I’m back home for the first time since before the thing with Städal, in part because my parents aren’t back yet. I’d drawn a magic circle around the house to protect it from robbers while it stands vacant for months, but I find it concerning that there’s still no end in sight to this situation.
My parents are currently abroad in the Land of the Sea for reasons that are much too involved to get into now. The only people who know about it other than me are the king, Alois Rockmann, and a scant few others. As far as the public knows, my mother was appointed ambassador to those lands for her distinguished work as an archaeologist.
It’s not the most believable story, if you ask me, but people seem to buy it. Apparently my mother has made that big of a name for herself. I’ve no idea.
To be honest, all this talk of my mother’s achievements has always gone in one ear and out the other for me. She’s always avoided saying much about herself. At this point I’m tempted to give her a good talking-to. Granted, back then I was focused on my studies and didn’t have much attention to spare for her.
We only had to concoct such a cockamamie alibi in the first place because Rockmann cast a spell on almost everyone in the world, overwriting their memories to conceal my descent from the Sea King on my mother’s side of the family. To be fair, that’s the only reason I can live a normal life at all.
We few accomplices are the only ones who know the true reason the people of the sea came to our aid. Everyone else was told they came to help save topside because of their “old ties with the Kingdom of Seleina.” In the same vein, officially my ancient-class ice magic is a gift from the heavens, and not something I inherited from my mother (deus ex machina, much?).
It’s as if our encounter with Prince Maiteiah practically never happened.
Sometimes my thoughts drift back to Rockmann’s proud face the moment he cast that spell, and the technical genius of it all floors me. There’s a lot of things I feel towards him, but there’s no denying my frustration. I don’t like how I end up a loser or generally inferior in everything. And besides, can you even say I won at love, or did I lose there too...?
Okay, I’d rather not go there. What does it matter when you fell in love? As my mother would say, the important thing is not how you met or what made you fall in love, but rather the path you have walked together, what you did after you fell in love—things like that.
“Come on, though, you’re gonna make me cry if you don’t come home soon...” I grumble.
Gazing at the moon outside the window by the kitchen table in my parents’ currently vacant home, I grab a bottle of my father’s treasured alcohol and open it. I’ll just help myself. As the cork pops free, I spread out a set of letters on the table, intending to sort them. These piled up in my room at Harré’s dorm.
Before my eyes are envelopes of many colors: red, white, purple, brown. It’s always exciting to receive a letter, no matter how old you get. Unfortunately, though, one or two of them are tax related, and it’s a bother to open those. I do have savings, but there’s not much point in them if the two people that money is meant for aren’t coming back.
I don’t know how they would’ve felt about it, but I wanted to spend it on their wedding. They told me they never really had much of one because of financial troubles in their youth, so I wanted to, well, not exactly repay them for the love they gave me every day, but rather see their moment of glory with my own eyes—to give my blessings full of gratitude as their child while they stand surrounded by flowers in that popular wedding venue here in Doran.
And yet, they’re not coming back at all. So here I am, brooding like this. I wonder what they’re up to right now, in the Land of the Sea.
“Ah...”
As I work through the letters, one with a familiar name in familiar handwriting catches my eye. It’s from Maris.
How has life been treating you, my dear? I have recently been spending my days engaging in physical activities. This fat I discovered on my waistline is such a bother. If you happen to know of any helpful exercise, please do share it with me. It is so difficult to search for a groom, you see. Oho-ho! Why, I am most definitely not saying it is a certain someone’s fault things have come to this. And though I am not asking for advice, there is a gentleman courting me lately... And what unsettles me is that he looks rather similar to him. They are related by blood too... I am rejecting his advances, for he is much too young for me. And the aforementioned similarity is another concern of mine. What do you think I should do?
The letter ends there. “Gentleman courting me lately”? “Looks rather similar to him”? “Related by blood”? “Much too young”?
By “him,” Maris could be referring either to Rockmann or to Prince Zenon. And she’s dealing with that man’s blood relative, perhaps a brother, who is younger than her. But considering the words “much too young,” this can’t be about Prince Zenon’s brothers—the crown prince and the second prince—as the youngest in their family is the princess. Rockmann and the prince are related by blood, but if that similarity in looks is so troubling for Maris, then I’m guessing said gentleman has a face like Rockmann’s. Who could it be?
You have an eye for men whose distinction complements your own, so I think whoever you decide on will be a good match for you. I don’t know... And I am most definitely not aiming this at a certain someone, but I’ll do my best not to lose, I write on the stationery I’ve taken out of a drawer.
Whatever advice I might give wouldn’t hold against Maris’s own wishes. At the end of the day, this is completely her decision. Plus, we’re still rivals in love, so I’m not about to go around being particularly tactful with her. We’re both as serious as can be about this, and that’s all there is to it.
“Alright, next one...” Continuing to sort the letters, I freeze up for a moment as my eyes land on a light-blue envelope.
I grab it and check the name of the sender, then open it and unfold the letter inside while trying to steady my rising heartbeat.
No doubt you’ve opened this letter long after it reached you. I’m right, aren’t I? Don’t worry, I’ll let that bit of negligence of yours slide.
“What...?”
After reading the first lines, I recheck the envelope. It’s postmarked ten days ago from “Alois Hades Fodeuri Rockmann.” Imagine how long it would be if he’d bothered to include “Arnold.”
Recently I’ve been exchanging letters not only with Maris and my other friends, but with Rockmann as well, for some reason. He started it by sending me a letter two months ago, inviting me to eat with him. It was much easier to accept the invitation then, unlike every other time, when he would make his invitations across the counter in Harré, prompting vicious ribbing from everyone around me. My reply was met with another letter, however—one in which he rattled off details of his daily life. He ended every letter on a question; I wound up replying just so I wouldn’t leave him hanging, and then I would get another letter from him a week later.
Eventually I started ending my letters on questions too. Not out of stubbornness, but because I felt that running away from him wasn’t like me. I still feel that way.
We’ve exchanged a fair few letters already. It was only recently, however, that I realized we are, in fact, exchanging letters on a regular basis. What a frightening man. As I stare daggers at the light-blue envelope, I ponder how many women he’s led by the nose through such means.
His words of “letting it slide” grate on my nerves, but since this is hardly the first time we’ve exchanged deliberate insults, I let it slide as well and read on.
I know I should be saying this kind of thing in person instead, but give it some thought if you have time. Would you like to go somewhere together in the second month of distant skies?
My hand loses its grip, and the letter falls to the floor. It takes me a few seconds to pick it up again in a fluster.
This is so sudden I might die if I go, so let’s not, I write back.
A few days later I get a reply from him, saying, Don’t you go dying on me now.