joy.

In what felt like a dream, the world was a white canvas. The echo of a melancholic piano came from somewhere far away, but Tsubaki did not bother to search for the source.

Camellias came from the ground. At first, they were healthy in appearance. A nearly unnoticeable wind caressed the white, pure petals. They were beautiful and innocent, but the sight of them gave no elation to Tsubaki.

“Such a disgusting child!” spat the harsh voice of a man.

“I can’t believe that thing came out of me...” murmured a woman.

The camellias began to develop red spots. Tsubaki felt a shiver go down his spine as he traced his fingers around the scars on his face.

“If we had another child...” said the woman.

From the ground came orange azaleas. Tsubaki frantically rushed to them and tried to pick them all. Raindrops tapped on his shoulders, dampening his button-up shirt.

“How can this be?!” screeched the woman.

“Cursed with another atrocious creature...” growled the man, angrily.

Tsubaki ran hastily. He held onto the azaleas tightly, protecting them as best as he could. The grey, tall grass became more tedious to tread, and the blackened mud clung to his bare feet.

Just then, the ground began to open from under him. The azaleas slipped away from Tsubaki’s grasps and turned into droplets of red liquid. He cried out for them and screamed out for them, begging for their floral presence to return.

As he fell through the shadows of the underground, the clashing of weapons surrounded him. Screams of men and women ringed, and Tsubaki’s breathing grew more sporadic. Tsubaki covered his ears, hoping to shot out the bloodcurdling sound of war that he knew so well.

When he finally reached the end of his fall, Tsubaki found himself in darkness, surrounded by wilted xeranthemums. The decayed bodies of a man and a woman hung from two hangman nooses. Their final expressions of horror brought qualmish tremors to Tsubaki’s knees. He covered his mouth as throw up ascended his esophagus.

The cries of a baby echoed throughout the darkness, and tears of regret flooded Tsubaki’s eyes. He sat in the dead flowers, curling up into a ball and rocking back and forth.

“Stand up...” said a voice. Tsubaki looked to see Eleanor shining like an angel. Her eyes were sullen and dispassionate. Her mouth was left unshaped by a smile. Only disdain remained with her and surrounded her cryptic existence like the thick fog of a baleful forest.

Tsubaki struggled to stand up as she commanded. Eleanor began to turn away from him.

“Please, don’t leave me!” cried Tsubaki desperate.

“And why should I stay with you?” replied Eleanor. “After all, it’s all because you were born that they suffered.”

“No...” quivered Tsubaki.

“Yes,” retorted Eleanor. “Because you were born, those you loved suffered. Innocent people died. You can’t even find out who killed me and bring him to justice without failing.”

The once shining sight of Eleanor became bloodied with wounds, with crimson liquid oozing from her.

“And because you are alive, I died...”

“No, please!!” beseeched Tsubaki. He threw himself at Eleanor’s feet.

“If only you had never been born...” chanted a voice. Other voices repeated.

“If only you had never been born...”

The chant became louder, swarming around Tsubaki like wasps. A dark red liquid began to rise like flood waters. Tsubaki sank in the rising crimson. Into his mouth and nostrils came the red and he choked upon it.

He couldn’t swim away, for heavy chains began to wrap itself tightly around his legs. The weights dragged him from the surface of the liquid and into it.

With his remaining strength, he screamed and cried, but no one could save him.

Nothing could save him.

“You’ve been quiet, Eva,” said Cyril.

Cyril and Evangelique had decided to go shopping together, so they could pick up ingredients for that evening’s dinner.

Cordelia had proposed that Eva could make Fytara Soup, a delicacy in Aleilyo. While Eva did like the idea, she worried she would fail at making the meal for everyone.

“I’m sorry about that...” replied Eva silently.

“Are you nervous about making dinner?” asked Cyril.

“Uhh, well...I guess I am a little,” responded Eva. Though she was worried about her cooking skills, she was more occupied with the thoughts of an entirely different subject.

“Just a little huh...” mused Cyril. “So what is it that is bothering you a lot?”

He glanced at Eva. He was calm yet concerned.

Eva looked away from him. Ever since the day before, when she talked with Tsubaki, she had felt a horrible sadness in the pit of her stomach. Though he was composed, for the most part, it was blatant to Eva that Tsubaki was in pain. His pain seemed to be deep within him, rooted in his heart like an ancient tree.

Yes, he as a person was much more like a dead leaf--at any moment, he could fall away and turn into dust.

“So, is it a boy?” asked Cyril playfully.

“N-No, that’s not it at all!!” exclaimed Eva, red-faced. Cyril laughed.

“Relax, I’m just joking with you,” said Cyril assuringly. “Though, if you are thinking about that soldier you keep seeing, then I’m all ears.”

“How did you-”

“Headmaster Rowan told me that you met a soldier who lives here. Every day that you aren’t too busy, you go to see him, right?”

“Yes...that’s right.”

“I assume you’ve been doing that for outreach purposes?”

Eva became silent by the question. Tsubaki was her partner in Lieutenanthood, so they had to meet to discuss their duties. But Evangelique always wished to see Tsubaki for more than that reason.

She believed she had to help Tsubaki somehow. She knew how wearying sorrow was upon the soul and wished him not to be in such despond.

“Brother Cyril..” began Eva. “How do you protect someone?

Cyril’s eyes widened slightly. His expression showed he was sympathetic and dismayed.

“You should ask August that,” he replied. He was as quiet as a child with a lost voice. “After all, he’s been protective all his life.”

“What do you mean..?” asked Eva.

Cyril sighed shakily.

“Well, you know about the Troubadours, right?” asked Cyril.

“You mean the knights who practice the fine arts such as music and poetry?” questioned Eva.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Cyril’s shoulders slumped down.

“When I was younger, I decided to become one,” began Cyril. He pushed away a few strands of hair, stroking a patch of light skin in the process. “Because I have vitiligo, people viewed me as different, since the culture at the time was not as accepting of differences,” he stated. “No one saw me as the same, so they treated me as such.”

He raised his left hand. It was unbent, with his pinky and ring finger attached to one another.

“People gave me issues about the deformity in my hand too, but I didn’t listen. I pushed on, and though it was difficult, I reached my goal. The day I was knighted was the best day of my life. I wanted to tell everyone about it, especially Augustine, but when I did, he freaked out. He became so worried that he nearly got sick, and he--”

Cyril breathed out, hoping to compose himself.

“Ever since the day he was born, Augustine has had to fight for everything-- his freedom, his words, his choices,” said Cyril, who lifted his right hand to his face. “And when we had nowhere to live, he fought for strength to see another day. He’s been selfless since the day I met him. He believes the greatest blessing he’s ever received is being able to meet everyone and grow close to them.”

Cyril looked directly into Evangelique’s eyes with a pain he was attempting to deny.

“He’s lost everything before, so it’s his wish that his makeshift family stays away from all danger. He’s more of a protector than I am, which is why I say he knows more about this topic.”

Evangelique felt her hands shake at the sound of Cyril’s words. The sincerity of his sentences cut at her.

More than ever now, the secret Eva held made her feel guilty. She looked down and closed her eyes as she tried to push down her self-reproach.

‘I know I made the right choice, I know I made the right choice...’ thought Eva.

“You are right,” spoke the voice of a woman.

Eva’s eyes shot open.

A short, elderly woman stood in the midst of darkness. She shone like a flickering flame in the night and wore graceful, iridescent robes.

“Please, I know you can hear me,” called the elderly woman. “He needs to smile again.”

Diamond tears began to leak from her face.

“Please, find him...” she wept. In her hands, she held a pale camellia tightly by the stem.

Evangelique gasped. As she did, the scenery became just as it was before, with Cyril beside near her.

“Hey!!” called Cyril. He put his hands on her shoulders as if to stabilize her. “H-Huh...?” answered Eva.

“Your eyes went black for a moment there....” replied Cyril.

“Black...?” breathed Eva.

“Yeah.”

Eva lifted her hands to her beating chest. What just happened to her?

Who was that woman?

She remembered the camellia the luminous woman held.

“I’m sorry, Cyril...” she whispered. She looked into his eyes with a steady boldness.

“But I’m afraid I have something I need to do.”