----

As dead as a doornail: 'an expression meaning quite dead.'

----

When Novarra was ten, Navven Ultra had already been successful.

He glanced at the child.

She was the only piece he had left of Sachia Kiye.

But she had not been normal. When Novarra was able to talk, she talked about semblances of theories, when the parent and child had been on good terms. They had never talked much, so Navven was surprised when she opened her mouth and talked about moral compasses, and her own.

Was the child a genius?

Navven frowned. She had refused to converse with her peers, but had naturally been academically gifted. He knew she liked to surf the Internet, and liked to read Japanese manga and listen to Korean pop music, and he hadn’t discouraged her from doing so. Hobbies were normal for children, right?

He wasn’t a father - he hadn’t been anything close to a decent parent.

But when he tried to parent, the child looked at him with suspicion as if he were trying something.

So he stopped.

The child had an interest in piano. Reportedly, she liked sweet and spicy things, and was lazy. She also liked to read, according to the maids that usually looked after her.

But there was something about her that strangely reminded him of Sachia.

The woman who ran away with some of his money after five years of marriage.

The cold, ruthless woman who he had married.

If Sachia had resembled the biting cold, then the child sometimes resembled a sharp knife. Novarra had nothing of the numbness that cold brought, but rather the opposite. Spending time around her was like dancing on a knife’s blade. You either fall, or get cut, most of the time.

Oddly enough, she was only hostile to Navven and her relatives, or those who harbored ill intentions towards her. She was perfectly fine on her own, immersed into other worlds.

Most of the time, she was a talented, lazy yet somewhat pampered, ordinary child.

“Sir, we’ve obtained a lead on Miss Kiye’s whereabouts,” Navven’s secretary reported. “She seems to have left City X and fled to somewhere in Macau. Should-”

“Leave it.”

Navven waved her off.

The secretary looked confused, but obeyed.

Navven didn’t know when he had decided, but he wouldn’t have any more children. With Sachia, or otherwise. He wasn't a hopeless romantic, but Sachia was Sachia, and others were others.

So, the Ultra legacy would be for Novarra to take.

I’m sorry.

He apologized, internally, to the ten-year-old child.

But I have no other choice.

Perhaps he was lying to himself, in a way. Navven realized that if Sachia returned, he would never hear the end of it.

He could practically hear her ice-cold voice, and those ruthless eyes: You always have a choice. Having no choice is an excuse cowards hide behind. You have a choice, Ven. You’re just too scared to choose the other one.

Navven sighed.

I’m sorry...Novarra.

----

“We are gathered here today to honor the memory of a friend, mayor, and the loving presence that was Alessia Rook, may she rest well in the arms of the L’air.”

Novarra’s throat was sore, but she still managed to drag the words out.

“Alessia’s life was lived in hope for both the future, and the present. Rook’s future and present, as well the future and present of every single person here.”

Ginna wiped away a tear.

Even the Lavers were silent.

“Alessia’s life was tragically cut short at the ripe age of fifty-two. I, as well as everyone here, know well that she was a pillar of our town. She will be remembered.”

Novarra gave a short laugh.

“I’m sure that, if she were here, she would tell us to honor her memory by continuing her dream, for the people of Rook.”

Actually, she wouldn’t say that. She would just want to continue chasing power, like she did all these years, Novarra thought internally as she looked out at the crowd. And those who knew her well would know that I’m lying through my teeth.

But Novarra continued.

“She may not have been mayor for all those fifty-two years, but she dedicated her fifty-two years to us, and, Souveraine be with me, she relished every single day of it. She would lovingly tell me of how she watched Rook grow, and the people inside it. Sometimes I wouldn’t pay attention, of course-”

This was met with chuckles.

“-But she loved every single person here. And, I daresay, every single one of us loved her.”

More sniffles.

You didn’t even like her, but alright, Mr. Crocodile Tears. Novarra tsked internally, two-faced motherfuckers.

“When she was alive,” Novarra mused, “she carried a heavy burden. I suppose some of us wanted to share it, but, as stubborn as she was, she never let anyone help carry it.”

Well, I suppose that bit is true.

Novarra glanced towards the sky.

“I hope, at least now, she may rest in peace, dancing in the lands of the elves. In the five years I’ve known her, I-” Varra broke her voice.

How much of it's genuine? she wondered to herself.

She had cared about Alessia, in her own way, perhaps.

Novarra swallowed. Stay calm.

Those gathered at the ceremony looked at her in pity.

I had been the closest to her in the last years of her life.

Of course, that was the reason she had been chosen to lead the ceremony.

“We gather today,” she repeated, “to mourn the loss of a life, to celebrate said rich life, and to honor the passing of a friend. To honor the memory of Alessia Rook.” She glanced towards the sky again. “We hope you are at peace. Alessia, put in a good word for me when you get there, eh?”

A broken laugh, and silence.

“Thank you, for everything. Souveraine de las alica.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

May you rest in the arms of Souveraine.

Those gathered bent their heads at the sky in deference, repeating the words.

“Souveraine de las alica.”

She had never gotten acquainted with Elevyarian funeral customs, but as she had been chosen to officiate Alessia’s funeral, she had read about it.

Elevyarians believed that after a pure soul would die, they would naturally float up to the land of Aera, a place somewhat like heaven, where the members of L’air and Souveraine himself lived. Then, they would enter Souveraine’s palace, where each and every member of the Elevyarian dead would get a chance at a conversation with the First Elf King, and, finally, join the ranks of the elves.

It was a nice belief... a peaceful one.

Novarra wasn’t sure that Alessia would join Aera, but it was a nice sentiment nonetheless.

If the person was aware they would die, they would write three letters: one to the person they were most grateful for, one to the person they wanted to see grow up the most, and one to themselves.

Alessia had apparently participated in the custom, and a part of it was that the letters could not be opened until a week after their death.

Novarra sighed.

Five years had passed since her first year in Rook. That meant a total of five years, since her transmigration. Novarra was now twenty-four.

Novarra had been the administrator of Rook for five years.

Alessia’s death had been a sudden one, and one that impacted Novarra deeply, work-wise. One of the friends she had made after transmigration had passed. Of course, Alessia hadn’t been the nicest person when alive, but she treated Novarra well - after all, who didn’t crave power? Good feelings had been cultivated through those ten years, and Novarra had regarded Alessia as a mother, or perhaps a grandmother.

Alessia’s presence had oddly reminded Novarra of the vague, cold presence that was in Novarra’s memories of the one and only Sachia. Even if Novarra seemed unbothered, she was actually very affected by the loss of yet another parental figure, if she were psychoanalyzing herself.

There were five stages of grief identified and the cycle that Novarra had chosen to believe in.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Novarra thought that she was currently in the ‘denial’ stage.

Grief is tricky.

Alessia hadn’t been a loved one - the word ‘love’ was a tricky one - but Novarra had cared about her. After all, at least one person had to mourn the greedy old woman.

The most prominent thought running through her brain had been a simple: She’s not dead. She’ll come up to me any second and ask me to handle a proposal, or invite me over for tea, or start another roundabout conversation. She’s not dead.

Novarra slumped on a seat at a nearby table at the funeral and blinked.

That greedy old woman...can’t be dead.

----

Alessia Rook was dead.

She was, irrefutably, as dead as a doornail.

Ah.

I’m dying.

That was her last thought before she had collapsed.

She had known that she was about to die - she had the feeling she was about to, what with her worsening health, so she wrote the letters.

Two of them were to herself, and the other was to a person that had been almost irreplaceable in the last ten years of her life.

The girl.

Alessia’s life had flashed before her eyes before her death.

Memories of her dead husband and deader son. Of her life - correction, former life.

Alessia Basset had been born the daughter of a wealthy-enough merchant. She had been pretty, and the target of admiration during her school days. Equipped with the rare tool of calculative cunning, Alessia had gradually made her way up the social ladder.

When she was young, she had been faced with disdain from her family.

‘You’re too greedy,’ her mother had said, ‘your eyes long for too much.’

Wasn’t greed just simply wanting more than the world could give you, and doing anything to fulfill your desires? Alessia had dreamed of wanting to be at the top of her own world, powerful enough to live her life without regrets. If that was considered avarice, than Alessia would gladly accept the title.

At first, she hadn’t known what to do when he had confessed.

‘Alessia.’ Marco Laver, the merchant’s second son, had looked into her eyes and had declared his love. ‘Will you marry me?’

But the promise of wealth and power was all she needed. Love? What was the use of loving someone? There only existed opportunities, which existed to be taken. So Alessia had taken the opportunity to marry the love-stricken boy that had been Marco. He had known, of course, that Alessia didn’t love him, as she had told him herself after the marriage. But he had treated her with love regardless.

‘The fool.’

And for that, she appreciated him.

At least, enough to bear a child.

Marco, her life partner. Never lover, never husband.

A partner, and the father of her child.

Phillip Laver-Basset. That had been his name.

‘Phillip.’

Alessia’s consciousness had associated the name with a tirade of grief. Because even she had a heart.

Her son, whom she had cared for. The boy with Marco’s dark hair and dark skin, and big hazel eyes. The adorable child who she had given her heart to. He was, in fact, one of the only two people in her lifetime that she, as Alessia Laver-Basset Rook, had given her heart to.

Her son had been her life.

Until he had died.

~

‘Sia, Phil and I are going out.’ Marco had grinned. ‘I’m going to pick up a sword for him.’

‘The boy’s five years old.’ Alessia had smiled, amused. ‘How are you going to train him in the art of the sword?’

Phillip had popped up from behind Marco’s legs. ‘Papa’s going to teach me! We’re going to go out, in a carriage!’

Alessia had ruffled his hair. ‘Alright, then.’ She looked at Marco’s handsome face, the face that had been there for her, through bad times and the good. ‘Be back before dinner.’ Alessia hesitated, before speaking words she had realized were true, two words that had taken years to draw out: ‘Love you.’

Mixed emotions. After months of internal turmoil and deliberation, Alessia had confessed her feelings, that made her heart beat faster whenever Marco chose again, and again, to stay by her side.

Marco’s eyes had widened. Swimming in his eyes...had been tears?

‘Did love...matter that much to him?’ Alessia had been confused. ‘He-’

Marco flew forward and kissed her on the cheek, for the first time after their marriage.

He had cheerfully said, ‘I love you too.’

----

Those were the last words Alessia had heard before...

It had only been one hour before a servant had returned, frenzied.

‘The Master and Young Master are- A carriage accident-’

Alessia had rushed to the scene to see two limp, distorted bodies against the bloody Rook cobblestones. A pair of crushed skulls, along with scarlet-covered bone and mangled flesh, underneath a carriage. One mutilated small body against another one. Both were horrifyingly familiar, contorted into grotesque positions.

Carriage accidents...weren’t common in Rook.

They happened, but how...why...

‘No...Phillip...Marco…’

She fell to her knees. The crowd looked at her pityingly, as she let out a long, tortured, uncontrollable, wail. All the years she had spent keeping calm, methodically crushing each obstacle in her path, vanished as she grieved, sobbing, her tears streaking the bloody cobblestones.

A newfound love, and her child. All gone.

She had become widowed and childless all in one day.

~

“We are gathered here today, in the memory of two…”

The words were a blur.

“Souveraine de las alica.”

She followed, her mind somewhere else.

“Souveraine de las alica,” she said.

~

The years hadn’t dulled the pain, but had numbed it. Trudging through it all and rebuilding her lost fortune, she had risen to become a public figure in Rook. She had fought tooth and nail for her position. Her dream was the only thing she had left, her dream of standing at the top. It was...the only thing she had left.

Ambition was all she had left.

If I can’t be happy, she had mused, I’ll at least fulfill my childhood dream.

She had stared out at the window.

Years had passed, and she had been left alone, with an added surname of ‘Rook,’ one a person gained when elected as mayor.

It’s the least I can do...for myself.

Alessia was brought out of her thoughts when she heard a knock at the door. That was when it had all started. The carefree young lady, who hid a thousand words behind a smile and glance. She had introduced herself as Ingrid Signia, but it was obvious she was a noble lady. Surprisingly, she could keep up with Alessia’s probing, merry-go-round conversations that were never direct. On a whim, she had given her the position of administrator, a role the girl had lived up to for ten years.

In those ten years, the girl had become more than a working partner. When she had figured out Alessia’s past, her gaze hadn’t been filled with pity, or anything similar to it. Just...understanding.

Alessia hadn’t treated her any differently, either. The girl had become almost like a daughter, strangely.

But, everyone was multifaceted.

Ingrid wasn’t an exception.

Alessia had observed throughout the years her carefree exterior slowly harden into a ice-like, distant one. Perhaps that had been her original self, or just another part of her personality. Sometimes, she would have this sharp look in her eyes that unsettled even Alessia. She behaved almost like a child at times, too, but it didn’t make her any less of a capable person. But most of the time, she was a good enough person that Alessia treated well.

Extremely well, in fact, that she had dedicated a letter to Ingrid.

‘Grandirr. Age.’ The person she wanted to see grow up the most, was that girl who had showed up on her doorstep with.

After being told she was greedy, so many times, she had accepted it as a fact.

She had been a greedy person. This was a fact.

Alessia Laver-Basset Rook really had only thought about herself, and three others, to the end.

Alessia Rook was dead.

She was, irrefutably, dead as a doornail.

----