded impossibly tender.
Her face went hot. Her fingertips went numb.
Lucia pressed a hand hard against her own chest.
She tried to calm herself. It did no good.
…What is this feeling?
She had never known it before.
Strange, searing — the world swam before her eyes.
Lucia could not name it. Too fierce to be admiration, too burning to be mere pity. In all her years of living as a saint, not a single passage of scripture had ever taught her this. Did I hit my head when I fell?
For now, all she could do was watch Cecilia.
That Cecilia had not yet noticed her — that, perhaps, was the one mercy in all of this.