A trail of blood comes out of her left nostril. So passionate is she that a noticeable flush has begun to take place, dyeing her face in elusive peach pink. Grand as her entry is, it only now behoves me to pay my thanks.
“Um…”
My saviour says nothing. Forgoing speech for action, she bends her knees, and all of a sudden—
“Light as a feather, hehe.”
—Carries me in her arms.
I lie limp in her grip. Heat returns to my cheek, and I immediately cover my face in shame.
I-I mean, I really appreciate the assistance, but this is still really embarrassing!
Earlene, however, takes no heed of that. With her sight fixed on the horizon, she makes a beeline for a nearby forest, effortlessly leaping over a two-metre fence in the process.
“You don’t want people to know you’re a guy, right?” She winks.
”Yeah.”
She says nothing for some time, focusing all her effort on running. Once a few minutes pass, she kneels on one knee and gently puts me to the ground.
”Hey, want to hear a joke?”
”A-alright!”
She meets me stare for stare.“So a Frenchman and an Englishman walk into a bar…” Meanwhile, her hand massages her belt, rummaging through pockets of leather.“And so, the Frenchman says, ‘You English fight for money, while we fight for honour.’” She swirls a vial of shimmering green, uncorking its lid.“And so the Englishman replies, ‘Sir, a man fights for what he does not have.’”
By the time Earlene’s finished the joke, she’s in the motion of applying her special ointment, rubbing it into my wounds.
”Hey.” Her tone’s lighter now.“How’s it feel?”
”Better—much better—a hundred times so, even! On my honour, I swear to remember this forever and pay you in turn.”
”The more I give to thee, the more I have.”
She sounds content, now kneading the wound at my head’s side. Taken aback by her kindness, I make a mental note to repay the favour, but otherwise, just smile and lie in peace.
Right now, I couldn’t care less why she’s conveniently here and the time before. Right now, I want to believe there’s good in this world—that my fight for justice isn’t wrong, after all.
Right now, a figure looms in the near-dark—their eyes borderline luminescent. Emerging from the trunk of an oak tree, Ysabeau steps into view, her face shadowed by the edge of night.
“British demoiselle,” speaks Ysabeau, her tone lathered with faux courtesy. “First at that windowsill, and second just precedent. It seems you have a habit of turning up just for the occasion.”
“What hero doesn’t? If not to look dashing and save others—then for what purpose do heroes exist?”
There is no reply. Ysabeau’s hand comes into view—made visible under the streak of moonlight—thrust as if to claw flesh and bone.
“I am not above manners—woman. So, I will thank you this time.”
“And what of the next? Surely, you can’t e—”
“There will be no next. I have been made aware of my shortcomings and will take appropriate measures. Now, leave!”
Earlene smiles, pats my head, and turns to look behind her.
“Adieu,” she bids, now standing up. “I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.”
My saviour marches onward—her figure diminishing amidst wood and snow. Within a minute, her presence is all but gone—made manifest but in the faint recital of theatre.
“Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides: who cover faults, at last shame them derides.”
“Yunluo…”
Ysabeau’s voice implores me now. Her tone proves lighter than before, imbued clearly with charity and kindness.
I smile, pushing myself to both my feet.
“Yun!”
Or so I try. The moment I so much as crouch, my body immediately gives way, falling back onto the snow. And while the feeling itself does hurt a bit, I’m more so worried about the girl in front of me, her eyes stricken with inextricable grief.
“Yun, no!”
After all, the only time a man should make a girl cry is at their wedding…
----------------------------------------
This is the place I want to be.
The moment my eyes open, bearing the glint of whale oil lanterns and waft of newly lit incense, that’s the thought that comes to mind. Nowhere in the world can be more comforting than this. No place more dear than in the lap of the woman I loved the most.
“Shall we talk of dinosaurs, Yunyun?”
She refers to me by that time-old nickname. This’d normally be the moment I chide her, replying in full force. Something along the lines of ‘Chige-nee, I told you not to call me that…!’ while secretly enjoying her due affection like a degenerate.
…Right now, though, all I can do is look—studying her reddish complexion and expression as I always have. The time for words is long gone. Now, there is only the hard echo of past memories, each one more ephemeral than the last.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
…It hurts.
The woman before me is a force of nature—a Sword Saint—guided only by savagery and prowess. She is who I’ve come to reckon with, who I’ve travelled to Europe to confront, and…
…And what?
Kill?
If that were true—if that were my life’s ambition, then why am I so content to stay here?
Why am I content to just look at her and revel in the feelings that once were?
“Yunyun?”
Though her lips curve into a smile, the woman’s eyes glint with wetness. They are a dam on the verge of breakage—a sign that feelings still hold.
“Yunyun?”
I cannot, or rather should not, reply. Were I to forgive her now—were I to pardon the woman who massacred my very own brethren—my Grandmaster, what would it say of me? What would it say of Xie Yunluo, he who chooses love over all else?
----------------------------------------
“Chigetsu…”
I shift in place, feeling the cover of cotton envelop me whole. My pillow is cool to the touch, with spots of wet cold (no doubt owing to my tears) stimulating the nerves in my face. Around me is pure darkness, a chasm of black that lets no light come through.
Owing to that fact, it’s hard to tell what time it is.
Though, if I remember correctly, there should be a lamp on the nightstand…
With a clumsy grope, I pull on a beaded cord, covering the room in a wash of yellow. I’m startled by the light momentarily but, before long, muster the energy to stand and draw open the silk curtains.
Falling snow—melting mid-air. An enclosure of tall limestone walls decorated with wrought iron railings. The warm glow of the sun overhead, subdued by the passing of time and lapse into late morning.
“France is nice.”
I stop mid-meditation and go prepare myself. Changing from my suspiciously genteel nightgown (which I assume Etienne to have done) into an orange hanfu, I head forth from my bedroom, making my way towards the living room.
“Good morning, Yunluo.”
I stop just outside the hallway. To my left—in the living room, sits Ysabeau, one hand holding a newspaper and the other a glass of water.
“Good morning,” she repeats, lifting her eyebrows and staring questioningly.
“Good morning, madame,” I reply, giving a curt bow.
Madame Ysabeau rises, leaving behind her goods. With a lofty stride, she crosses over to the dining room, taking seat dead centre. I follow and sit adjacent, watching empty air—unable to meet the girl’s gaze.
“Breakfast,” she says, looking at me solemnly. “Breakfast—then, and only then, do we discuss matters of import.”
A faint, metallic sound comes from to her left. The sight of Étienne follows in short succession, emerging in his usual silence—two lidded plates lined on each arm. In a clear, practised movement, he then sets the metal platters down, only to remove their lids upon doing so.
“Savour it, Yunluo. This’ll be your first sample of French breakfast.”
On the plate before me is a croissant, a slice of fresh toast, and two jars of butter and strawberry jam, respectively. Beside it on the other plate, a small serving of saucisson, pain au chocolat, and a tiny, dark, glass bottle of… soy sauce?
“Flip the croissant.”
I turn over the crescent-shaped pastry.
“Feel the folds there?—the unevenness of it all, like little dunes in a desert?”
“Yes, madame.”
“That’s how you know it is handmade—that is how you distinguish quality.”
Summoning a look of pride, Ysabeau grins and allows her gaze to linger. Feeling up to the task, I first try the croissant by itself, then with butter, then jam, and forego the soy sauce (which I’m not sure what I’m supposed to eat with).
“Wow.”
Needless to say, I’m as impressed as ever.
“The taste of butter, the way it flakes in your mouth, and the subtle sweetness! Madame Ysabeau, I could eat this every day!”
“Hah.” she lets out, satisfied, twirling her drills all the while. “That’s what it means to have good cuisine. I’ll have you know French pâtisserie are the best in all of the world. Don’t let any pesky Italian, German or least of all Austrian tell you otherwise.”
Ysabeau finishes her assertion with a final nod, only now eating her meal. I, on the other hand, continue, moving at a deliberately slowed pace so as to not overtake her. By the end of fifteen minutes, we both finish, now settling into a quiet, almost foreboding, silence.
“Attendant.”
Suddenly, I am made aware of Ysabeau’s status, her inherent nobility and superiority in the face of my woeful, lowly self.
“First question. Do you know that Englishwoman?”
Watching the young lady, I behold an expression of gravitas.
“She saved me at the windowsill and again at the party, but other than that…”
“Second question. When you faced that Germanic savage in a duel, did you know the Englishwoman would save you?”
“Honestly, I didn’t even know she was there.”
“Third question. When that fiend flourished her blade, did you know she would strike you again, much less aim for your neck?”
“Yes.”
I look her in the eyes, see an all too brief twitch, pronounced exhale, and return to normal all under a second.
“Final question—what does your life mean to you?”
“A chance to do good, live well, and extoll virtue.”
She picks up a cup of tea. “Then tell me. Were you to sleep among the maggots—how would you accomplish that?”
“Hope to return as a ghost?”
Ysabeau spears me with her glare. She brings her cup to her lips and takes in the drink. It is only upon the count of two that it softens, followed by an exasperated sigh.
”Forgive me, Madame Ysabeau. It was not my intention to make you cry. I just… Well, I didn’t want to bring dishonour to your name and…”
Ysabeau spits out her tea. It sprays in a cone and comes up in two coughs, falling back into her porcelain cup.
“Excuse me—where is this talk of crying coming from?!”
“Um… When I was about to faint, I swear I saw tears coming down your cheeks…”
Madame Ysabeau coughs. Once, twice, then a final time with a glance to the side. And, while it might just be me, I swear I can see her cheeks ever so redden.
“Is that so? Well, you should know, Yunluo, that it is common amongst my people to share in such sentiments. We are a passionate sort, after all, and it simply felt natural to me to share in sorrow upon seeing your pitiful state. It is all very normal, yes, and also, ‘Noblesse Oblige’ remember!”
She sips her tea again. This time, she doesn’t choke but seemingly finishes it quicker than before, looking to the side all the while.
“R-regardless!” adds my mistress haphazardly, twirling her ringlets. “Are you aware of your mistake, now?”
I bow my head in deference.
”...Yes.”
Ysabeau’s head hangs in silence. She seems to have lost herself in thought, what with the shut eyes and delicate tremble of her body.
”You are a good boy—a headstrong, subtly suicidal one, but good all the same. Now, since your intentions are well-meaning, I shall forgive the dishonour you’ve caused me yesterday…”
”Re—”
”However. Now that your defects are made apparent, it befalls me to punish and set you on the correct path.”
I nod and lower my head, watching the shadow overcast by my stupid, arrogant self.
”After all. You did lose that duel. And not only that, but you proved that yours truly was incapable of hiring someone up to the task...”
”Yes, Madame…”
”Now then, Xie Yunluo—Twice Ardent Thunder. What do you think follows one’s decided verdict?”
”P-punishment?”
Ysabeau smiles, her look charged with naked malice.