Archive of Our Own

 

“And what we students of history always learn is that the human being is a very complicated contraption and that they are not good or bad but are good and bad and the good comes out of the bad and the bad out of the good, and the devil take the hindmost.” 

 

― Robert Penn Warren, All the King's Men

Jung Yeseo could still remember the initial shock that came with opening his eyes to an entirely different environment: a large bed and a large room, nothing that seemed to correspond to the comfortable single room that he had to himself in his family's shared apartment. From a small body to even smaller hands, it was only after inwardly calming himself down that he gathered enough wits to numbly rationalize his circumstances.

Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he was hallucinating. But after a while had passed he had no other choice but to chalk it all up to the well-known fictional phenomenon known as “transmigration”. Unfortunately for Yeseo, however, nothing about his current situation seemed all that familiar, thus he hadn't a single clue on which world or piece of media he had found himself transported into.

Thankfully enough, though, he's been introduced by both his highschool friends and family to a good variety of webnovels and webcomics to know a general outline of what he should and shouldn't do. And the first?

Hug the most powerful person's thigh.

In lieu of trying to figure out the plot of whatever possible story he had been dropped into, Yeseo instead made sure to examine his surroundings and evaluate his circumstances before making any move to help facilitate his survival. Sure, he was disoriented and scared more than half of the time, but in general, he felt eerily calm—perhaps the shock had yet to fully settle in, he wasn't that certain—and though the first initial days had him stuck in bed, he gathered enough information from passing servants (and one fretting old nanny) to know that:

One.

His name was ‘Werner Sneijder’.

Two.

He was the only younger master to the ducal Sneijder household—10 years old, instead of the 16 he should have been.

Three.

He had recently just woken up after hitting his head following an unfortunate accidental tumble down the stairs.

And finally—

Four.

He had an older sister named Wilhelmina, and upon first meeting her, he had a feeling that she didn't like him at all.

It was incredibly staggering. Not once has it ever occurred to Yeseo that one could hate their siblings.

He himself had a hyung whom he adored since he could remember, and a younger baby sister whom they both cared for tremendously. Not once had a genuine feeling of hatred or disgust festered within him when he thought of his siblings, but standing there in the body of a child still unknown to him, scrutinized beneath the icy stare of sharp yellow eyes, he realized for the first time ever, perhaps, that it was possible to hate someone despite sharing the same blood.

A chill ran down his spine.

His heart thrummed rabbit-quick.

I should avoid her.

She was his body's older sister—the next heir to the duchy they belonged to, he later gathered. If the future head of the family didn't like him, then what would that make of his stability in this world if she one day decided to have him thrown out without any means of survival in this odd, foreign world? It crossed his mind to stay clear of her, to pretend as if he didn't exist to not bother her with his presence so that he could hopefully remain in this large castle like a silent ghost. One wrong move or one wrong breath, and he felt that he would be in danger.

Yeseo was truly at a loss as to how he was supposed to live from today onward. That instinctual fear and hesitance and uncertainty towards an unpredictable high force was natural.

(And yet, so was the longing for even a hint of warmth.)

A fleeting touch, a hand to hold—anything to remind him of his dependable hyung whose existence might as well have been nothing but a distant dream.

But Wilhelmina's hand was cold.

She couldn't have been any different from Jung Hyunseo and his warm gentle palms that had guided him through his first steps, and yet in spite of everything he knew, that cold icy touch was the first thing he had ever known of her, dazed and groggy on the bed he had first awoken in, bringing him to clarity like a fresh winter breeze.

(Perhaps he was foolish for this, but that single feeling was all he needed, truly.)

Even if she hated ‘Werner Sneijder’—hated him—Yeseo couldn't help but think of that cold hand that still, despite everything, took his into hers when she thought he was unaware, holding him with a grip so light it was barely as if she were there at all, but heavy enough to grasp his attention. 

He didn't know what Werner Sneijder did to make his sister abhor him so much. He heard the hushed whispers of the uneasy staff, skittering around him whenever they were in the same room or passing by in the hallways. It had taken him well over a few weeks to convince them that he truly wasn't up to anything sketchy, and the implications of their hesitance didn't speak any good of his predecessor's behaviour. Even his nanny was an old woman who nearly looked worse for wear whenever he even slightly looked her way, but over time she loosened her tense shoulders and resumed her duties, faithfully escorting him around like a dutiful shadow.

It was a bit uncomfortable, but he learnt to live with it. He had to learn how to live with a bunch of discomforts, actually; from his new age to his new face, the reflection of the mirror kept presenting him with a face that was so different from his own, but it was pretty enough for Yeseo to merely treat it as one would an actor on TV.

And wasn't that essentially what he was—an actor?

Like the main characters that he knew of in the few RoFan webtoons he had read, he pursued that sliver of leeway that Wilhelmina allowed him, pestering her during her work hours and asking to eat with her. It was a foolish plan, and he was even more foolish for believing such a silly tactic done by desperate heroines; if it was up to him, he'd remain cooped up in a room all day, but the anxiety of not knowing how his fate would turn out without his input was enough to drive him out of his typical comfort zones. He had to find a good balance, naturally, of just enough weight of presence so as to not disturb her to the point of annoyance, all while making sure to acclimate her to the increasingly permanent position that he was determined to take on in her life. Wilhelmina was barely a woman herself (to his shock, he learnt that people were officially considered adults at 16 in this world), still a child whose heart could be swayed by the cute, persisting antics of an even younger kid.

Yeseo would say he did a good enough job. He was an experienced younger brother—and to his further surprise, it seemed that Hyunseo and Wilhelmina both shared the same age of 19, and that realization made him draw the two together even more intently.

If Hyunseo was able to love him, then surely Wilhelmina could find it in herself to like him, too, even if just the tiniest bit.

And eventually, after so much hard work, wary hesitance soon made way for expecting familiarity: two sets of plates and utensils at the dinner table instead of one, an additional chair added to the side of a desk, a small pile of books at the corner of the table that Wilhelmina would never read but Yeseo actively indulged in... Small little details that spoke of an additional presence in her everyday life that hinted at permanence.

Wilhelmina was different from Jung Yeseo's siblings in every way, but in their absence, he couldn't help but crave for hers. On the birthday they shared—unbeknownst to everyone but Yeseo himself—he imagined blowing candles off his own cake alongside his other siblings whenever Wilhelmina gave into his insistence to play into the whims that she found ‘ridiculous’. Despite this begrudging concession, he still found that she didn't truly mind such silly little behaviours; him barging into her study to present her with cakes she wasn't even that big of a fan of—even though she looked much more familiar and at ease whenever it came to organizing balls with other notable families and noble relations for the sake of convention.

Wilhelmina glowed under the weight of public attention like a trueborn politician and socialite.

Yeseo had seen the way she discussed business affairs and sweet-talked notable figures. He's seen her in the courtyard, occasionally training with their swordmaster knights before overseeing the training of the paladins under their care—a general who was not a proper soldier herself, but one who commanded a crowd as if she were born doing it nonetheless. A loud booming voice that addressed the holy knight apprentices, a voice that just as easily softened to an appropriate tone when speaking to the passing vassals, who approved of her demeanour and intelligence, no doubt confident in her abilities for whenever her father passed his mantle. There was a glint in her eyes that shone through despite the humble facade she presented herself with, drawing attention like a magnet through sheer charm and charisma, brimming with silent ambition that had yet to fully grow.

He wondered what would happen when she finally donned the ring of their father, passed down from one head to the next—the plans that she had but never outwardly put forward, not when it still wasn't her time.

Wilhelmina Sneijder was almost like a completely different person, in times like those.

But in their private moments together, she was the older sister who was still unsure of how to treat him—the noonim who had a chair placed by her desk instead of telling him outright that he would always be welcome; who quizzed him on what his tutors were currently teaching him and hummed passively instead of praising him when he did good; who tested him relentlessly about his worldly knowledge as if making sure his amnesia didn't render him stupid instead of simply bringing up casual conversation like a normal person to fill up the silence between them.

(“Do you— hate me?”

An immediate response, as quick and pretty as a lie.

“I do not.”)

Wilhelmina Sneijder did not like her brother.

That much was obvious.

She didn't naturally enjoy the presence of others if it wasn't in a public social context that benefitted her in some way, and she had a ruthlessness that was somewhat intimidating, befitting of someone who had grown up in wealth and privilege. Meanwhile, Yeseo was merely an imposter who had taken her trueborn little brother's place—someone who was so different from her, in almost every way.

Yeseo wondered if there was a part of Wilhelmina that missed the boy that he had replaced. He wondered if she would hate him all over again if she found out that he was a completely different person.

But one day Yeseo looked up from the dinner table and saw a small quirk in her lips, a familiar embroidered handkerchief by her side, and he marvelled at the revelation that someone who should, by all means, despise him, had grown to like him—even if just a little bit, like carefully stitched threads matted onto a fine, blank fabric.

The servants have begun passing around murmurs of good dreams and well-slept nights, and the holy knights that commuted from the soldiers’ dormitories seemed to use the estate's training grounds and appeared to even be growing more energetic by the day.

At first, Yeseo had merely chalked it up to casual talk between the staff, but nowadays it was clearly becoming a rather recurring topic to the point where even he couldn't ignore it. It was odd, however, that everyone seemed to be getting pleasant dreams while his own remained unbearably unaffected.

In fact, more often than not, Yeseo startled himself awake with an incurable sense of loss—dreams of a family he once belonged to slowly becoming blurry with faces and voices he feared forgetting. He didn’t think sixteen (now seventeen) was a young age but he felt even younger after being shoved into the physical body of a kid six years younger, and somehow it was like every emotion in him was heightened and particularly more sensitive, a flickering candle flame that could easily be ousted. It was in a sense of desperation that he began searching through the extensive Sneijder library on the topic of Dreams, hoping to somehow erase the sense of mourning that came with dreams that weren't so much pleasant as they were heartwrenching.

Eventually, he discovered a book on Ether, and his research began to spiral from there.

Divine formulas illustrated neatly between pieces of paper, each one with a different function. It was fascinating to learn about, as Yeseo had come from a world without magic, but it didn't go any further than some basics. Before long, Yeseo had taken up a lot of his free time between his meetings with his tutors to memorize the more simple patterns, absorbing all this new information in a way that reminded him of his school days, and the familiarity of it all felt like a blanket of comfort mixed with his genuine curiosity on the matter.

Sometimes, he hadn't even realized it was hours after midnight until the maids had come frantically searching for him.

(He felt bad whenever that happened, but sometimes it was much better than the pain of being asleep.)

It didn't take long before he decided to try one of the sanctum patterns out—eyes flowing wide in fascination upon realizing how easy it came to him to heal a small bird whose wing had somehow sprained.

So absorbed in his success and revelation that he hadn't even noticed his sister watching him from a distance. Wilhelmina happened to cross that scene with wide, trembling eyes, somehow looking as if she had just stormed out running from inside the castle, wordlessly meeting his wide-eyed gaze—but the next day she hadn't said much, only that an additional tutor had been invited to the estate to teach him some proper clerical studies to replace his independent self-study.

Yeseo learnt soon enough the more elaborate reason behind everyone's good dreams and the paladins’ sudden increase in energy. And though no answer was given to how he may be able to benefit from this himself, the additional studies were a pleasant enough distraction for the meanwhile.

But sometimes, the dreams were too much to handle—a flood of grief and homesickness jolting him awake with tears, so strong the fragile vase that was his soul could no longer bear it.

On those nights, Wilhelmina was usually still up working in her study, candles softly wavering as they lit up her papers.

She didn't say much about his quiet distress whenever he showed up and nor did she ever kick him out. And when he settled onto the couch and curled into himself against the soft cushion, lulled to sleep by the scratching of her quill that reminded him of an eomma and hyung that much enjoyed writing, he would always wake up warm—a fleece blanket thrown over his shoulders rather carelessly, but still managing to cover him in his entirety.

“—Werner, what are you doing? Where is your cleric instructor?”

Jolting, the sanctum beneath Werner's feet flickered before finally dissipating, flecks of golden ether dispersing throughout the air. The paladins around him frantically scrambled back to their own feet, postures straightening rigidly as they greeted Wilhelmina's sudden arrival on the training grounds, stepping far away from the boy when they previously had no issue crowding into his space.

“S, Sister!” Werner greeted, somewhat flustered by her unexpected presence but appeared mostly sheepish at being found out. “Ah— Instructor-nim ended up fainting, so I was just helping the holy knights in his stead...”

A flicker of something dark and disapproving flashed through her once she caught eye of the useless priest instructor collapsed under the shade. The irritating old man looked like he had been carefully placed there, with a cloak folded beneath his head in mimicry of a pillow, no doubt at the behest of her tender-hearted brother.

Before her arrival, she had been able to feel the warmth of her foolish brother's ether permeating the air from a distance, the golden light visible even from afar. What she didn't expect, however, was to find the boy surrounded by nearly a dozen of the younger holy knight apprentices that should have—(according to the schedules she had overlooked and carefully organized for to senior knight to deliver amongst themselves to the appropriate squadrons)—been training, rather than disturbing the youngest master of the household that was sponsoring them.

“Come here,” she ordered, and though Werner visibly wilted, he did not protest, dragging his feet as he muttered the soldiers some quiet goodbyes and encouragements. Without waiting for him, she was already making her way back towards the castle, and once he had finally caught up to her side and they were out of the freakish field of hearing that was distinct to holy knights, Wilhelmina released a sigh.

“That was dangerous. Do not give out ether to so many paladins at once.” She clicked her tongue, brushing her brother's messy hair to make him look the least bit more presentable. “They are greedy creatures, especially when they are young and eager, fresh out of the academy yet to have learnt restraint. They will suck you dry without hesitation if they could, and had you not been the youngest master of this estate, I do not doubt that they would have—look at what they did to your foolish instructor.”

“They aren't like that,” Werner protested weakly, and his confidence in the discipline of those beasts made her scoff. “He... The instructor was just trying to show me what could happen when your ether runs out, and the soldiers were only following his will so that he could demonstrate.”

He was lying—and what a poor lie it was.

Wilhelmina allowed him that, but she wasn't daft; Werner had never been a particularly good liar, especially when it was to her face, right where she could see all his nervous fidgeting and guilty shuffling. Perhaps she should stop hiring low-grade priests with a tendency to develop an unbecoming inferiority complex towards young children with natural advantages. Hilariously enough, you’d think that they’d become reverent in the face of her brother’s blessed hair, but it seemed some people were just naturally born foolish.

But it was no matter. Wilhelmina had switched all of the boy's old tutors in the past following his recovery from the incident, the ones that were too strict for someone who used to be so stupid, so it wouldn't be the first time she'd have to throw a dog their severance pay. The Sneijder’s treasury wouldn’t dent even if she had to go through this process a thousand times over, but it was still annoying that there were people on this earth who couldn't do their job right.

It was difficult, however, getting high-quality clerical instructors. Wilhelmina couldn't imagine harbouring one of the Roosegaarde Family's trained little priests wandering her estate, renunciated nationality or not. It wouldn't be enough that they had to largest hold on religious power in the country, but knowing them, they might just steal away her naïve brother with their pretty words and take him from right under her nose if given the chance.

She couldn't risk Werner meeting with anyone affiliated with that family that paraded as devout to God yet daringly proclaimed the Royal Family as Her bloodline, further condemning the kingdom's fate for a hundred years. With how their influence still managed to permeate the ‘impartial’ Vatican, even sending him there would be risky. They'd try to frame the boy's abilities as being a reflection of their own loving instruction and divine agenda but the Lord was her rightful witness; it was none other than Wilhelmina who pushed him down the stairs and had him reborn, a blank-slate, pure and anew.

No, Werner had to stay here—far, far away from the deceiving gardens of Roosegaarde. He was not one of their little flowers, nor was he the portable battery of some no-name undeserving holy knight of the Vatican.

This was the best and only place for him to be.

“Werner, holy knights will yearn for the ether of a priest until the day they die,” she started. “It is in their nature, a curse from the Lord Herself. High-quality priests are even being trafficked illegally as we speak due to their insatiable innate gluttony—had it not been for laws, most would not care for honour and duty.”

“But people aren't..." he chewed on his lip, as if struggling with his words. "It's a mutual relationship, isn't it? Priests supply them with ether, and the holy knights protect them in turn.”

“Do you truly think so? Holy knights cannot survive without priests, but priests can go a lifetime without a holy knight. Such unfair stakes often lead to unfortunate turns of events.”

Her brother's mouth wavered with the stubborn desire to respond—no doubt in defence of his faith in the humanity of such carnally-driven beings—but even he, with all his naive capacity for belief and forgiveness, couldn't deny the hard truth of things. Wilhelmina had long made sure to inform him extensively of the priest trafficking schemes that occurred in the deserts of the Neutral Zone, where poor victims were usually treated by the holy knights who bought them as nothing more than a means to quench their own divine thirst, uncaring if their demands were excessive or abusive with not a single concern for the priest’s well-being. Sometimes, there were even multiple holy knights using the same priest—they vastly outnumbered them, after all, which naturally meant that some paladins either had to go without their own private partner or find someone to share amongst themselves.

“Then...” Werner murmured, his long lashes pitifully downcast. “If you think they are so dangerous, why do you allow them to train here?”

“It is the duty of our duchy to provide the kingdom with holy knights at the behest of the Royal Family and the Vatican. Our private army is even tasked with carrying out clearances against demonic beasts in the other regions—without us, who else could protect this country? The Lord?” The question was so absurd it made her quietly scoff. Smart as her brother was with all his tomes and novels, it seemed he still had much to learn. “Though the quality of breed may not be desirable… it can be easily rectified with appropriate training to make up for their faults.”

It was well-known that—while the Roosegaardes provided the majority of the high-grade priests in the kingdom—the Sneijders produced a large percentage of the holy knights, and Wilhelmina was determined to take that number even further in the future, perhaps dig their roots even deeper into the Vatican in all its cracks of devotion. Her father was busy with rectifying territory affairs still affected by the war, and so this duty easily fell to her when he was away, and she wouldn’t be a Sneijder if she didn't take to the task as seriously as she did. There was no room for pointless discrimination of rank for what she desired, and it wasn't as though she could pluck the awakened noble children from their own homes—but peasants?

They, who could not even officially be recognized as Cardinals by the Vatican no matter how strong they were, could at the very least carry the prestige of being a part of the Sneijder ranks or sent to the Vatican where they would be denaturalized; if they were more fortunate, they could even enter the Royal army. Most peasants did not even survive the awakening process, but if they managed to get help from the Duchy in time, then their chances of survival could increase significantly. They'd even have the opportunity to undergo specialized training, gaining the opportunity to live a more noble life than simply becoming desperate mercenaries without any proper backing or support.

“Even a wild horse can become a royal steed.”

It was a privilege and honour to serve and train under the Sneijder banner.

Everyone knew this.

(And if they didn't, they soon all would.)

“Anything can be domesticated with time and effort, Werner, but if you plan on indulging them then the rewards should at least be given far in between, lest they start thinking they could be allowed leeway to your coddling whenever they please. For now, the priests in charge of the garrison are very well capable enough of dealing with their thirst, so you need not lower yourself to their level—we've hired help for a reason.”

From the look on his face, Wilhelmina knew that her brother wanted to say more, but was keeping quiet in favour of acting docile.

Aware of this, she sighed, more gently this time, pausing in her steps to face him properly.

“Such things are above you, remember that. Understood?”

“...... Okay, noonim.”

Satisfied enough by his quiet, acquiescing tone, she nodded.

Wilhelmina, frankly, couldn't understand him. Werner's ether was precious and bountiful, a rank higher than what any of the common holy knights in the garrison could ever deserve. He would be better off keeping it hidden than carelessly allowing it to seep into every inch of the estate, where any common passerby could catch a whiff of it. She wouldn't even be surprised if some brute were to sniff him out one day only to snatch him from right under her watch, attracted by his divinity and angel-like face.

... Hah.

The bridge of her nose curled with a faint sneer.

Her little brother, pursued after by some lowborn paladin beast.

Over her dead body.

Tucked away in one of his drawers was a clumsily sketched family portrait: a mother with dark hair and a father with brown, and two siblings who took after their mother while a third resembled their father.

Yeseo (Werner, he distantly reminded himself, but could not ever fully bring himself to commit to) vividly remembered the first time Wilhelmina had seen it. Her sharp yellow eyes had impassively passed over the coloured doodles on the paper, and though at the time he had yet to start drawing the likeliness of his older brother, her gaze had lingered on the two biggest figures present. She didn't seem to think much of it at first glance, and aside from his startle, he had also felt embarrassment. Drawing was not his forte, after all, but he was determined to immortalize the memory of his family in any way that he could, no matter how bad it looked.

Without revealing much of her thoughts, she had ignored his flustered stuttering and wordlessly beckoned him to follow her, making him questionably scramble up to tread after her. After a short walk in silence through the massive corridors of the Sneijder estate, they eventually ended up in a hall of paintings and sculptures and other regal pieces of artwork, standing before a large portrait of two figures where a man with brown hair stood beside a sitting woman with dark locks—a smiling pair, reserved yet affectionate as they looked towards the painter.

In no way was he a stranger to these people. He had met the Duke during the rare times the man came home to check in on his children, and in the grand foyer, an even larger portrait was done of the whole family. And though Yeseo didn't often have a reason to linger by the plateau at the top of the grand staircase, he remembered enough of how his body's mother looked, from the gentle wrinkles around her sharp eyes to the softness of her aristocratic gaze.

But the piece before him was the first he'd ever seen of it.

It was a couple's portrait of the Duke and Duchess two decades younger, that much was evident, and the other frames displayed in the hall consisted of other portraits and busts of individuals that shared the same noble—and often rather cold—air as the ducal couple. Some artworks even depicted notable achievements or events; some were even covered by a dark veil, concealing whatever subject was captured inside like a hastily kept secret. It was all so obviously an ancestral hall of sorts to commemorate and celebrate the history and lineage of the Sneijder bloodline, but before Werner could question why Wilhelmina had brought him there in the first place, he was struck with the off-guard realization that Jung Yeseo's own parents reassembled Werner Sneijder’s to some degree, if only just by the hair colour.

He couldn't help but wonder if his new sister had mistakenly believed Werner to be missing his deceased mother and work-absent father, but Yeseo couldn't find it in himself to correct whatever assumption she had made. He would be foolish to even think of trying to explain who it was that he had been drawing, and so clumsily, at that, in the first place. It was only through his lack of skill that his doodles were vague enough to be misinterpreted in such a way, but for a brief moment, Yeseo was consumed with a sad envy knowing that he might never be able to capture the likeness of his family—not in the same way master portraitists had done with the paintings covering the walls of the entire dynastic hall.

“I shall call over a drawing master from the Artists Guild...”

As if having read the anguish in his eyes, Wilhelmina spoke up with her low voice, gaze still fitted onto the wall before her.

“... if that is what you wish.”

Stunned, he hadn't even registered the way his head whipped in her direction until he found himself looking up at her. As always, Wilhelmina seemed to offer everything he even vaguely held interest in in a way that would smother it tenfold; from a crudely sewn handkerchief to a whole new embroidery teacher; from a single book to entire shelves on the library; a mere cake to a table of dessert assortment—any passing comment or interest to a sudden reality. It occurred to him that Wilhelmina had always been like this—scarce with outward and obvious affection yet outrageously quick to throw money like water.

Yeseo had never been lacking in anything for this life, and yet what he yearned for most, from the very depths of his soul and heart, was something that not even her family's vast wealth could procure, perhaps not in decades or in this entire lifetime.

It was truly miserable to think about, so Yeseo decided to no longer consider the thought, lest he be brought to tears.

“... Thank you,” he murmured, feet shuffling quietly against the elaborate marble floor. His hands that were unable to reach the loving touches of the people he longed for, itched with the desire to grasp onto them in any way that he could, be it on crumpled blank paper or in the wisps of charcoal dust. His voice sounded oddly thick in his small throat, warbled and heavy with gratitude towards his sister who would never know the full extent of what this simple offer meant for him. But Wilhelmina was smart, always so smart, and so he was sure that even if part of his thanks would forever be obscured to her, she would know that this had meant for him the world.

In silence, they both stood in front of that portrait for a long, long time.

There was a divan in the room, at the centre of the hall that contained portraits of the entire family lineage, but it didn't cross their minds to frequent it, content enough to stand before the large, looming portrait. Continuing to scan the room, Yeseo was even able to spot some members with lilac or ivory hair—a recessive hereditary gene, it seemed, seeing as Werner's parents did not have it and yet he did. Wilhelmina naturally took after her father with her brown hair and yellow eyes, but her facial features found a lot of similarities with the former Duchess if only sharper, which had roots in the more stern angles from earlier predecessors.

Yeseo wondered if Wilhelmina missed her mother, even with proof of her existence immortalized within the halls of the castle.

He hesitated to ask how she died, not wanting to pry or risk opening up any old wounds, but he lacked words to say anyway, unsure if he was supposed to speak or if he was meant to remain quiet in such a vast hall. Perhaps Wilhelmina would attribute his lack of response towards a portrait of his parents to his ‘amnesia’, though with that thought he felt regretful. He probably wouldn't ever know how Wilhelmina felt when her mother died, or when Yeseo hadn't been Werner. He would never be able to fully give her the words she might have wanted to hear in such a quiet, solemn moment.

Nevertheless, he carefully took her hand in his, and cold as it was, she had faintly squeezed back just barely enough to be felt, and for a second he could be convinced that there was some warmth in that, nestled between her actions.

And that was enough.

Yeseo hoped that he could be enough.

And so, months continued to pass and soon he turned twelve while Wilhelmina became Duchess at twenty-one, and they eventually found themselves standing once again in front of that very same portrait.

The second figure in that painting had now also died.

Like a dutiful brother, Werner continued to hold her hand even then.

The Duke had always been away from the duchy trying to repair the damages left on the territory from the war, and on one of his rare trips back home, his carriage had encountered an accident—the Curse of the Saintess, they say, but no one could say they were truly surprised. Odd phenomenons often occurred in the Statia Plains, and it seemed that Duke Sneijder's attempts at an investigation had finally come around to bite him when he least expected it. It was by some miracle that they were able to find the carriage he had ridden, alongside his body within it. Yeseo didn't want to imagine what could have happened to that kind, well-meaning man and his escorts in their final moments, but he hoped it hadn't been painful—Wilhelmina hadn't told him any further details, and he never pried.

“You are crying again,” his sister's voice came suddenly from beside him. In the silence of the gallery, it sounded rather loud.

And indeed, Werner was—but not for the reason Wilhelmina likely believed.

“I'm sorry,” he responded with a quivering, warbled voice, a strong yet odd sense of grief and sadness enveloping him. Even at the funeral, he had cried—snotty and uncontrollable with stuttered hiccups that escaped him no matter how hard he tried to prevent them. Funnily enough, he had thought the day before that he wouldn't be that affected, but in hindsight, he should have anticipated it. Though Yeseo didn't have a true bond with the man, he was still a father who truly loved ‘Werner Sneijder’, even after a stranger had stolen his son's place, and it had been with a dizzying realization that the brown hair of the Duke's lowered figure in the casket had reminded him all too much of Jung Yeseo's own father; one was buried, the other, cremated.

For hours Yeseo carried a grief heavier than that reserved for a single person. The gravity of the harsh reality hit him, all at once, that the passing of time meant for him equal months and years away from his first (true) family, and the funeral had him burying the loss of several other nonexistent people alongside Duke Sneijder in his grave. Each tear he spilled was for the father of his bodily shell whose love he was unable to fully embrace. Each tear was for the family in another world who he had lost and who he was unsure if he could ever even return to.

He held onto Wilhelmina like how he once held onto Hyunseo: half-clinging, half-reassuring, collapsed and stubborn at the same time in his efforts to send over his own gesture of comfort and yet her hand was cold while his hyung's had been warm, but at that moment it felt all the same and thus hit him twice as hard.

“What is there to be sorry about,” Wilhelmina spoke, still staring up at the portrait of her parents. “Crying over your deceased father—who else should do it but you.”

Unlike him, Wilhelmina hadn't shed a single tear. Not even at the funeral, surrounded by extended family members and vassals and business relations; nor as they stood in front of the portrait that had captured her parents alive and young and well. She perhaps looked a little more pensive, than anything, but even then it was complicated and glacier and sharp, steeled acceptance and eyes narrowed with calculative growing plans. She had just become Duchess, after all, at the young age of twenty-one, and though she hadn't made it official yet, Yeseo wasn't blind to the increasing number of papers on her desk that were more than just household affairs and management checklists. Even before this tragedy, she had already gained the trust and approval of everyone in the estate, praises and sighs of relief knowing that the position would be safe in the hands of such a capable heir.

“Are you okay?” he asked through his sniffles, softly squeezing her hand.

Wilhelmina's scoff was nothing more than a slight puff of air.

“What a silly question.”

Her answer was quick as if she found his question ridiculous enough to brush it off without reprieve, but Yeseo had spent a few years in this world already, observing her and all her habits, and it was with more confidence than none that he could admit to knowing her decently well at certain times. So for a second after her rapid deflection he swore she sounded stunned that he would think to ask her such a thing, when between the two of them, he was the one clearly affected. It was with newfound clarity that it crossed his mind; this was the second funeral Wilhelmina would have ever attended alongside ‘Werner Sneijder’ in her life.

Yeseo wondered if the original Werner had comforted his sister.

He wondered if they held hands to ground themselves together while becoming each other's only rock and hill, tight squeezes sent through their palms as silent signs of reassurement during a funerary ceremony they couldn't converse amidst. He wondered if Wilhelmina had been averse to that boy yet still spared the effort to offer words of comfort despite the unease that came with it.

(Yeseo wondered, briefly, if Werner, as well, had disliked Wilhelmina just as much as she had disliked him, and the realization that this sentiment very well could have gone both ways rendered him quiet.)

There was so much that Yeseo didn't know about the Sneijder siblings’ early relationship. No one dared to speak to him about it anyway; it almost felt a little unfair to the two siblings that they were never given the opportunity to mend whatever it was between them before Yeseo came and overtook what wasn't his, but in reality there was little Yeseo could do.

Wilhelmina had forbidden everyone from speaking of the past and became irritably evasive whenever he pried, in a way that was so seamless it was only a few hours later that Yeseo would realize she had distracted him away from the topic in the first place. The newer staff didn't know anything at all of the ‘him’ before the fall, either, and his nanny had merely said he was excitable and rowdy, but retired to the countryside back to her family before he could grow curious enough to pry harder.

“... Okay,” Yeseo huffed, a puff of air only slightly tinged with petulance, but mostly with conceding understanding.

Sometimes, it was also just as hard trying to read Wilhelmina despite how, at other times, it was surprisingly simple.

Stepping closer beside her, he tentatively leaned into her space, careful not to step on her clothes. The skirt of her dress was large and dark, perhaps a style a bit too mature for her age but still modest in a way that complimented her without appearing too drab for the occasion.

She looked nice in it.

Yeseo knew that it was one of her mother's old gowns.

Commenting that he looked unsightly, Wilhelmina passed him her handkerchief to wipe the tears from his face, and he laughed upon realizing it was the very one he had gifted her some few years ago with a decorative purpose. In that moment, however, it felt like he was slated to be wiping tears for two, and so he bit down any childish complaints and allowed himself to hold onto the silly purple embroidery on that silly little handkerchief, and promised to have it washed and returned to her before dusk.

Implied in those words meant that he would be visiting her study later again, but if she caught onto it or not (and Yeseo was certain that his smart noonim had) Wilhelmina made no move to speak against it. The chair she had arranged at the side of her desk was now a permanent fixture to the room, after all, and Yeseo didn't have to be told he was welcome or not to take her up on that ever-unspoken invitation.

“I will be here for you.”

The maids had gently told him earlier that they were preparing some oliebollen and that they could make any other dessert he wanted, should he ask. Yeseo felt no particular craving, however, what with his recent vast depletion of energy, and would be content with whatever pastries the kitchens ended up making. He'd be sure to bring some up for Wilhelmina later, alongside the tea flavouring that she preferred.

“... So... So it'll be okay.”

He murmured words that had once been spoken to him in another world, his head lightly leaning against her arm. Just like her, Jung Yeseo had also been to a funeral once, and Yeseo decided that he would be there for her like how Hyunseo had been there for him, and they for their own baby sister. If Wilhelmina didn't want to shed tears or even have any to spare, that was fine—she didn't need to.

Yeseo had enough grief in him to mourn for the both of them.

“Noonim won't have to go through this alone.”

Because Yeseo knew plenty of how it felt to be alone, he wouldn't wish that experience upon her even if she had hated his existence down to his very core. If she had despised him, detested him in his entirety, and scorned his every breath, Yeseo, even then, still would have wished for her to have someone by her side if only to spare her the void of solitude.

He thought of Hyunseo, who shared the same age as Wilhelmina. He thought of his older brother who had supported him through their father's funeral, who had to fill the absence of their mother when she was in and out of hospitals before eventually getting admitted. He thought about how Hyunseo was steady like the roots of an oak tree, but without the love of his little siblings by his side and the loving family around him, not even a sapling could have sprouted so grandly as he did in the first place.

“...... Go wash up,” Wilhelmina said a short while later, responding naught to his earnest promise. Yeseo's stomach had just growled and despite it being rather faint, it rebounded clearly in the silence of the gallery hall. “Tell the servants to prepare the table.”

Swaying hesitantly on his feet, his body was already half-angled towards the door from the promises of food. “Will you...”

“I will join shortly,” Wilhelmina assured, and Yeseo nodded slowly, astute enough to catch on to her desire to be alone for a bit.

Yeseo's eyes lingered on Wilhelmina's figure before heading off to notify the nearest maid that lunch would be held a bit early today, his silhouette soon disappearing behind the door.

His noble sister had looked disarming small despite her grand presence, standing amidst such a vast hall, overlooked by such a large painting.

Faces of her ancestors from the past thousand years surrounded her from every corner to every wall, regal and refined in the masterful brush strokes they were immortalized in, and there wasn't a doubt that she would probably have to commission her own grand portrait for herself once she officially became Duchess. For now, all she had were small canvases commissioned for her by her parents to document her liking at different stages of life. The last portrait she ever had of herself was requested by her mother for her coming-of-age, and the biggest one was the family portrait at the top of the staircases in the grand foyer—outdated by several years, but infinitely more precious than the ducal pair's marriage portrait of them in their younger years, testimony of their love for their family, no matter how different their children were.

... To this day, they were still very different.

Before the funeral, Wilhelmina received a visit from the family's representative executor of her father's assets and will, and in her hands finally landed a small key. She held off officially naming herself Duchess to not appear too hasty in the wake of her father's death, but everyone knew that she practically already was anyway, and she wasted no time in allowing herself access to vaults and secrets that only the heads of the family were privy to.

And oh, were the secrets plenty.

Leaked documents.

Pope Irene Sneijder.

Rebellion against God.

Standing before her parent's portrait, her hand quivered faintly over her pale face, fingers dipping over her eyes with the palm obscuring the ugly crumpled curve spreading across her lips. Her breath was hitching—she couldn't remember the last time she cried, truthfully, but stifled laughter such as this seemed to come to her awfully easily.

The corset that dutifully would have served as impeccable posture support at this moment couldn't have prevented her from hunching over, shoulders shaking with such a flurry of emotion even she couldn't begin to describe. Her brain felt like frying and yet it was alit with revelation that had been plaguing her for days since the executor had paid visit with her father's will. The man had always vaguely told her bits and pieces of their family history, and her own tutors had done their jobs efficiently according to his will and whatever they were able to know upon her demands. But to think her father had been keeping such secrets that he did not even act upon was almost sacrilegious to Wilhelmina.

She should inform her brother of this.

How would that child react to such information?

She could recall the day a few years back when she quizzed him on the continent's history before dipping into the messy affairs of the Venetiaan Royal Family. She remembered how—though he knew plenty of the public, published knowledge—the boy knew not of the fact that Julite Statia was the late Iron-Blooded Puppeteer's illegitimate child, manipulated for the sake of Queen Liliane's selfish ambitions; as well as how he reacted to the blasphemous concept of deification that she, at the time, had mostly spoken about in jest. She knew that the power-hungry queen two generations in the past had strived to become a God—before this, Wilhelmina had never truly known the steps of how, and now that knowledge has found itself in the very palms of her hands.

No, it would be better off not telling that soft child—that boy who had just been rid of the evil plague that inhabited him since birth.

Werner, whose predecessor she had killed.

Werner, who awakened with ether so pure it brought pleasant dreams to such a foul household.

With a deep breath, Wilhelmina straightened, eyes closed as she tempted to regain her wits. Her parents’ young, smiling faces would surely contort had they been privy to the thoughts in her head, but alas, their softness was exactly what had been keeping this household from reaching its full potential in the first place. Her mother's fragile heart had been her demise when presented with the mangled body of her cat, and her father's desire to be a kind and considerate lord was what led to his eventual downfall in the infamous Statia Plains, dying on the night of a New Moon outside of the realm of the Lord's gaze.

Soft-hearted people did not survive long, and after seeing the examples of the people around her, Wilhelmina could not afford to suffer the same fate.

It was her act of violence that awakened Werner in the end.

A little more violence would not hurt.

It was all according to the will of God— the will of Sneijder, she laughed, if not a little mirthlessly. Her mother had named her with the thought that she would be the leader of multitudes, never backing down from a noble cause.

The woman had only never anticipated which one it would be.

Her soft brother who was so much like his parents may find fault with her for this in the future, but one day he would surely understand.

The symbol of the Almighty God in the portrait gleamed upon where it nestled comfortably by her mother's collarbones, and the very necklace she had inherited rested beneath the high collar of her clothes, the cool metal burning her skin.

Everything Wilhelmina did and would do was for the name that was now hers.

(Water dripping from his hair, Werner had come back to fetch her—his small hand, pale and smooth, wrapping around hers to drag them both to the dining hall, the warmth lingering in her palm even long after he had let go.)

An old woman was sitting with her in her carriage.

Wilhelmina had previously been looking out the window, observing the passing fields and valleys that gradually made way to the buildings of cities. At some point she had fallen asleep, closing her eyes for a mere rest, but in the next moment, it was as if she had been awake all this time, blinking back to consciousness with an additional presence sitting before her on the opposite seat.

It crossed her mind to be startled that some peasant dressed in drab clothing and a dirty cloak had somehow managed to sneak her way into her carriage, but Wilhelmina was oddly calm in the face of such an overbearing, heavy presence, large and watchful like the night sky. The woman felt familiar, but unquestionably foreign. Young but old, small but large, sick yet healthy. Sometimes her vision flickered and the woman became three, but from one breath to the next, she only appeared as one.

Who are you? Wilhelmina had asked.

The crone did not answer. A sickle was in her bony hand and the crescent blade loomed over Wilhelmina, the sharpest point of the curve right near her forehead but not once did it lower to fully cut her, even with all the swaying of the carriage. Wilhelmina waited for a long, long while, but even then, no response ever came—nothing but the watchful, heavy gaze of eyes that were as milky as the moon, observing her every step, unblinking as it bore deep into her soul.

The vision remained with her even when she was back at the estate castle, the old crone long gone, where Werner was waiting for her in her study.

His head of purple hair was bobbing periodically as if resisting the urge to fall asleep, but ultimately being incapable of resisting. He hadn't even heard Wilhelmina enter—a box in hand, an assortment of pastries from one of the bakeries that she had passed on her ride home, the old woman watching as she stepped out, only to return with a carefully packaged box on her lap as the crone stared, stared, stared. Her moon-like eyes were filled with derision—what felt like pity, looking at the expensive little carton box bought with blood money.

The smell definitely roused the boy's attention, however, nose twitching minutely in recognition before his brown eyes blinked awake to find hers, greeting her promptly with a sunny smile like an instinctual habit.

“What's the occasion?” he asked curiously, once a maid had come in with a kettle of tea and poured them both a cup. He slid her handkerchief across the table to rightfully return it, carefully folded and clean, the embroidery with the first letter of her name right on the very top.

Wilhelmina didn't answer. Still dressed in her outerwear and travel coat, she had only taken off her gloves, revealing bare hands. After reading the letters left behind by her father, she had gone out to settle some matters that he hadn't yet finished solving with some of the distant vassals. She didn't know how to tell him that she just felt the urge to—inexplicable and urgent, even when she hated sweets and he knew it too. So many revelations were bearing down on her mind, but sitting with her brother in her office like this, for some reason, always made the air a little easier to breathe.

Watching him cut each pastry in two, she allowed him to give her half of each, with the rest for his own, and they sat together eating in silence, only occasionally chatting about so and so books he had read and so and so little anecdotes from her ducal work.

She had never been one for sweetness, but Werner was content, and when he grinned up at her it almost felt as if what she was about to do would all be worth it.

He didn't have to know anything. The sugar would mask all the bad things out.

In Wilhelmina's greenhouse, she was tending to a small, growing bed of silver flowers.

They were pretty little things, with a conch-like bud and white spores, rare and typically found deep in the mountains, but having read through her father's study that was now hers to fully inherit, she had come across a book hidden on one of the top shelves that allowed her to cultivate them privately. Lightly brushing off the traces of pollen from her gloves, she hummed.

Gardening was dirty work, but everyone had their hobbies.

Maybe her maankrans would need more fertilizer soon, and after how tedious it was to bring these flowers to the estate, figuring out how to grow some more was an even trickier dilemma.

And it was irritating, but it seemed that ever since her brother's awakening, more and more people began kindling as holy knights. It was only a minuscule increase, at first, but eventually it became a much more noticeable change.

Either they were mercenaries who decided to pursue what they thought to be a more honourable path, or orphans who had crawled their way up to the estate gates, asking if they could enrol into the military academy they were sponsoring. Both were cases that would have had a scarce difficult time finding a priest partner to quench their innate desires and divine thirst, and so it was never surprising whenever a holy knight under the radar came crawling to the promises the Duchy offered.

Naturally, the reason why such promises were made in the first place, was for precisely such people to easily come running to them.

Wilhelmina knew not where the rats came from nor did she care, but she had an inkling that—if it hadn't to do with the recruitment posters plastered onto nearly every message board—then it had something to do with the way her brother was constantly sneaking out into town, going back and forth between the temple and their estate and consequently drawing in flies, spreading his ether like a large, fresh blanketed web, wisps and traces of his grace lingering subconsciously wherever he went.

It seemed that she'd have to have a talk with the boy's newest instructor soon. It was irresponsible to allow this behaviour to go on any longer when danger could sweep in at any moment.

Still, Wilhelmina accepted the mercenaries and sent them to the knights' barracks to be initiated by senior paladins, and had the orphans with big enough potential enrolled to the academy on a special bursary. She provided them with food and money and clothing and lodging—watching the tearful gratitude on their faces with a warm, taciturn smile. Sometimes they would even spit out additional sob stories about their family backgrounds without her prompting, either about siblings who had long passed away on the streets, or an incapacitated relative whose medicine they could not afford.

When Werner heard of those stories, often lingerirng by the door with curiosity he could not help, Wilhelmina allowed him to intervene.

He was still learning about advanced healing circles, and while he could not remedy any illnesses, he could easily tend to wounds that were more or less fatal. In those cases, the flies that came flocking their estate began staring at him with wide eyes, no different from reverence when offered with the boy's generous aid.

And if they weren't already grateful to the Sneijders for providing them with new opportunities, the sight of Werner's divine eyes did—enrapturing them even further into the net than his sweet voice and pretty little face. The idea of being able to serve such a person further enticed Wilhelmina’s deal to them, and she didn’t doubt that a seed of hope that they would one day get to taste his pure ether for themselves had been planted deep within them.

It was concerning, knowing that the child's ether was drawing in so many people despite him being largely unaware of this. But there was a benefit to it, and Wilhelmina was nothing if not opportunistic.

Wilhelmina was not a holy knight, nor was she a priest or a mage or a swordmaster.

She was completely, plainly, incorrigibly human.

Privileged she was for a mere human, however. There she was, Duchess at the age of twenty-one, abundantly wealthy with an ever-growing influence and a whole army of holy knights at her disposal yet still not enough.

The bed of maankrans flowers she had been privately cultivating was an ongoing research and pet project, and the number of potent holy knights that passed through their territory was a tempting sight, dangling before Wilhelmina’s eyes, but she was a normal human. Though she had some experience with a sword from when she was younger, nothing could compare to the strengths of holy knights. She had yet to begin hiring mages to do the more in-depth research in her stead, as well, but Wilhelmina had yet to find people she could trust with the task. It didn't help that this country looked down upon them, with mana being scorned thanks to its shared manifestation in demonic beasts—a stark contrast to the worship of ether and divine power—to the point where any practising mage had to flee underground should they desire to even practise their craft.

“—What is this?” Werner marvelled, looking at the odd, golden-stemmed flower she had currently brought into the newest greenhouse.

“Zonnekrans,” she answered, carefully watching him so that he wouldn't disturb the plant. Thankfully, he was a smart child and as such only respectfully observed the flower from an appropriate, respectful distance. “Though, it is also more commonly known as the Sun Halo herb.”

“Is it a new discovery?” he pondered curiously. “Maybe it slipped my mind, but I don't think I remember seeing this in any of our florilegiums.”

“Naturally.” Having long anticipated this, Wilhelmina had already ensured that no compendium in the family library held mention of these flowers. Though her brother couldn't necessarily be called an intellectual genius (outside of his incredulously strong affinity towards divine power in which he clearly excelled), his memory still had a tendency to be rather sharp and his vast consumption of books as his primary source of entertainment—though harmless—was something that she now had to be considerate of. “But no, these are not new discoveries. Both the Sun and Moon Halos are rare flowers that typically bloom deep in the mountains. It was difficult trying to cultivate them here, but I've managed.”

“Ah... That would explain why mages keep coming and going.”

The hand examining one of the petals of the flowers stilled, but Werner took no notice.

... It was times like these where Wilhelmina truly felt like he was her brother for him to have so easily noticed those discreet operations. A beat of her heart skipped momentarily, almost like a slap to the wrist, but the tone of the boy's voice was casual and light. He had no strong opinion on mages, it seemed—perhaps he didn't even think it was possible to have negative views on them in the first place—and it was only at this slip of a moment did Wilhelmina appreciate her brother's naive open-mindedness.

The irony did not escape her. An ordained bishop-grade priest of the Lord who thought positively of mages in a kingdom that disapproved of them... If only the conservative old beliefs of this country could be as pliable as his. Had there been more people like Werner in this kingdom… perhaps it wouldn't have ended up the way it was.

Wilhelmina decided to indulge him.

“... The Moon Halo herbs are blooming without any trouble.”

He was already here anyway, having curiously trudged after her and embraced the destination when she hadn't rebuked him for it, and it was better to feed him information she handpicked herself to quickly douse out any further curiosity. It was much preferable to the possibility of her inadvertently avoiding his questions which would no doubt lead to him conducting his own independent research behind her back—no, better to have him believe she merely had an odd passion for botany that didn't merit any further investigation.

“The zonnes, however, unfortunately, have a habit of withering despite our numerous efforts to properly cultivate it.”

She studied the boy tentatively, wondering how much further she could take this.

“Though, we recently have a reason to believe that a steady supply of ether might help nurture it.”

“Really?” Perking up considerably, his eyes shone with verdant curiosity. “Then, can I help?”

A gentle curl was brought to Wilhelmina's lips.

“If you wish so.”

Werner brightened up at her permission, looking almost excited for whatever reason about what he only knew to be a mere gardening project. Without any further prompting, he opened a sanctum, the pure gold of his ether a rather perfect match to the one of the zonnekrans, unlike the imperfect quality of the other priests she had brought in that couldn't even compare.

“I think that's good enough… Should I stop by and supply them with ether every day?”

The golden spores of the zonnekrans gently fluttered about, the buds almost seeming to incline themselves in Werner's direction like imitations of sunflowers grasping towards what trace of light they could get from a moon. Greedy little things, she inwardly scoffed, no different, it seemed, from those holy knights that eyed her brother's prospects like vultures.

“Yes,” Wilhelmina smiled warmly, brushing the top of the boy's head. “That would be perfect.”

Wilhelmina's hands were stained with krans pollen, thick and dusty.

Sometimes she swore she could see the pigments tinging her skin no matter how hard she washed them—over the months, it only got worse.

More flowers began to grow and soon, when there was no more room in the greenhouses, Wilhelmina set the roots and soil loose for an underground supply into trusted, hired hands, though she’d have to expand and move her supply to be cultivated elsewhere soon. Thankfully, the Sneijder Duchy resided in the Southern part of the country like many other noble families, and was located in the area of an inland basin surrounded by plains, where agriculture was more potent thanks to the erosion of numerous sedimentary rock types that allowed for highly fertile soil and farmland in the valleys. It would be hard to find a plot of land that wasn't already under some Lord or Lady's jurisdiction, but the Duchy was rightfully huge, even with all its salt marshes, rivers, and lakes.

Wilhelmina was resourceful. She would figure it out.

Moon Halo ran for a lot due to its narcotic properties and ability to serve as a powerful painkiller or etheric placebo—useful for holy knights who did not have a priest partner. Now that she knew the secret to its growth, she could easily profit from an herb that otherwise was rare and difficult to find. It was an almost laughably easy way to make money.

Eventually, more and more hands got dirty.

Spreading down the Underground through the ‘Devil's Claw’, starting all the way from the outskirts to its capital.

The roots fed plenty, digging deep into Jericho, stained coins filling hidden pockets.

Sometimes, when it was deep into the night and early into the morning, Wilhelmina would see the old crone appear in her office again, the sickle hanging over her head like a crescent metal moon, following her every move.

(Wilhelmina ignored it, blinking the illusion away. Her work could not afford fabricated distractions.)

Sun Halo could be drunk as a tea with varying effects depending on the individual and was relatively harmless. It was a well-known cure for nephropathy but the fact that procuring the flower was so difficult meant that the price could not be matched by the common folk. It didn't have any other properties that were notably desirable from the research conducted so far, either, and otherwise it would have been relatively unremarkable if it weren't for the reason behind its existence being particularly morbid.

The truth was Wilhelmina's alone to bear.

Werner never needed to know what lay beneath the soils of their gardens, feeding the small plot in the greenhouse with his ether as if merely taking care of a common, harmless pretty flower.

Wilhelmina didn't mind the dirt and pollen.

Her brother's palms were better off clean.

“—Sister! Sister Willa!!”

Werner's voice echoed throughout the hall, making itself heard even all the way to Wilhelmina's office. Halting her discussion with some of the help, she quickly dismissed the mages and had them teleport back to resume their research on their own until she was made available again.

“Noonim!” Werner's wide grin seemed to brighten the room as he entered, and the sight of such a pure, unfiltered expression made Wilhelmina's throat oddly tight. “The Sun Halo tea worked! It really worked! The baby at the temple with nephropathy no longer feels as much pain, and one of the kids has also finally woken up—!”

Contrary to the professional and steady exchanges that she would have with the mages, conversation with Werner was lightning-quick and ever-passionate, especially when he was particularly excited. A lot of what he said slipped from one ear out of the other, but she got the general gist of things, and allowed the boy to continue rambling as she reorganized the papers from her previous meeting on her desk, mentally scolding herself upon realizing she left something important out. After subtly hiding it in her palm, only then did she look up once he seemed to finally be calming down.

“—oh, it was all so exciting. They had been at a loss of what to do for so long, they were almost thinking of giving up! I didn't know you were taking care of such expensive medicine; to think that we can so easily grow them on our own now…!”

“I am glad to know the zonnekrans tea helped,” Wilhelmina hummed, before almost startling at the sight of the beaming, giddy smile on her brother's face once she met it, all positive emotions and softened warmth.

“It's so wonderful, thank you so much, noonim…” Werner's smile was gentle and beaming, his face sunny and bright and so very tender. “The boy that woke up, you know, he had an older sibling that loved him dearly… You've really helped so many people with this.”

—Helped?

Forced out of her thoughts, it was with stunned perplexion that Wilhelmina received her brother's hug, leaping to her side of the desk to squeeze her with his skinny arms. He was warm with excitement and exhilaration and relief, and the feeling itched her skin, present even as he left the room with traces of joy left in his every step, a small bouquet of carefully wrapped white lilies left on her desk over the documents of her prior engagement—a token of gratitude, apparently, from the tearful older sibling whose younger brother had finally awoken from his deep sleep.

Moments passed and the sensation continued to linger.

She felt warm.

She felt odd.

She wanted to claw the skin off from where he had touched her—childlike innocence and simple gratitude for something she had barely contributed to in charitable earnest, chafing her like a horrible burn even through the fabric of her clothes. She felt dirty—filthy. Her robes were suddenly too tight and the fine fabric too rough. Her mother's silver necklace was beginning to burn, the thin chain choking her neck despite it being hooped loose.

The mage she had previously dismissed with haste had initially been there to convey the lab's hopeful next step—the harvesting of tainted mana and all the circumstances and possibilities of how they could go around it. In fact, Wilhelmina was going to throw in her own suggestion before Werner had burst in, something she had been pondering the semantics over for a long while, but…

(The crone was back, a wisp lingering behind her but ever-present, the crescent blade hanging over her desk and pressing down on her like a heavy, invisible weight.)

In Wilhelmina's hand was proof of that research and observation manifested—the very thing she had quickly hid just earlier from Werner's sight—a defiling, vile, thick purple substance contained in a small reinforced container.

The white lilies on her desk were brighter than the pages of her parchment, and they hurt her eyes the longer she stared at them, blooming in her vision even when merely sitting in her peripheral. Her nose was itching and yet she couldn't sneeze no matter how much it stinged, burning the back of her throat in a way she couldn't scratch even if she wanted to. In an effort to rid herself of such an unpleasant, repulsive reaction, she hastily pushed the flowers off her desk in hopes that the pollen would no longer reach her, a thundering in her head that was incessantly pulsing at her temples, pounding and pounding like fracassing thunder.

Falling to the ground with a dull twack, they left behind a pitiful scattered smear of petals over the documents in their wake,

And Wilhelmina got back to work.

“I heard they have begun calling you ‘Saint’ over at the temple.”

She brought up the latest wind of gossip she had heard to her brother over supper one day, after he returned from his usual sejour into town. And though he flushed a bright, mortified red and began to protest the title, she found it fitting.

Her own nickname was starting to take flame with members of the nobles’ faction, as well, but ‘Saint of Sneijder’ sounded rather more appealing.

It suited her brother, what with his purple hair and bountiful purity of his ether; the way his warm brown eyes seemed flecked with gold when the sun hit them just right. If there was anyone in the world that could be worthy of such a title, it would be this child who continued to show his face at the temple and mingle with the peasants, when priests that were even a fraction of his calibre were much more elusive due to the prestigious nature of their high rankings and positions, barely even casting a single glance to those not worth their time.

Even since he appeared with a carriage full of previously high-priced and difficult-to-obtain Sun Halo tea caddies and distributed them to be handed out for free in the temples, his popularity had only grown from there.

Werner watched with curiosity as she unhooked something from behind her neck, looping it over her head and from under her clothes before handing it over to him. He stared at her closed palm for a short moment, before wordlessly reaching out with his own to receive it. So trusting, that boy was, not even hesitating to wonder if she might be handing over a nasty bug or a trap, though they had never been such mischievous siblings anyway.

When it finally fell in his hand, he noticed only then that it was a silver necklace with the symbol of the Lord hanging as a pendant, an intricately shaped downward arrow welded in metal.

“Keep it,” Wilhelmina plainly said.

She didn’t tell him it had been Mother's, but from the flicker of complicated emotion that fitted through his brown eyes, she knew he had already realized it. Still, Werner had grown up nicely, and thus obediently knew not to question her on this when it was obvious she wouldn't be giving him any further explanation. As such, he dutifully passed the simple necklace over his head as he had been told to do, the small pendant resting over his chest with a faint clink as the metal jostled together.

Wilhelmina's own collar was finally bare, where the weight of the cool, burning metal no longer stung her skin, allowing her to breathe.

Mother's foolish faith was misplaced with her. Such sentiments were much better off with a soft-hearted boy.

She could finally be free of them.

Months flew by rather quickly—the passage of time marking itself through the cycling of seasons and the increasing growth of Werner's hair.

It had always been kept short, Wilhelmina mused, wordlessly brushing through her younger brother's growing fringe. Now approaching his tailbone, his purple locks were a far cry from the simple short simple cut they once were, to the point where you could hardly recognize the foul child that he used to be, immortalized in old family portraits that one could only wonder how he even sat still enough for.

Sitting before her in front of the mirror, Wilhelmina observed her little brother quietly reading through one of the tomes his tutors had no doubt assigned him. He paid her no heed as she brushed his hair, long used to the act by now that he has merely accepted this as part of their routine, occasionally taken from the capable maids dedicated to the task.

She remembered the first time Werner had asked her if he could get a haircut—his purple fringe having grown long enough to brush over his eyes unless he swept them to the side. But after a quick pang of thought, Wilhelmina mentioned that he would look nice with long hair, and Werner had hummed and said it could be tried out. In the present time, Wilhelmina was glad he had agreed without much of a hitch, ever so obedient.

Recalling the whispered assumptions and quiet praises being thrown her way during parties, commending Wilhelmina for the awakening of her younger brother as a cleric, the young Duchess preened at all the positive attention being shed onto their household. Werner took to his newfound education from the local priests with surprising ease, as well—though Wilhelmina had it in mind to search for a more prestigious cleric to come and teach the only son of Sneijder, so until she got only the best of instructors summoned to the duchy, mere priests would have to do for now.

"The colour of your hair has grown darker."

Werner looked up from his book, meeting her eye in the mirror with a surprised tilt. "Has it?"

"When you were younger, your hair was lilac," she explained, running her fingers through the well-cared-for strands. "Lighter, paler than it is now, close to ivory."

"I've heard that some children's hair go from blonde to brown upon reaching puberty. Did you know that—” Without needing any additional prompting, Werner immediately launched into whatever obscure knowledge it was that he had learnt from his books. It was a familiar trend, one that Wilhelmina had long grown used to. “—and this is because of the changing hormone levels in the body! Maybe this means that I'm starting to—"

He has always been much of a bookworm (ever since that fateful day), fulfilled by knowledge and the procuring of it, and Wilhelmina couldn't fully prevent the nurturing of that little seed of curiosity within him even if she truly tried. His pursuit of wisdom did little harm to anyone most of the time, and he seemed to rather enjoy it, having read so much during the first few months after he initially awoke from his coma that he had sometimes neglected to sleep until he grew out of the habit.

Vaguely amusing thoughts of her younger brother nose-deep into a dusty old book were quickly sapped out of her, however, when the child turned his head to shoot her his ever-silly grin over his shoulder.

"Maybe in a few years I'll be as much of a brunet as you are, noonim."

"Ridiculous," Wilhelmina scoffed at once, setting the hairbrush aside as she ignored her brother's lighthearted chuckles.

Ever since his tumble down the stairs those few years ago, his light purple hair had slowly begun growing into a more vivid shade of amethyst, encompassing all of the Lord's grace and favour in a deeper bloom of colour. It was such a smooth gradation that was almost unnoticeable, but people with keener eyes have remarked it nonetheless, the priests more than ever, what with the religious significance attributed to the colour.

Wilhelmina adored it.

The length of his hair was at a comfortable length, but when the time came for it, Wilhelmina would make sure to ask the maids to trim off the pale remnants of lilac that clung to the tips. For now, however, she would focus on having him grow his hair out. The colour was perfect, after all, and though she hadn't mentioned it to the boy yet, Wilhelmina was certain that if he hadn't figured it out for himself by now from his lessons, he would surely come to understand its divine significance in the future.

“Werner, how would you feel about learning from a cleric instructor of the Vatican?”

Meeting his brown eyes in the mirror, she watched him inquisitively quirk his head, but the idea did not seem to displease him.

“What brought this up?” he curiously asked. “The current tutors you have teaching me are not inadequate....”

Wilhelmina could have scoffed. “I am not daft enough to not have recognized that your abilities outshine theirs. Did you think I would allow you to pretend you are lesser for any longer than I already have?”

The silly boy had snuck out of the castle more times than she could count in order to pay a visit to the temple in the nearby city. Oftentimes it was under the pretences of wanting to practise whatever latest healing circle he had memorized, aiding the sick or injured in the poorer areas who could not afford proper healthcare. When Wilhelmina had heard of this happening the first time, she had faced his guilty expression upon his return home by telling the boy that he could have merely informed her of his intentions and she would have at least prepared him more qualified escorts and a more comfortable carriage for the trip.

One, preferably, with the family's insignia proudly displayed on the doors.

In the long run, that little change had contributed plenty.

“You are a Sneijder,” she told him, loosely braiding his hair in the way she knew he liked it. “Only the very best should be given to you.”

Time has allowed her to establish some influence herself, amongst the so-called impartial Vatican. It should be easier to find someone trustworthy enough to be in charge of her brother’s advanced education, now that she had personnel within their ranks.

Glancing at him back in the mirror, she smiled warmly, coaxing, though the corners were rigid, tinged with a firm reminder.

“Think about it. We'll be moving to our estate in the capital soon, as well. Knowing you, I believe you'd like to participate in the foot-washing ceremony conducted at the Pantheon—it would be good representation on our house's part if you did.”

“... The capital? We're going to the capital?” Though he looked surprised at the notion of leaving someplace outside the confines of the duchy, Werner’s brown eyes were alight with a sort of anticipation. “What for?”

“In a year, you will be sixteen,” she said in a pointed levelled tone, almost as if rebuking him for forgetting, but it wasn't so much as a scolding. “Your coming-of-age ceremony would be better held at the social capital, rather than here where the only other nobles your age are vassals or in distant territories.”

Without saying more he nodded pensively but easily relented, just as trusting of her judgement as he had been for the past few years. Werner didn't look as nervous as she expected, however, considering that for all his previous birthdays he had preferred small celebrations to the more elaborate balls that Wilhelmina organized for her own.

It was as they stood up from where they had been seated before the vanity mirror and she took a step back, that she noticed that the young boy who once was only able to cling near her dress skirts while holding her hand was now as tall as she was, already starting to surpass her in height, and he would undoubtedly only be shooting higher from there.

He had always been an awfully pretty child, and as they stood next to each other in the mirror—with Werner looking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of how his hair looked—she noted that he truly was starting to grow into a fine young man.

It wasn’t for nothing that she had postponed any visits to the royal capital. During the peak of social seasons, there were surely a number of affluent families travelling from their territories to remain in their secondary estates, if not to search for potential marriage matches then for the socialization that came with the numerous organized balls.

Wilhelmina was not worried about her brother's prospects.

From looks to intelligence to manners, he was practically perfect. Ever since he was young, even back when his personality was possessed by some changeling devil, the boy had a sweet face that could easily sway any soft-hearted adult into complying with his whims. Now, however, she could only imagine the power that her brother would hold if he one day woke up and remembered the advantages his looks and smooth tongue could provide him.

Dulcet voice that could soothe even the most stubborn, painfully kind demeanour that would endear even to ice, gold-flecked brown eyes framed through thick lashes… Anyone would have listened to his every request if he so much as pouted—Wilhelmina of all people would know, considering she had unintentionally, irritatingly, been a victim to the child's pleadings over the years. For some reason, he was always difficult to refuse, even when he wasn't that insistent or spoiled.

She wasn't blind, either, however, to the admiring looks sent by the apprentice holy knights that were no doubt hoping to become his partner, becoming no different than dogs that eagerly wagged their tails whenever Werner happened to come across them during their training segments. From there on would ensue an unbecoming sight of holy knights trying to one-up each other in attempts to prove their strengths and competencies.

(Perhaps she should extend the age at which paladins could graduate from the academy, if only so that they could be out of her hair for a bit longer.)

Unfortunately for them, however, Werner always took this demonstration as them merely being particularly energetic, before he went on his way after offering a plethora of admiring, encouraging, dense words.

Even more unfortunate: Wilhelmina would rather die than allow mere holy knights of such low rank and calibre to be partners with that foolish child. She was only glad that the boy wasn't so easily swayed by the flaunting natures of knights who thought themselves to be worth more than they actually were. She had been suspicious once, based on the silly novels he frequently read, that he would be easily swept up by even the smallest amount of flattering words, but she had yet to see him lovestruck and foolishly head-over-heels for the first person to offer him……

(Wilhelmina gritted her teeth. That child was very smart but exasperatedly dense in other affairs.)

The only issue she had with her brother was the matter of finding someone who could be worthy.

Someone whose hands weren't dirty—honourable with a code he would approve of; proud to stand beside. Such people were hard to come by, however, because this country was rotten to its very core and Wilhelmina had the fortune of seeing it at its very centre. At the very least, he could be rich and happy, never lacking anything he could desire, so long as he turned blind eyes or remained blissfully unaware, just like—

“Will you be inviting a lot of people?”

Wilhelmina blinked out of her thoughts.

... Ah, there it was. The familiar awkward shuffling of his feet that she had grown familiar with made itself present, and Wilhelmina huffed as she straightened the collar of his tunic. Werner did not appreciate wearing fur coats that often, so she instead made sure that the fabrics of his simple robes were made with the finest of fabrics and robes, laced with delicate embroidery—ones that were, of course, much better than anything the boy was able to do himself.

“Naturally.”

The House of Sneijder was finally returning to the capital after years of absence. It was only appropriate that their return be marked by a splendid ball to introduce her brother who would soon be of age—not too splendid, of course, to the point where it would all seem excessive and flaunting, but just enough to display their position of wealth, even in the most subtle ways.

“Return home before supper,” Wilhelmina bidded, handing her brother a deep blue cloak embroidered with fine patterns of lilies, clasped together with a silver brooch engraved with their family's emblem: a curling snake that somehow seemed docile when fitted onto the boy's clothes.

“When have I ever missed a meal, sister?” Werner laughed, lighthearted in the way that was respectively him. In his priestly white and gold attire he looked Saint-like—fitting for the duties he imposed upon himself at the city temple, as if the mere act of having ether meant it was only natural that he slummed it up with the poor and peasants. His little nickname continued to persist over the years, even when he avidly disapproved of it himself.

Wilhelmina has heard plenty of how the citizens of the duchy regard her younger brother. There were plenty of kind words to go around, and even more so once he made his social debut in the capital. It would be good to invite the Sargentini family, as they were the wealthiest noble household there at the current moment. It would also be beneficial to…

Werner's smile peeked out from behind the door.

“I'll be back soon!”

“... Yes.”

Wilhelmina sat in the room, pondering for quite a while.

The Sneijder Estate in the capital was naturally smaller than the castle in their ancestral territory, but in no way was the manor any less impressive.

From the moment Yeseo stepped off the carriage he had been greeted with the sheer height of the home and the lines of attendants greeting them within the foyer. Wilhelmina addressed the head maid and butler with ease, no doubt having sent notice ahead of time about their arrival, and from the way they greeted her and spoke of fond remembrance of a young girl they remembered from childhood, Yeseo wondered if they had any memories of Werner, as well.

“Oh, Young Master Werner, how you've grown,” the old maid said kindly, her frail but callused hand touching his cheek. “You were only a babe the last we've seen you...!”

With somewhat of a sheepish grin, Yeseo paid his own due respect. He was quick to gather from that greeting alone that Werner Sneijder had barely grown up in their capital estate. The realization made a bit of the tension in his shoulders loosen with the relief that came with knowing that none of the staff here would have any preconceived notions of who Werner had been before Yeseo arrived.

“How have the preparations been faring?” Wilhelmina said, passing over her cloak to one of the younger attendants who took it without lifting his eyes. Likewise, Wilhelmina hardly spared him a glance, either.

“No problems have arisen, Your Grace. We currently only have some small details and arrangements requiring your additional input.”

Wilhelmina's hum was enough of an indicator that she was satisfied. Turning to him, she placed her hand near his back and nudged him forward towards one of the other maids.

“Go wash up. Lunch is being prepared in the meanwhile and they have already heated the bath for you.”

Nodding, Yeseo turned towards the staircase, before his eyes flickered over the grand frame placed at the very top, feet faltering at the sight. Noticing his stalling, Wilhelmina was quick to turn to him once again with a questioning frown, before she caught on to what it was that he had seen up ahead.

“...... You look so young,” he murmured, almost dumbly in amazement. The oil-painted pigments that were carefully layered to capture Wilhelmina's face were delicate and detailed, so precise it was almost as if he had seen a stylistic modern photograph of his older sister when she was but a mere child. His noonim in kid form was sitting on her mother's lap, while her father sat by the chair, one hand affectionately placed over his wife's shoulder, no expense spared in the ornate detail that went into the finery of their clothes and the decoration of the background.

It was a family portrait, solely of three.

“It is an old painting,” Wilhelmina said, in a levelled and obvious explanatory tone. She didn’t seem to attribute any great importance to it, but Yeseo felt differently.

He continued to stare at the portrait for a short while while his sisters discussed with the servants frittering around, before he finally allowed his feet to move again to follow the maid assigned to escort him, climbing the staircase of the foyer one step at a time until he was finally standing on the flat plateau just before the large frame.

This was the happiest he had ever seen Wilhelmina—in a portrait where ‘Werner Sneijder’ hadn't yet existed.

Arriving at the Pantheon for the annual foot-washing ceremony, Yeseo was greeted with lines of dozens of individuals, from people living on the streets of the canals to children abandoned by their parents who were now being cared for at the temple, all gathered within the huge lobby of the temple.

He had been directed by supervising priests to clean the blood and pus off the wounded with linen clothes and basins of water, and though he had to get used to how things were run there, he eventually got the hang of it just like how he did back at the Sneijder Duchy's temple. After years of dealing with all sorts of different ailments, Yeseo would say he had grown rather resistant to the sight of open wounds, as well. Back in South Korea, he had initially wanted to go into law school after graduating high school, but thinking about it now, he perhaps would have done well in medicine had he had the opportunity to get over the queasiness that came with seeing and smelling blood.

“—You're doing well,” came a levelled tone, though Yeseo picked up on the hint of surprise approval that tinged it. Pausing as he had been wiping the blood from the cut an apprentice butcher had accidentally given himself during work, Yeseo looked to his side and noticed it was one of the fellow priests in the hall with him who had spoken up.

The brown-haired teen similarly on duty had just finished tending to a child and was now washing his hands in one of the basins to avoid any cross-contaminating for the next person in his line. He was around Yeseo's age and rather handsome, and though they were both kneeling near their basins on the ground, from the growing broadness of his shoulders and the length of his limbs, Yeseo could tell that he would be rather tall had he been standing up.

“I have been watching you the whole time and was expecting you to do rather poorly, considering the general sensibilities of noble young masters such as yourself.”

“.......”

The boy's tone was so frank that Yeseo was momentarily stunned speechless. There were so many implications to unpack in that sentence alone that he hadn't a clue on which one to address first, but in the end, he settled for a polite chuckle, so taken aback it was the only reaction he had left in him.

“...... Well, I do not fault you for thinking that,” Yeseo finally admitted, mostly at a loss of what else to say, switching his dirty towel for the one in the cleaner basin. In the distance, he could see a young volunteer priest from another noble household currently getting some air outside of the sick hall after the sight of excessive blood had made them fainthearted. By their side, their attendant was trying to help calm them down to the best of their ability, fanning some wind into their pale face. “I had been like that once, too. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel like quitting the first time, but in hindsight, it would have been unfair if I had been the one hurt and the priest helping me suddenly said they couldn't do it because the sight of my wound made them squeamish.”

Yeseo drew a healing circle beneath them and carefully stitched the apprentice butcher's wound with practised ease. He's heard so many reverent and shuddering gasps that it had become a habit for Yeseo to work with his eyes closed if he could help it. He's had enough embarrassing nicknames about him to last a lifetime.

“Of course, everyone has a different threshold for what they can handle. But even so, with more exposure and experience, the process becomes easier from there when you keep that in mind.”

“...... How noble,” the brown-haired priest blinked, almost owlishly. “Your ether, that is. It is rather fitting for someone with such purple hair.”

After closing the circle, Yeseo opened his eyes to shoot the teen a sheepish grin. “Ah… I get that a lot, thank you....”

“It is admirable that you are willing to put in this much effort and have lasted so far without a single hitch.” He tilted his head as he called over his next patient, immediately addressing the young girl's wound once she approached. “Will the young master be alright for longer? Do not hesitate to take breaks if need be, it is an oddly warm weather for April, after all. Faintings and lightheadedness are rather common during this period.”

“Thank you for your concern, I'll be sure to take a break once lunch arrives,” Yeseo smiled. “Ah, would you like to join me?”

“For the lunch… served by the temple?”

Yeseo hesitated at the sound of his tone. “Yes...? I was told the temple would be serving a meal at noon, unless I am mistaken….”

The young man considered him once more, almost pensively while he scanned him. He seemed to be wondering if he were somehow bluffing, before finally breaking into a rather delighted smile, appearing to have reached some sort of unknown acceptable conclusion. It was the type of grin, Yeseo remarked, that slid gracefully across one's face and prompted the faint squinting of the eyes, sly and impish like mysterious crescent moons.

“No, you're right,” he said, humming as he sent his patient on her way for the next. “It would be an honour to share a meal with such an esteemed person. I’m glad you approve of the temple’s catering; the others will be much pleased to know it has met your standards.”

By that point, the honorifics were starting to get to Yeseo. “In the Pantheon where we are both standing equal under the gaze of God to carry out Her will, I assume it wouldn't be any more or less proper if you were to drop the formalities.” Wiping the sweat near the lining of his fringe with the back of his arm, Yeseo grinned kindly at his fellow volunteer.

“We sweat together and work together, and later we will be eating the same food together. I'd consider us close enough to skip that all.”

Since he was here as aid no different from any commoner priest…

“Please, just call me Yeseo.”

Shrugging, the teen didn’t show any qualms against complying. “Then, Sir Yeseo, you may call me Michael.”

“Sir Michael,” he repeated, and from the amused twinkle in the other teen's eyes, Yeseo was certain that Michael was aware that he hadn't been given a ‘true’ name, well aware, no doubt, of the crest of the carriage ‘Werner Sneijder’ had arrived in and the general finery of his clothes. Regardless, Yeseo reserved the truth for his own indulgence, and his accomplice said nothing else about the matter, content to let him have this semblance of anonymity. “It is nice to meet you.”

Michael chuckled. “I would shake your hand, but it would be generally unwise, what with our current state.” 

“Ah. Fair enough.” Yeseo's laugh was only a huff but it was lighthearted with the pleasant feeling that came with being treated so casually, as if there were truly no meaning to the ranks between them. Yeseo knew the guard sent to watch over him was inwardly gritting their teeth from the sidelines at such blatant displays of impertinence, but a lot of it was turned to exasperation after so many years of witnessing Yeseo's own leniency to such behaviours.

Still, it was a bit staggering to be faced with someone so unabashedly bold when he had been deferred to so much for the past five—going six—years, but it was nonetheless oddly welcoming with the way it reminded Yeseo of another less formal life.

After the foot-washing ceremony of April, the month of May came soon enough.

It was the day of Werner's birthday and debutant ball, and he had never been more nervous in his life.

Of course, Wilhelmina did not neglect to hire only the best of etiquette and dance teachers over the years, but the most attention that Yeseo had ever received in his second life was at the Sneijder temple, surrounded by the sick and injured and any other penitent who wished to receive penance for their confessions. They were fairly easy people to deal with, common folk who, amongst themselves, were not occupied with the excessive pleasantries and formalities that came with titles or rank, especially when they finally got used to the sight of the youngest master of Sneijder in simple priest's robes and treated as such, too.

But a party—a ball, full of noble invitees, no less, was not something he was particularly excited for, what with their roundabout ways of speaking and underlying messaging conveyed behind tittering tones.

“Cease your fidgeting,” came Wilhelmina's stern voice, though it was contrasted with the methodical gentleness of her fingers brushing through his hair, carefully tying the ribbon at the very end to hold his braid together.

“I'm nervous,” he confessed, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, dressed in ivory robes that were so fine the sheer amount of detail subtly hidden in the embroidery was enough to make up for his lack of furs that were so in fashion. His one concession was the silk cloak that fell from the seams of his shoulders, as well as the sheer girth of his flared sleeves that were wider than usual, but at the very least the doublet was lighter than animal hide and much less ostentatious.

“Do not be. You are a Sneijder. For what reason would you have to be nervous? If anything,” she scoffed, and she turned him around by the shoulders to look him firmly in the eye. “They are the ones who should be nervous. We invited them. We did not have to, but who are they to refuse our invitation? Remember who you are, Beatrijs.”

Yeseo held back the shiver that would have been prompted solely by the flippant coldness of Wilhelmina's tone. Smiling clumsily, he let out a small laugh, barely holding himself back from fidgeting with his fingers.

“It seems... I always manage to underestimate noonim's influence.”

“At the very least, you understand that.” Humming, she tucked a stray hair behind his ear before lifting her arm for him to grab. “Come now. We must greet the guest at the door.”

Slipping his arm around hers, he nodded dutifully, escorting her out of his room before making their way to the foyer, passing by the few maids who were still running around tending to the last of their duties, making sure that the manor was at its best for their guests.

Arriving at the foyer, they passed onto the plateau of the staircase and headed towards the door, where guests were due to arrive at any moment. Standing next to his sister, he nodded in understanding whenever she made sure to remind him to watch out for certain families or for so-and-so-important figures. The dates beforehand, Wilhelmina had even handed him a book with all of the prominent households of the capital complete with certain tidbits of information and trivia, as well as small portraits and sketches of notable individuals. Most of them were young nobles his age for underlying reasons he well understood, and though Yeseo prided himself on having a good enough memory, even he had a bit of trouble remembering all those faces when under the nerve.

Soon enough, guests started arriving in their fine carriages, family emblems proudly displayed on the doors or flags, though none seemed to be as grand as Sneijder's vicious snake—cunning and quick as a whip on a backdrop of green that complimented Wilhelmina and her cool-toned browns and yellows, more than it did Werner's purple hair. From the way that they were greeted, you'd almost think a great number of the guests that stepped foot within the household were not any different from small critters stumbling themselves into a predator's den, with wide eyes and excessively flattering words being thrown around with every new entry to curry favours from his lofty sister.

“—Ah, well if it isn't the Sargentinis,” Wilhelmina smiled, this time a tad wider than it had been for the last few dozen guests. The name was very familiar to Yeseo, and he snapped right back to attention, facing an older couple and a young lady around his age.

“Duchess and Duke Sargentini. Lady Sargentini,” Yeseo bowed his head accordingly. “Thank you for taking the time out of you and your family's schedule to attend my coming-of-age celebration.”

The older woman hummed and smiled with the type of air he was usually accustomed to attributing to Wilhelmina. For a second he understood from that alone why his sister was ‘friends’ with this particular matriarch, as it was only natural that people cut from the same cloth gravitated together.

“Ho, what a handsome young man you are,” Duchess Sargentini smiled appraisingly, with a tilt to her voice that was less so well-intentioned and more so pointed. “As expected of the precious Jewel of Sneijder; I have heard much about you.”

The nickname was also—horrifyingly enough—familiar to Yeseo. Inadvertently, his face began to grow warm, and he could only hope it didn't appear too obvious on his complexion. From the corner of his eye, however, he could see Wilhelmina's passive smile curl up just the tiniest bit in a way that he could only describe as mean like a fox, characteristic in a way she would personally describe as grimace-like (though Yeseo found it more fitting to call it downturned), and he knew from that alone that he had failed to conceal any of his embarrassment.

“Have you met my eldest?” Duchess Sargentini continued. If she had noticed his fluster in any way, she made no sign of it, but the way her sharp eyes curled over the brim of her fan didn’t go unnoticed. “She had her debut only a year before you. Shame that you were not in the capital by then—Agatha, remember your manners, come greet our hostess and the young master.”

The young woman stepped forward and respectfully delivered her congratulations for Yeseo's 16th. Her eyes roamed his face a bit for a reason he didn't know, somewhat looking stunned, but it was quickly smothered back into a gathered countenance. She didn't look any more pleased than Yeseo was at the underlying suggestion that was being subtly written in the air, but the two of them were cordial nonetheless, if not just a hint awkward on Yeseo’s part.

“It would be nice if you were to have her as your first dance,” Wilhelmina hummed once the family had left to join the rest of the party hall. “Be sure to do so later. I've informed the Duchess of this arrangement beforehand.”

Yeseo snapped his head towards her, gaping abashedly with a loss of words. “Sister...” he hesitated, frantically trying to come up with any sort of refusal, grasping at any straws of excuses he knew she would reject without a hint of hesitation before finally blurting—

“But—shouldn't my first dance be with you?”

This time, it was Wilhelmina's turn to be taken off-guard. Her mouth had dropped open slightly as if preparing her usual quick retort, but upon fully registering his words she appeared to have actually bluescreened. Turning to face him, she scrutinized him oddly with her sharp yellow eyes, perplexed, almost, as if the idea of her being his first dance for such a notable occasion had never once crossed her mind, even throughout every step of her whole careful planning of this entire event.

“...... You wish to dance with me?”

“Who else if not you, noonim?” Yeseo shuffled his feet, playing nervously with the wide sleeves of his robes. His response only further seemed to increase her puzzlement, however, and by that point Yeseo was starting to feel rather insulted and embarrassed by her prolonged silence and staring. “If, if Willa noonim does not want to dance with me that's fine—”

“The first dance is a veleta for your age group,” she blurted, a frown on her brows and sounding almost confounded. “We would hardly be dancing for that long before we'd have to change partners, and I am way past the age to join in, no less.”

Blinking once, suddenly exasperated, Yeseo grumbled through his teeth, “I meant for the opening first dance—are there not usually openings for debut parties? The opening dance for a debutante is customarily done with a parent but… I only have you. Besides, if Lady Sargentini joins the rotation after the opening then we'll surely cross paths anyway, but… but I want...” He glanced back up at her, desperately hoping that she'd understand and take his plea; he barely ever begged her growing up, but he was ready to start begging her now. “It'd be nice if my first partner is my noonim for the opening.”

Wilhelmina continued to stare at him as if he were some strange, otherworldly little anomaly, before stiffly turning her head back towards the front door. The weather in May wasn't too hot nor was it too cold, and the weather was much more agreeable in this season than it was at home in the South, so they were rather comfortable standing in the foyer like so near the door, but the silence made for a bit of an uneasy feel.

For a second, Yeseo was unsure if he made the right move—he had spent six years, after all, trying to cozy up to his sister in hopes that she would not throw him out right at the get-go when her dislike for him was so visibly palpable, or at the very least, get her to tolerate him by the end of all this. He had nearly forgotten that it was just as easy to marry off your unwanted younger siblings as it was to cast them away on the streets or otherwise, but in the grand scheme of things, Yeseo, preferably, would have vastly liked a temple or monastery over an arranged marriage with someone he barely even knew. It wasn't for nothing that he had visited the temples in the Sneijder territory so often, after all, learning all the ropes and familiarizing himself with the life and duties—the Roosegaarde Family that was said to even rival their own had sent an enormous number of high-ranked priests to the Vatican, with some of their family members historically having even denaturalized there, too. Knowing that it wasn’t uncommon for noble families to send their cleric children away always made him wonder if Wilhelmina was going to do the same with him, but…

“Okay.”

He blinked. “... Huh?”

“Alright,” Wilhelmina reiterated curtly, still not facing him. “We shall dance. I will have to inform Duchess Sargentini of this change. Ridiculous child. You should have brought this up earlier."

Her tone wasn't any different than it usually was, flat and barely containing any emotion other than the steadiness of her voice, but oddly enough, that simple concession lit a strange warmth in Yeseo's chest.

...... How silly of him, honestly. He knew his sister wasn't the most affectionate, but even though she was always rendered uneasy whenever he made a move that suggested any sort of closeness between them, she always came around in the end. My sister still likes me, he triumphantly grinned to himself despite the anxious rabbit-like thrumming of his heart, careful to not show it outwardly lest he annoy his sister with his antics.

Yeseo's silly wobbling grin had to be quickly wiped away for something more polite, however, upon a new figure entering the foyer, accompanied by an older woman who appeared to be an attendant and a round brown-haired young man with rosewood eyes.

The first thing Yeseo noticed was the young woman's golden blonde hair—so long and thick it nearly reached the floor even when braided. They were matching in that sense, but the length of hers clearly outmatched his own, no doubt having been lovingly grown since childhood unlike his own late commitment, which followed through only due to his sister's suggestion. The silk-woven velvet cloak draped around her shoulder was a golden yellow, royally so, expensively dipped in dyes and carefully embroidered with only the finest of symbolic patterns, and it hit him just then after momentarily studying the ornate brooch that pinned it all together followed by the familiarity of her face that this was an incredibly important person. In fact—

“Your Royal Majesty by the Grace of God, Queen Christanne of Venetiaan—the Sun of our Divine kingdom,” Wilhelmina greeted dutifully with a bow that Yeseo hastened to copy. Any trace of bafflement from earlier had been wiped off her expression to make way for a reserved yet almost pleased croon, and Yeseo hadn't known that the heir to the country had been invited to his debut celebration of all things, and he was rightfully feeling wronged at the lack of opportunity to mentally prepare himself for such an encounter. Still, he remained quiet and allowed his sister to do their due pleasantries.

“It is an honour to have you here to celebrate my brother's coming-of-age. Greetings as well to Madam Paumen and,” from the corner of his eye, Werner could see his sister’s pleasant downturned smile take on somewhat of an icy grimace. “Count Roosegaarde.”

A name Yeseo recognized. With a blink, he observed the courtier whose name had just been announced and was nearly startled when the man—perhaps just a few years older than his sister—directly caught his line of sight.

He hastily bowed his head in a greeting, but was too nervous to see if the other had reciprocated.

“It is only natural that I come to welcome one of the ducal families of this country back to our capital,” came the young Queen’s stunningly low but regal voice. “And please, lift your heads—I am merely here as a guest, and the Sneijders have always been our friends; there is no need for such formalities between us on such an important day.”

Wilhelmina promptly regained her posture and Yeseo was quick to follow suit. This time, he straightened only to meet the Queen’s gaze and remarked quite admirably that her eyes were the colour of rich apricots—a golden pink colour that complimented nicely with her hair. Remembering himself, he forced his lips into a smile and inclined his head once more.

“It is an honour, Your Royal Majesty. This one hopes you enjoy the ball.”

Christanne observed his face for a quick second, before eventually finding themselves to his hair. She seemed to be caught in some sort of contemplative trance for a moment as she observed him, and though it wasn't long, it was noticeable enough for Yeseo to feel nervous at the prolonged attention.

“Your hair truly is purple,” she finally spoke, as if in revelation.

“Yes...?” Yeseo cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“... When we first met, it was closer to ivory.”

A bolt of lightning struck Yeseo at those words, and he laughed in what he hoped was more pleasantly dismissive rather than painfully awkward. He hadn't known that Werner Sneijder and the young Queen had met before—most definitely when they were younger—but he found enough relief in the fact that such an event had to have happened many years ago. It would be easy enough to explain any discrepancy between what she remembered of Werner Sneijder when he was a young child and how ‘Yeseo’ Sneijder was as of now at the age of sixteen.

“Ah, and though this is belated by a few years, congratulations on becoming ordained as a bishop-grade priest.” Her golden eyes peered deeply into his, all the authority of the Lord encompassed within her irises, and though she was merely politely looking at him it was rather overwhelming. It was very fitting that the highest member of the Royal Family was the recipient of features with such religious significance, and she wore it gracefully.

“Oh— Aha, ha… This one thanks you, Your Majesty.”

Nonetheless, the interaction went by seemingly unproblematic enough, and upon inquiring about the guest arrival list, Wilhelmina confirmed that all the invitees had finally settled in, with the Queen; her chief-of-staff doubling as nanny, Barbette Paumen; and her closest courtier who was uninvited by Wilhelmina herself (she had scoffed quite derisively while admitting that to him), but who still showed up to dutifully accompany the royal heir, Edzard Roosegaarde; naturally being the last to arrive.

Whispers and bows followed the kingdom's heir as she walked, and Christanne dutifully returned curt pleasantries with the other guests but did nothing further than that. She seemed rather reticent, but not that unkind, Yeseo remarked. She was remarkably young for a queen. It was only two years ago when Wilhelmina had left their home territory to attend Her majesty coronation at her coming-of-age ceremony in the royal capital. Deeming him too young at the age of fourteen, his sister had left him behind despite his protests, so this was truly the first time Yeseo had ever seen the Venetiaan Crown Princess-now-Queen.

Yeseo stood beside his sister as she addressed their guests, glad enough that he didn't have to prepare a customary speech and was very happy to let Wilhelmina take over. And soon, with a wave of her hand and a message to the musical ensemble, the start of the first dance was ready to take place.

Meeting his sister's golden eyes, he allowed himself to quirk a small grin.

“Should this one be the Follow, noonim?”

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You are the celebrant, so it is only expected that you will be the Lead. Besides, in the second dance, Young Lady Sargentini will for sure be dancing as the Follow, so you will have to take charge.” Her gaze then momentarily strayed to the side where she caught sight of the Queen, who, alongside the rest of the guests, cleared the centre of the hall for the first dance, but dismissed the sight soon enough.

Raising her elbow for Yeseo to take, they both walked to the cleared centre of the hall, taking their respective positions as the music slowly began.

The veleta was familiar to Yeseo, as it was one of the many Venetiaan dances that he had been taught to practise throughout the years. Wilhelmina had never joined him as a partner during his lessons, but in all the balls that she organized throughout the years at their home estate, she had always had a preference for the Lead position in her dances during the few occasions that she felt like engaging in one. It was fitting, truly, as both the head of the household and for her personality, that she would be taking the role largely in charge.

Yeseo wondered what her first dance was like.

Knowing her, he was certain it must have been a grand affair.

Wilhelmina was born on Advent Day, so her celebrations were always splendidly decorated with that additional event in mind, and it must have been additionally special to have had her first dance with her late father, twirling her around in a veleta just like she was doing for him now.

The comparison momentarily made a small lump form in Yeseo's throat.

Did this dance and circumstance remind Wilhelmina of her father in any way? Though it had been years, Yeseo knew more than anyone that grief could still linger even throughout the years. Looking at her, however, she didn't seem to wear any particular emotion, dutifully following him with well-practised steps, as if dedicated to playing the role of his first dance partner.

Huh.

This…… was their first time ever dancing together.

The thought suddenly made Yeseo feel, oddly, a bit sentimental. He had always been too young to properly participate in any of the past balls organized at the duchy, and there were scarcely any children his age to dance with back in the Sneijder territory anyway. Before this day, his sister had only ever supervised his dance lessons from a distance—that realization somehow made this feel all the more special.

Jung Yeseo before this whole affair never would have had a reason to learn various styles of ballroom dancing. The only forms of dance he knew of were informal and spontaneous, oftentimes with his toddler feet placed over the top of his hyung's, who twirled them around in the living room to whatever song was on the radio. Though the orchestra ensemble could in no way compare to the modern lyricism of whatever pop hit was trending, the sentiment was nearly the same and rendered him pathetically nostalgic.

It seemed that, while he had attempted numerous times to separate his noonim from his hyung, no matter how hard he tried he could not help himself.

He was foolish. Really, truly foolish.

But as much as the comparisons hurt him it just as equally made him so happy, and Yeseo was sure Hyunseo would forgive him for loving another older sibling the way he loved his hyung. He hoped Wilhelmina could forgive him for using his love for her to keep the memory of Jung Hyunseo alive—he hoped that she knew that he loved her, even with all the sad little strings attached.

As the music slowed to an end and they both bowed to each other alongside a series of polite applause, Yeseo lifted his head quickly to face Wilhelmina with a staggering grin. She seemed taken aback by it, the only crack of emotion she had let slip throughout this whole affair, and she was silly for it just as he was for actually appreciating it because how, even after all this time, was it still possible for her to be put off by his genuine affection? But he knew, ultimately, not to take that to heart, knowing well enough that even if she didn't show any sort of enjoyment out of this familial duty, his sister had still conceded to his whim in the end anyway.

He smiled once they had moved out of the centre of the hall, slightly breathless because while he had sufficiently practised in the years following up to this, he never would have been able to anticipate the amount of energy the real deal would have taken until this day.

His heart was thrumming in his chest, and his limbs felt fuzzy. Standing before a crowd who were witnesses of Wilhelmina’s indulgence of him; that he was favoured.

Her only younger brother.

Wilhelmina’s little brother.

“I'm glad my first dance was with you.”

On her face, Wilhelmina continued to wear that oh-so-familiar stiff and ambivalent expression that took over whenever faced with his displays of warmth. Perhaps it was the golden light from the chandeliers—perhaps it was the small amount of exertion that the dance required. Whatever it was, Wilhelmina's typically cold hands felt warm today, and her face was contorted almost awkwardly, a pinch of her brows as if unsure of what it was that she was feeling and a twitch of her lip that spoke of hesitant words. Then, suddenly, the tense air that usually coated her gaze softened with the exhale of a quiet sigh as if she had given up on whatever internal battle she was waging, and she lifted her hand to brush his hair behind his ear—a gesture so small it was rather insignificant, but it was one of the only ways that Wilhelmina would allow herself to touch him and it felt to Yeseo no different from an all-encompassing hug, a ruffle of his hair, a light touch against his cheek.

“...... Of course, Beatrijs.”

Her voice was only a low murmur, barely audible amidst the continued applause no doubt to conceal his middle name between the two of them, but it was enough for a wide grin to plaster itself across Yeseo's face, throat tied thick.

Right there and then, Yeseo finally made up his mind.

Anything that Wilhelmina had planned for him, anything at all, he would forgive her and go along with it—obediently, just like how she had raised him.

Because he was certain, by now, after all these years, that his sister liked him.

She liked him just enough to carefully plan every detail of his debutant ball, from the catering of all his favourite snacks and meals, to conceding to his request of having her as his first dance in lieu of their parents. She made sure he never lacked for anything back at their home estate, and even though he carried with him so much pain and longing, being Wilhelmina Sneijder's little brother these past few years made things bearable, even with all his guilt of being an imposter who stole another little boy’s rightful place.

She liked him, even though he knew she would always like herself, first.

Yeseo wasn't going to be able to live with his sister forever.

He wasn't going to be her responsibility forever.

The sad reality was that, even after all these years, he had not a single clue or idea if there was even a possibility of returning to his true home, and it sunk in like a stone in a river that he truly might have to live out the rest of his life in this world in some way or the other.

And he was fine with that.

He had to. It didn't matter if he was or wasn't, it was going to happen regardless of his wishes, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Jung Yeseo couldn't be a good brother to his hyung and dongsaeng who he had so suddenly deserted, so he will make up for it by being the best brother he could for the sister who made his new life as comfortable as possible. This would be his repayment for taking him in as her little brother—for stealing the place of his vessel’s rightful owner.

“Sister… Thank you for everything.”

As pairs of the younger attendees his age began crowding the centre of the hall in preparation for the second dance, he stepped forward, lingering just for a second near his sister to take in her bothered complexion, livened only by the slight quivering of her gaze.

She had always been scarily perceptive. 

“I will remember this day as a truly special and joyous one. I will remember it even when my noonim does not; even until the day I die.”

Yeseo wondered what expression he might've been wearing on his face for her to warrant such an expression. He hoped he was smiling—that she looked at him and saw all the joy and love and gratitude he had for her within him, so much that he could explode from it, tucked into the tenderest parts of his heart.

Nevertheless, without looking back, he finally stepped forward to join the rest of the guests his age on the dance floor, turning away just before he could notice his sister's hand, fingers twitching minutely in his direction as if subconsciously hoping to reach him before the urge was firmly smothered down—a wisp in the air that was soon dispersed.

Wilhelmina remained at the sidelines of the hall, her figure disappearing behind the crowd of other attendees the further he walked.

Her gaze was heavy on him, but Yeseo could not trust himself to turn back.

The second dance consisting of participants primarily of Yeseo's age group was set to begin, and the music resumed with the croon of violins. It didn't surprise him that there were this many young lords and ladies his age—Wilhelmina no doubt wanted him to be introduced to and get acquainted with as many of the nobles his age present in the capital for a variety of reasons. The veleta was a relatively slow dance that could allow for casual conversation unlike with the quicker waltzes, after all, and so the reason it was picked for the starting song was made very clear to him.

Side steps and twirling came easy to him. The traditional veleta didn't usually consist of switching partners, but when done in a circle the act was possible and was much more desirable for social purposes when it allowed for everyone to meet each other, even if just briefly, throughout the course of a party.

Greeting his next partner, he wasn't surprised to see Young Lady Agatha Sargentini, who no doubt joined the dance circle at the behest of her mother. They exchanged general pleasantries, just as he did with the other handful of partners he had before her, but besides him was Young Master Barent from a smaller household to whom Agatha's eyes were constantly drawn, and when they finally switched partners the young lady suddenly looked much more receptible to his attention, with a smile more soft and words more gentle instead of reserved and polite, their conversation low but still audible to Yeseo even with his new partner.

It troubled him slightly.

In truth, Yeseo understood well enough that his sister was planning on someday marrying him off.

He didn't want to, but knowing her, it was going to happen at some point. Wilhelmina liked him, she truly did, but Werner was not her biggest priority, no matter what Yeseo might try to convince himself of the possibility that he could. Wilhelmina was driven and stubborn, committed to things she had in mind with little regard for anything else that couldn’t be to her benefit. He could only hope that whoever she had chosen for him was with someone he could be friends with—perhaps someone who would even understand him, as one person to another who had to be married for the sake of duty, or at the request of their families. It wasn't uncommon for marriages to act like business transactions in the kingdom, and any young noble would be fully aware of that. Wilhelmina liked him well enough—he would never know the extent of how she loved him, perhaps not even until the day he died—so he knew that she wouldn't send him anywhere horrible, but the thought still garnered a bit of unease.

Yeseo, however, had the advantage of having ether, so if he was lucky he could perhaps even convince his sister to send him to a temple, but if Yeseo knew Wilhelmina as well as he claimed to, even that outcome seemed dubious when he considered her personality.

Wilhelmina was smart, and Yeseo was her brother.

He knew he had more uses for her here than at the Vatican—but he trusted her.

Yeseo wanted to trust his noonim.

“—Hello again, Young Master Werner.”

“Your Royal Majesty,” Yeseo greeted quickly once their partners switched. To his shock, he hadn't noticed that Christanne Venetiaan had been amongst the initial dance lineup, and was even further amazed that she would even be open to joining in the first place.

“You look surprised to see me,” she commented kindly, almost with a slight hint of lighthearted tease. “It would have been rude of me to attend a party and not dance at least once with the celebrant, wouldn't it?”

“Oh— It wouldn't have been rude at all, Your Majesty. It is a great honour that you have attended at all in the first place, regardless if you danced or not.”

She blinked once, then remained silent for a short while. For the duration of it, Yeseo wondered frantically if he had perhaps said something wrong.

“...... You,” she finally spoke slowly, considerably. “... have a rather silver tongue.”

......??

The flat comment slightly threw Yeseo off-guard. “I – This one truly meant that with the most genuine intent. If Her Royal Majesty is uncomfortable with dances, it would not have slighted this one at all if she refrained from engaging in something she does not enjoy. In fact, it would be much displeasing if Her Majesty were forcing herself to step out of her comfort zone just to pacify a humble vassal—ah, um, but this one does understand it is a necessary formality......”

His short ramble only prompted more silence on her part. Before Yeseo could die from the sheer tension, she seemed to have finally taken mercy on him to voice out, almost awkwardly, “...... Pardon me. It just occurred to me that my word choice might have caused a misunderstanding. Frankly, this one was merely at a loss of how to respond and said the first thing that came to mind, disregarding the connotations that could be attributed to it.”

Her honesty was unexpected and the sheer bluntness of it stunned Yeseo for quite a while. The two of them danced in silence for another almost painful length of time that felt longer than it truly was, but it was finally broken by the startled puff of laughter that suddenly prompted out of Yeseo's chest.

“Oh— My apologies, I don't— do not mean to laugh at you, I just, the whole situation......”

“No, no,” Christanne chuckled, somewhat flustered in her own right, though this time she looked considerably less stiff than either of them previously were, the mutual awkwardness almost comforting. “It’s alright. Shall we put all this behind us and enjoy the dance?”

“Let's,” Yeseo could have pleaded, but a relieved smile still lingered on his face.

Once their partners were due to switch, they did so with amicably shared smiles, and though an embarrassed flush still faintly lingered on Yeseo’s cheek into his next dance, Christanne appeared to remain moderately amused following their encounter and it was nice to know, at the very least, that they hadn't parted ways that disastrously.

The third dance was a De Loere—much more fast-paced but fun nonetheless and appreciated by nobles even for a folk dance, and Yeseo noted that Christanne took to the sidelines after her customarily required one, and when they met eyes they smiled with understanding. She didn't like dancing any more than he did, it seemed, but he was the host and celebrant, so he remained for third without—like he had told her—feeling insulted that she had opted out so early into the ball.

The De Loere was quick and required many spins and skips and it was satisfying in tiring out most of the younger adults to make way for the next pairs to take to the floor.

Panting lightly at the applause that arose, Yeseo was ready to make his way back to the sidelines to start on some of the snacks before a voice called out to him.

“Young Master Sneijder, may I have the honour of asking your hand for this next dance?”

The next song was for a waltz, a dance that did not include the frequent switching of partners and thus was considered significantly more intimate. The fact that Young Lady Agatha Sargentini had specifically called for him with this known fact put him a bit on the spot, especially when he remembered Wilhelmina and Duchess Sargentini's offhanded allusions, but from the corner of his eye, he could see the crestfallen look of the young man whose name he remembered was Barent.

Awkwardly, Yeseo floundered a bit as to how he should proceed, torn between the wishes of his sister and the very obvious look of resolute duty on Agatha's face—one that was very pointedly avoiding Young Master Barent's dejected shuffling. But just as he was about to hesitantly give his concession to avoid rejecting the young lady in public when there were so many expectations placed on the both of them, a voice cut in just before he could accept.

“My apologies, Young Lady Sargentini,” Christanne suddenly appeared by his side, lightly touching his back. “I'm afraid Young Master Sneijder and I had made previous arrangements back during the second veleta to be partners for the waltz. I hope you do not mind if I keep him as my partner for this dance.”

It appeared the shock Yeseo was undergoing was similarly felt in Agatha, their faces both reflecting each other's bewildered sentiments. Christanne, however, seemed to take this all in stride as she suggestively nudged her head in Barent's direction, to which Agatha—thankfully—promptly understood her intentions, tentatively making her way in his direction with stiff fluster yet much more enthusiasm than she had approached Yeseo with.

“Shall we?” Christanne extended her hand, snapping Yeseo out of his shock at once. With a slight stammer, he fitted his fingers over her own and let himself be guided back to the floor, the murmurs around them only a buzz in his ears.

It was only when the music had started and they had bowed to each other that he realized this was truly happening. His hand was on her shoulder, however, and hers was near his shoulder blades, and with a perpetually bewildered look he dutifully shifted his steps to accommodate his respective position as they accompanied each other through the slow start of the dance.

“...... It has occurred to me that, in my haste, we have ended up with reversed dance positions,” Christanne finally spoke, and after waiting for so long for either of them to break the silence Yeseo couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity, quick to reassure her.

“Oh— It is alright, Your Majesty.” He honestly could have wheezed with how much hilarity he was getting out of this, but doing so would only be to their detriment. “This one has learnt both the Lead and Follow, he does not mind either one.”

“Still, as the celebrant, it is only proper that you should have been leading....”

Yeseo smiled softly, gently sending a squeeze through their joined hands as a token of reassurance. “If one thinks about it, Her Majesty is an esteemed guest to this party. Therefore, there is also no fault at all in our nation's esteemed Queen taking the lead.”

“...... If the young master says so,” she finally conceded, with a resigned but sheepish sigh. She looked truly apologetic and though her earlier act was rather cool and a welcome interference at the moment, Yeseo now realized she had probably felt as stunned as he did by her sudden interjection. Still, Yeseo was grateful, and silently apologized to his sister and the Sargentinis for such an unexpected turn of events.

“Thank you for that, earlier,” he admitted. “Truly.”

“Oh, no, it was hardly a big deal. I merely noticed your hesitance, though I am glad I ended up making the right choice in your books.”

Truthfully, their conversation was awkward and often puttered into bouts of silence, but after a while a mutual, sort of understanding brewed between them that it would be alright to just enjoy the dance without the obligations of pleasantries. Engaging dialogue did not seem to come to them naturally, Christanne more so than Yeseo, but by the end of the waltz a small sense of comradery and understanding had formed between them as they bowed before parting ways.

Just by watching her walk to the sidelines where she joined her attendant, Yeseo could see how much attention she drew to herself, from her golden hair to her tall stature, befitting of the swordmaster she was. As the Queen, she probably had to deal with a lot of talk from courtiers and retainers, and despite the natural air of charisma and confidence that she carried herself with, it was rather endearing that casual conversation was something that didn't reflect easy for her—gap moe, the words of a distant high school friend rang in his ears. In the moment, it felt humorously fitting.

“Young Master Sneijder.”

An unfamiliar voice suddenly called out to him while he was in the midst of filling his plate at the dessert table, and looking to the side, Yeseo found a man perhaps around the age of his sister, rather handsome with brown hair and a rounded body that was sturdy like a bear, wearing a smile that can somewhat be described as politely warm. The most distinct of his features, however, was the rosewood colour of his eyes, brown-tinged red.

“Count Roosegaarde,” Yeseo nearly startled, his mind quickly supplementing a name to the face he had earlier met. “Ah— I do not believe we’ve had the chance to properly converse earlier in the foyer, but thank you again for attending this ball. This one hopes that you've been having a pleasant time so far.”

“It is a very well-organized celebration,” Edzard Roosegaarde observed sincerely, though as he looked around, he appeared rather curious. “Your sister certainly spared no expense for the occasion. She must cherish you dearly.”

The remark made Yeseo pause, eyes widening slightly as he took in the courtier’s words. His mouth floundered for a bit, his tongue oddly tied, but soon enough his cheeks coloured with a warmth that was nearly blazing and Yeseo found himself smiling rather helplessly.

“She does care for me,” he agreed, his voice somewhat fragile. It was hard for him to say more when there were so many sentiments mushing inside him.

“...... Truthfully—and I mean this in no offense to the young master—but I never thought I’d see the day,” Edzard quietly huffed, a small puff of air through the nose. He said this the same way one would comment about a compelling bout of small news; it wasn't mean-spirited in any way, but rather a statement as plain as a say on the weather. “I’ve known your sister; the Duchess never cared for much if it didn’t benefit her in any way. Any kind gesture she did was veiled with self-interest—dishonest in every sense of the word, though not many have noticed this, sly as she is.”

A complicated little frown slowly fitted across Yeseo’s face. This was the first time he’d ever heard anyone speak in such a way about his sister, who received praise from everyone wherever she went. An exemplary young noble, a perfect heir; the staff praised her, and even the patients at the temple knew and adored her for all the work she’s done for the territory. Yeseo was aware that her kindness always came with strings attached, but he had also seen the quiet sides of his sister who did things without asking for anything in return—adding a permanent chair to the side of her desk, settling a blanket over his shoulders on nights where he couldn’t sleep and decided to curl up on the couch of her office, calling for him a drawing teacher when the arts were nothing quintessential to his education......

Giving him his first dance with her, instead of handing him off to Young Lady Agatha like she had prearranged with Duchess Sargentini without telling him.

Count Roosegaarde’s redwood eyes knowingly met his, balanced and steady, head slightly tilted.

“But the young master knows all this already, does he not?”

The small plate in Yeseo’s hands was filled with little kinds of desserts that he liked. A few days before, Wilhelmina had grilled him about his preferences, and upon being met with his sheepish admission that he’d like anything, she scoffed before handing over a list to the awaiting maid with a row of sweet dishes she had hastily scribbled down that he found were some of his most favourite amongst the Venetiaan-style desserts. Today, all of those could be found on the table, decoratively arranged.

Wilhelmina always disliked sweets, but she always knew plenty about them.

Whenever she left for some vague undisclosed business outside of the territory, she always came back with a box of sweets, as if in apology for something she did that he would never truly know.

“I do.”

A quiet admission.

The courtier hummed. “You are very different from her,” he confesdd. “I also remember meeting you as a boy, long ago—such a tragic accident, I heard... Most unfortunate.”

Yeseo’s heart thrummed quick, beating loudly in his chest with a jolting stutter. He had never been allowed to hear much about the events before Werner Sneijder’s accident. A conversation such as this had never once occurred to him before, not with Wilhelmina's near omnipotent interference.

“Your father the late Duke called for so many doctors and so many priests—amongst them were the ones sent by my family, competent as they are. His Grace had reportedly even come and sacrificed some beasts to the Paten of Wishes at the Temple of Boundaries, but not even that should have been able to save you. It is a miracle, frankly, that the young master is here today, alive and well… One would think your father's wishes to the paten had come true.”

Redwood eyes drew to his hair, deep purple and holy, braided intrinsically for the occasion at Wilhelmina's precise instruction.

“Truly,” Roosegaarde murmured, just barely a breath, “a miracle.”

Yeseo’s brows drew together, uneasy with the fervent gaze directed at him. “Pardon me—what is it that my lord might be getting at?”

Rosewood eyes quickly scan ether environment, before the man leaned forward so suddenly it prompted from Yeseo a small flinch.

“If ever you need help, Young Master Werner,” the count spoke carefully, voice was almost a whisper—a secret hush that flew unnoticed amidst the orchestra song and the chattered conversation, reaching only the air between them. “The Rose Garden will always be open to you.”

And with a kind but solemn smile, he dipped his head after imparting him with those vague words and grabbed one of the glasses of juice behind Yeseo as if that had been his intention all along.

“May the Lord find pleasure in your life, Saint of Sneijder.”

Before Yeseo could even reach out to stop him, a flurry of questions now left brewing within him, the man was already long gone, making his way through the crowds of guests to reunite with the Queen near the opposite end of the hall.

“—I knew I would find you here,” came his sister's familiar low voice, nearly jolting him out of his tangled thoughts. Turning to face her, Yeseo quickly noticed the frown on her face as she followed his line of sight. “...... That was Roosegaarde— Did he say anything? What did he want with you? Has he offended you in any way?”

“Ah, sister...” Yeseo greeted his sister with a quickly pulled-together smile. “It was nothing, the Count merely came to comment on the ball. He said it is well-organized and was rather surprised with it, as he knows of your general frugality displayed in your usual events.”

Wilhelmina studied him for a moment, scrutinizing his expression, but before she could further pry, Yeseo inclined his head towards the centre of the hall, where pairs were gathering once again for the next song.

“Are you not going to dance again, noonim?”

“No,” she said eventually, almost with a scoff, as if that single opening dance they had together was enough for a lifetime. Though she had danced in previous balls, she always much preferred discussing with other nobles on the sidelines if she could help it, and it seemed this event was no different. Still, however, she had made her way here to the appetizer table instead of where she would much rather be, and the consideration somewhat warmed Yeseo's heart.

“I noticed you and the Queen were having a good time.”

Yeseo paused briefly, momentarily flicking his eyes in Christanne’s direction across the hall, where she was now conversing with her two courtiers: Chamberlain Paumen and Count Roosegaarde. She appeared rather close not just with her attendant and stand-in nanny, but also with the latter. And if Yeseo remembered from what Wilhelmina had given him to read, Christanne and Edzard were close friends, especially when the young count was one of the few reliable vassals the kingdom’s heir could count on in the wake of her parents’ passing. The young Queen was a good person; if she could trust the count as an aide and confidant, then surely there must be some amount of merit to his character.

('The Rose Garden will always be open to you...' What could he have ever meant by that?)

Remembering his sister’s question, Yeseo nodded in the end, as it was fairly true—out of all the nobles his age, she was the one he had enjoyed engaging with the most, even with all their laughable awkwardness.

His answer seemed to prompt something in Wilhelmina, however, but she said nothing of her thoughts, instead leaving him with void but a hum. They stood together like that for a short period of silence, and Yeseo settled into it, munching on the assortment of snacks Wilhelmina had known he would enjoy, and he appreciated each and every one as he watched the current dance, waiting for his sister to muster up her words. But a while passed and even Yeseo had his limits, curiously peeking up at her only to notice she was staring at him quite intently.

“Sister…?”

“Follow me,” she finally said, and without further prompting she spun on her heel towards one of the side rooms, leaving him to set his small plate down in a small panic before shooting off after her as quickly as he could without outwardly running, dodging guests and the like.

Having caught up to her heel, Yeseo noticed they had arrived in a primarily empty hall.

“Noonim, what are....”

The words trickled quietly off his tongue as he looked over Wilhelmina's shoulder.

There, set up right before an ornate armchair where a naturalesque backdrop painted onto a large tarp was hung, was a large frame where a blank canvas had already been gessoed and stretched. It was big—and by its side on the ground was a frame, elegant with complicated details plastered and moulded into the wood that had been gilded and lined with gold. When Yeseo stood before the easel the canvas easily towered over his head, and though it was only merely primed, the content overwhelmed him; there was nothing on this canvas, except for a future yet to happen, one that his sister was presenting—offering on a silver plate.

Wilhelmina didn't explain what it was. She didn’t need to.

Yeseo often didn't think so, but he truly was her brother, and like her, he was at the very least smart enough to know what she had meant between the instances of her silence.

“Happy sixteenth birthday, Beatie.”

Her low voice was loud in the echo of the room and it was so irrevocably silly, but tears welled up in Yeseo's eyes at those words and a lump so large formed in his throat that he could barely even let out a breath.

His sister liked him.

He knew that his sister liked him and Yeseo hoped that she would continue to like him, even as the years passed and he grew sad and homesick; even when she eventually had to send him away for whatever reason it was that she'd make of it. He hoped that whatever her ambitions were, they would be worth it, and he hoped that if he could not return to his first home somewhere in another world that may or may not exist, she would still allow him to call her his second.

He was too old to hug her now, but he assumed it would still be alright if he held her hand, gingerly reaching out to warm the cold of her skin with his own as the tears dribbled over his cheeks in a truly ungodly way. Wilhelmina never allowed herself to touch him other than in specific scenarios, but for as long as he had known her, she had never refused his own whenever he initiated the contact first, and that continued to hold up, even now.

Tears continued to drip, hot and thick, coating his lashes until they felt almost heavy. He was reminded of the time he got separated from his brother in the marketplace—several years ago in a life he no longer lived—before he had finally come back running, panting and wheezing in all his haste to find him. And though this was no marketplace, Yeseo had always, perpetually, been a little lost, but he hoped this blank canvas would wash over with reassurances that even someone like Wilhelmina could be a person that would spend all her running breath to find him, instead of pretending he (her liking of him) had never existed in the first place.

And as expected, she was soon there to present him a familiar poorly embroidered handkerchief, and Yeseo snivelled a laugh knowing that this was not the first time he'd have to wash it for her before returning it once again—a familiar dance and routine, unspoken.

For weeks, the Sneijders hosted their commissioned portraitist in one of the guest rooms, providing him and his assistants with shelter and food for the entire duration of their stay.

Both Yeseo and Wilhelmina often had to come act as sitters for the first few days, allowing for the painter to capture their likeness in sketches before sending them off, only occasionally requesting them back to ensure the details were well accurate. Patronage didn't usually consist of harbouring the artist in their own estate, content enough to support them from their studios, but Wilhelmina who was known as frugal in public was nothing if not excessive when it came to things in private, and so every expense and tool the painter needed was promptly taken care of by her own pocket.

Somewhere near the end, Wilhelmina had eventually asked the portraitist to make a small number of portraits on a lesser grand scale, and when she had met his eye to gauge his reaction, Yeseo did not flinch, even when the reason for the additional commission was clear to him without her having to explain it.

With a yielded, reassuring smile, he looked away, allowing himself to pretend as if he hadn't noticed or cared at all.

Yeseo would trust in his noonim.

He had to. (Wanted to.)

By the time the large portrait was ready to be hung in the foyer, nearly two months had passed—quicker than he expected for something of its size and detail, no doubt thanks to the special properties of the oil paints made with materials not found on Earth. The new centrepiece of the coiling staircase was finally varnished, with the old portrait relegated to the ancestral hall, and he was now standing before it, content and satisfied, childishly giddy satisfaction brimming in his veins as he stared at the finished painting.

On the left, Wilhelmina was depicted seated on a gold and cushioned armchair, the family signet ring passed down from her father proudly displayed on her finger with incredible realism, accentuated by the placement of her hand holding an open book. Her hair was pinned up, neatly and tight, and her yellow eyes were as sharp as a snakes. And though her clothes were as dark and frugal as she preferred, she was portrayed with an impressive amount of fine detailing on her clothing, highlighted to the viewer by how the front-facing quilted sleeve of her arm was propped into a Renaissance Elbow, allowing the details to be hit by traces of the lighting. Alongside the white frills near the hems of her collar and sleeves, her dark bodice was lined and decorated with stitchings of dahlias and laurels and oak leaves, so precise it was truly a marvel to think that such level of attention could be done by human hands.

Standing to the right was Yeseo, his body inclined slightly towards her by her side. He was smiling, clearly happy, and the portraitist paid a significant amount of detail in the metallic sheen of the pendant Wilhelmina had given him, hanging dutifully over his chest, and the colour of his hair was painted almost with some sort of reverence—tyrian purple, vivid and clear like amethyst, a colour that was hardly ever touched if one weren’t a member of the royal family but was so abundant and preciously used here. His expression was modest, from the length of his dark lashes fanning over his eyes to the gentle curve of his lips, but he was happy, almost glowing against the naturalesque backdrop in his light doublet, with gold embroideries of gardenias and roses and lilies lining the round of his collar down to the centre lapels, contrasting Wilhelmina’s dark dress; a moon to her midnight.

But those were not the details he cared most about, at the moment.

Standing before the painting and taking it all in from its new position, Yeseo stared at the likeness of his sister, the happiest she had ever looked—with the refined but equivocal gentle gaze of her sharp eyes and the subtle curve of her trademark downturned smile, barely picked out—in a world where he existed.

Yeseo existed.

And Wilhelmina liked him enough to acknowledge this, to have him immortalized in such a matter, proudly displayed in the foyer of their home as if to say “This is Her Grace, Duchess Wilhelmina of the Noble House of Sneijder, and this is her dear little brother”.

He exists.

He exist, he exists, he exists—and above all else, he is loved.

A smaller version had even later been commissioned afterward, filling the portraitists’ pockets plentiful, but no amount of gold could compare to the fullness of that became of Yeseo's chest.

It later remained fondly displayed in his room; he wondered not if Wilhelmina had done the same with hers, or if she had even asked for one herself in the first place. He was okay with not knowing. Wilhelmina’s odd brand of love could be felt in the money she spent, in the way she hated touch but still allowed him in her space. And though Wilhelmina had always spoiled him, carefully using up her money in a way that would exploit and showcase luxury with the most modest portion of guldens, he couldn't help but feel like she was almost uncharacteristically excessive this time—pure indulgence, almost like flattery, and...

And......

(And eventually, a Royal carriage was sent to their doorstep, and out of it came a familiar face.)

“Greetings, Young Master Werner.”

In the parlour, Werner was seated before the Queen, her apricot eyes gently curved as she gazed at him from her side.

“It is an honour to receive you again in our home, Your Royal Majesty.”

They talked for quite a while, snacking on the assortment the maids had brought out, drinking tea that Yeseo noticed was one of his favourites. The attendants on the sidelines were all of the help that Yeseo was most familiar with, as if their being stationed there was meant to serve him as some sort of comfort with their reassuring faces.

Christanne was pleasant and respectful as she talked with him about small, trivial little things.

They had similar taste in books—a lot of them were scholarly, before Yeseo had to sheepishly admit that he had eventually grown rather fed up with theological books despite his status as an ordained bishop-grade priest, and Christanne had smiled knowingly before she mentioned the latest hit novel amongst young nobles that had been garnering a lot of attention in the capital. It was embarrassing, but it was a nice talk, pleasantly surprised when they realized they both shared common opinions on the story.

Eventually, they had even talked about painting. Yeseo had talked to no one about his studies with his drawing master back at home, and though he wasn’t in any way a master himself, he had grown pretty decent with his skills to secretly sketch out memories of dear, foreign faces accurately enough in graphite linings. Christanne even brought up paintings he was fond of and artists he knew of enough to say he liked, and eventually she even admitted that the painter that his sister had hired had been a royal portraitist, of which she had asked Christanne to lend them as a favour. It was a bit of a surprising revelation, to know that the kind old man who was a bit eccentric with his brushes was actually someone with such an important position in the royal court, but Christanne merely waved off his shock with kind reassurance. A favour, she reiterated. It didn’t cost her anything, and as such, Yeseo’s mind could be put to ease.

After that came the Pantheon. Christanne asked him about his volunteer work and he dutifully described his experiences, somehow ending up telling her of the fond faces he had frequently visited back in the Sneijder territory's temple, from the first baby that had benefited from Sun Halo tea, to the young slumbered boy whose older sibling had cried with relief upon him finally waking up. And though Yeseo had no particular interest in horticulture, flowers were soon after brought up after that, and Christanne seemed to pay careful attention to flowers he was possibly fond of, and he understood from that alone that this was information out of the many that she hadn’t been able to find on him.

Such pleasantries could not go on forever, and Yeseo had long picked up on the reason for her visit, almost transparently from the moment he noticed the precise ways she was directing the conversation, treading along areas of all his known interests.

Christanne met his eye, and he knew that it was plain to her, then, as well, that he was already aware of what she was trying to accomplish. She looked crestfallenly guilty, for a second, for being caught in the middle of her gentle ruse, but Yeseo did not rebuke her, instead gazing at her with a quiet, patient smile.

“...... To be frank, Young Master Sneijder, I've come here to ask you this.”

Standing from her seat, her royal golden cloak draped behind her as she sidestepped the table to settle on one knee near the foot of his divan. She gazed up at him earnestly, no different from a loyal knight, and not a single trace of her expression let slip to him that she could be deceiving him with innately harmful intent.

“My purpose here is, truthfully, not just a simple visit, but an offer of marriage,” she admitted, only narrowly meeting his gaze as if she could not bear the weight of her own insincerity towards him. But he continued to smile nonetheless, reaching out to gently touch the back of her hand, because while he knew this was coming not from a place of genuine love, he could also feel that she did not mean this to slight him.

“Your Majesty....”

“I know that you have only just had your debut, and I completely understand if this is sudden. This is merely just an engagement, or a prolonged period of courtship—that is, if you accept, of course—but—”

“Your Majesty Christanne,” Yeseo interrupted once more. Finally, she sucked in a breath and lifted her stray gaze back to meet his, and for a moment it seemed as if she had been stunned by the sight of him, her apricot eyes wavering slightly like a weak little candle flame even though he was hardly a breeze.

“This one accepts.”

"...... You do...?"

Her lips tightened momentarily, and Yeseo could not help but feel amused despite himself, even if just the tiniest bit.

“My sister put you up to this.”

It was a statement rather than a question—not a single trace of uncertainty.

Because for what other reason would there be for her gaping absence, futilely made up for in the faces of familiar attendants that had previously been left behind for the duchy estate, and the assortment of food and tea that she so intimately remembered were his favourites. Near the saucer of his teacup, as well, a familiar white handkerchief with clumsy purple embroidery could be found, purposefully left out for him, a silent message he did not want to deeply read into.

Christanne looked conflicted at his words, as if wondering if she should be comforting him despite his lack of dejection, instead faced with peaceful acceptance. Hesitantly, she nodded, her hand still in his own. She had not a ring with her, but she was still kneeling, and it would have been romantic, in a sense, for a proposal to be done without one when promises were enough to testify for the love between two people, but this wasn’t a novel and any illusion of romanticism was just that: an illusion.

“...... Though I am his country's queen, it is undeniable that I am still very young,” Christanne finally began to open up. “As you may know, my parents—the late king and queen—have long been returned to the embrace of God since my early childhood. Therefore it is imperative that I secure my position and prepare to provide an heir to my throne, both for the security of my direct lineage and for the peace of mind of my court.”

Yeseo could understand. Though his heart was rabbit-quick and nervous, a ball falling anxiously in the pit of his stomach, her words were reasonable, and not something unexpected considering her rank. Many nobles their age have been set up for engagements that were more so like business transactions than otherwise. He wasn't surprised that he, too, had finally been roped into one—Yeseo had known this before, and he liked to think that he knew his sister well enough to know that she liked dearly him, just not as much as she loved herself and her own ambition, fitting of her namesake.

“My courtiers were made aware of Duchess Sneijder's wish to have you engaged—portraits have recently been sent to all eligible bachelorettes that she seemed to have approved of, you see. In fact, I received one as well, not too long ago... Everyone is aware of your esteemed sister's influence, and I believe she could support me in my rule as Queen. I know this is very selfish of me, to drag the young master into this for my own objectives and use you for your family's influence—”

“This one understands,” Yeseo repeated once again, his tone considerably soft. Christanne's sturdy hands were faintly trembling in his, and for someone so strong it was quite a marvel that she was able to be so nervous. He hoped that she didn't feel too guilty—he knew well enough about her position as a young woman without any immediate family to help guide her through her demanding life. He knew not of the countenance of all her advisers, but he could easily assume she was facing a lot of pressure in this society, inheriting a kingdom that had suffered a lot of damage from her predecessor's own hands that resulted in fractured noble factions, now hers to attempt and rectify.

Christanne was young, but she looked determined and reliable despite this, and Yeseo found that he would not mind rooting for such a person.

She felt guilty for roping him in, and for that he found her rather honourable for such palpable honesty. Yeseo had thought, previously, that if his sister was going to marry him off—for politics or otherwise—it would be to someone that she could see the benefits of allying with, and out of her fondness and consideration (and guilt, guilt, guilt) for him, it would at the very least be someone good.

And oh, how silly his noonim was.

The Queen.

He could imagine Wilhelmina's thread of reasoning very clearly—how she must have considered every noble his age, from the automatically dismissed spawn of barons to the more desirable children of fellow dukes, dangling the possibility of them allying themselves with even a fraction of the Sneijder's strength, before ultimately approaching this young Queen only two years into her official reign, offering her the temptations of beneficial support, backing, and power. He could hear the coaxing tone of his sister's voice, the carefully composed expression on her face, the small little suggestions veiled as otherwise that she would employ to nudge such a desperate person into the palm of her hands.

It all sounded very much like Wilhelmina, to make such a calculative, precise move.

It was a decision to be proud of, with an outcome that deserved even more so seeing how he accepted, and yet despite his sister making such a praise-worthy decision, she could not even face him in the aftermath.

What was she thinking?

Did she carefully take into account all the benefits? Calculate all the possible gains and losses?

Did she consider his happiness?

Did she think about how he would react to the arrangement she made without consulting him, and decided she did not wish to see how he would respond to it?

Yeseo felt that he should be crying, but instead, there was only a stinging warmth, ambiguous as to whether it was painful or comforting.

His sister had given him the best person in the kingdom she could think of, but even with this decision he knew that she couldn't be so sure of when she hadn't even bothered to show her face. But Yeseo, no matter what, was indeed Wilhelmina's little brother, and so like her he was just as foolish, sitting there and still trusting her decision to play along with her blaze-like will.

Wilhelmina had cared for him for six years.

She was caring for him in her own way, even now.

(His sister had never been good at showing affection, he laughed privately, the folded handkerchief on the outskirts of his vision.)

“At the very least,” Yeseo started, lightly squeezing her hand in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture. “This one... hopes that we can start as friends, first.”

Gently, he helped her up so that she could sit beside him on the divan, equal to equal, as much as they could be.

“This one... may not be as skilled as his sister, nor does be have remotely as much influence, but... I will support you where I can, too—if Your Majesty would allow me."

Christanne's palms were calloused and rough, more of a knight than a diplomat, but though the kingdom was no longer at war following the signing of the treaty between Riester and Venetiaan two generations ago, its effects were still plaguing the country in a whole new battle.

“... You are working very hard, Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I hope you can relax for a bit, even if just for a moment, when it's just the two of us.”

Christanne stared at him for a short while, before her eyes wavered as if in disbelief that someone in this situation could react so serenely, casting down to stare at their joint hands—her scarred fingers, rough from swordsmanship, settling over his unblemished ones, marred only by the distinct bump of a writer's callus. He looked soft, like the kind of person that would tend to flowers in his free time, but the skin beneath his nails was clean like shells, void of dirt or pollen dust.

In the end, she squeezed back, and their palms met no differently than a handshake, warm and welcoming, and when they parted, the greetings exchanged were from one new friend to another. Yeseo dutifully escorted her back to her carriage, standing alongside the knights that accompanied her despite Christanne having a sword that outmatched all of theirs.

To his startle, an old woman was watching them from beyond the gates, but no one seemed to notice her in her dark, tattered robe. When he blinked, the woman was gone, and he watched the carriage go into the distance where it disappeared beyond the street, discarding the vision as something he had merely made up. Only when he was satisfied by the dwindling sight of the Royal flag, waving him a gentle goodbye, did he finally turn back, returning to the foyer.

Traces of Wilhelmina's love lingered from where the portrait was hung up the stairs, but the house was cold, even without her hand to chill him.

Her painted face stared forward, never looking down at him, avoiding his gaze just like how she had avoided his reaction to this proposed marriage.

(Wilhelmina didn't come home that day.)

She didn't come home for a long, long time.

In the first few days his sister was away, conducting some unknown affairs back at the duchy down south, Yeseo spent a lot of time in the Pantheon, serving as a priest.

He tended to the injured and gave penance to confessors. He did his duties and followed the instruction of the Vatican cleric that Wilhelmina had sent in advance to teach him before her departure, learning new advanced formulas for healing circles and listening to his ethical teachings.

Surprisingly, Sir Michael was often there, as well; his oddly playful nature somewhat soothing in the quiet of his new routine.

The first day he had been there, outside of the foot-washing ceremony, Michael had taken one look at his face before suddenly leaving, wordlessly setting off from the site before returning what felt like an hour later. In his hands were a bouquet of flowers—wrapped in cheap cloth but organized with care.

“Pink tulips...?” Yeseo had muttered, somewhat taken off-guard by the sudden presentation of flowers, but accepting of them nonetheless.

Michael shrugged. “I would have gotten you purple tulips to match your hair, but unfortunately,” he smiled, a sly and secretive little thing, but almost acquiesced. “Those are a bit harder to acquire.”

“These...” He floundered a bit at what to say, feeling at a loss with all of the words suddenly escaping from him. “Thank you,” he eventually settled for, cradling the small bouquet like a precious gift.

Michael seemed pleased with this, gently patting his shoulder, and though they eventually had to go their own way to perform their respective duties, whenever they happened to cross paths, Michael’s smile was always comforting, a small light that persisted strongly in the dark. Sometimes, the young man would be playing with the orphan children in the Pantheon's care, a pair or three hanging off his arms and back. The first time Yeseo had seen it, he had been shocked—he knew the fellow priest was tall, but he hadn’t expected those long limbs to be strong, too, spinning around with giggling toddlers clutching his biceps, before he slowed and the children caught a glimpse of him, gasping highly before scrambling behind the taller priest.

“They’re scared of you,” Michael sadly shook his head, unbothered by the little hands gripping the back of his legs.

Yeseo was stunned speechless. “Me…? What did I do?”

With an air that was kind yet simultaneously so mean, Michael shrugged, providing him void but an answer. There was a glint in his eyes as he considered him, but it was swiftly erased for a more dejected look, kneeling to the height of the children whom he comforted with rubs to their backs.

“You are simply too beautiful, Sir Yeseo,” he lamented, in a rather theatrical way that had one of the kids tugging at his sleeve in embarrassment, as if they could feel that they were being teased as well. “Children are intimidated by pretty faces, please be careful.”

“I… will be sure to hide my face the next time I visit.”

Michael looked infinitely amused by his response, and after whispering some words to the children, he sent them on their way as they waved his goodbye, their gestures becoming a bit more bashful and hesitant once they directed them at Yeseo.

“I hardly think covering your face will be enough,” Michael hummed, still waving until the kids had turned behind a corner before fully committing his attention to Yeseo. “Your hair holds too much of the Lord's grace to be ignored, and the way you carry yourself is enough of an indicator that you are someone important.”

“Should I just cease to exist, then?” Yeseo exasperatedly threw out. He could not do anything if the problem was his entire physicality.

“Please do not. I will find myself missing you if you do.”

“You...” For a moment, Yeseo struggled to grasp for words, before he merely gave up with a huff. “...... I know we are the same age, but you are rather shameless.”

“The same age? Are you not older than I am?”

“...... Huh?”

“I was born on the 19th of March the year after your 10th of May. That would make you ten months my senior.”

“So you are like this even knowing I am older? Why don’t you apologize and call me hyung right n— Wait.” Yeseo paused, baffled, before quickly backtracking. “How do you even know my birthday?”

Michael’s grin was deceptively unassuming. It was truly astonishing how impertinent his handsome face could be with that secretive little smile of his. It was already enough that the other priest was fully aware Yeseo had never given him his ‘true’ name, but the boy had easily indulged him and followed through with calling him that whenever they met. He had long been certain that the priest was aware of his true identity, though, in hindsight, it should be said that practically anyone would be able to recognize him simply by the colour of his hair and the stitchings of his robes. Gossip tabloids were surprisingly dutiful in reporting all sorts of idiosyncrasies, after all....

“I am a big fan of reading,” Michael simply admitted, enough of a hint to confirm the assumptions Yeseo managed to form through his bafflement. “Though I must say, Jewel of Sneijder is an interesting choice of sobriquet, as I find it a rather insulting point of comparison when hyung is obviously much more precious than any existing stone jewel.”

It was with whiplash that Yeseo received the unexpected blow that was Michael addressing him as hyung. When paired with the absurdity of such an unexpected line as a whole—outside the realms of anything Yeseo could have expected to come out of the other priest's mouth next—it all made for an appropriately bewildering statement. Yeseo had always regarded that cheesy nickname with embarrassment, however, so to hear it be unabashedly disapproved of was somewhat gratifying, even if it had been done in an inexplicably odd way.

Unable to help himself, a coughed laugh escaped Yeseo, helplessly leaving him in a small ensuing pool of defeated mirth. He didn't know how to respond to such a thing, but Michael nonetheless seemed alright with that—a pleased smile fitting over his face, as if hearing his laughter was all that he needed to end his day on a satisfying note.

He remained peacefully quiet as he stood by Yeseo's side, content to bask in the gentle peals of his amusement for this short-lived moment, eyes closed as if listening to a pleasant little song.

“You are so silly,” Yeseo breathlessly said, soon composing himself. “Who even uses such embarrassing words these days… Are you not bold enough?”

Michael's response was merely a chuckle.

“It is in the Church's belief to live an exciting, gallant life that would be worthy of receiving the Lord's gaze. I like to believe I am doing well enough in that respect, no?”

Hearing that, Yeseo did genuinely think that Sir Michael embodied the values of the Church rather well, perhaps even in ways that most people did not. Rather than dramatic actions that seemed rather pointlessly extreme, he was perplexing yet kind, a young man who dutifully attended to his tasks yet spared no hesitation in the small pleasantries of life. He was interesting in the way that enigmatic characters in a novel were, playful and sly and mysterious but kind, appearing only for a brief moment but filling the entire page with his presence.

“May the Lord be pleased with your life, Sir Yeseo.”

With a polite incline of his head, Michael greeted him goodbye for the day.

“... And with yours as well,” he customarily responded, watching Michael return down the hall to the priests’ quarters, waving once before fully disappearing.

Yeseo would only realize this later, but he was grateful to the young priest for going out of his way to raise his mood.

In between his trips to the Pantheon, Yeseo was also frequently visited by Christanne.

It seemed that she had caught wind of Wilhelmina's sudden departure, and thinking that he might be lonely, she always made sure to send considerate gifts through an attendant of hers. Not only was it thoughtful, but rather strategic, as well—the sight of a Royal carriage routinely visiting the Sneijder's capital estate was quick to garner attention, inquisitive whispers being discussed from noble to noble, lines of correspondence being sent from friend to friend, all speculating on a possible relationship brewing between the young Queen and the Jewel of Sneijder.

Public opinion, though still on the down-low, was rather positive.

Who else, after all, would be a better fit for consort of the Queen of the Divine Kingdom, than the young man with blessed purple hair and gracefully pure ether? Christanne held the authority of the Lord in her golden tresses and eyes, while Yeseo held Her love and divinity in his purple hair—together they represented all of God's symbolic blessings.

From his constant visits to the Pantheon, accounts have even begun recirculation about the way his eyes would turn from brown to amethyst upon opening a sanctum, and what with the fervent adoration that the people had for the Lord, those aspects only made him seem like a fitting candidate for Prince Consort in the future.

It was odd suddenly being thrust into the eye of public interest and Christanne would always appear guilty for it whenever she either visited or sent for him, but Yeseo didn't mind it as much when he saw how hard she tried shielding him from the tabloids.

Christanne drew attention easily—with her long golden hair, braided so that it fell gracefully down her back, to her tall stature that towered over most people, poise and discipline visible in her every step. She never went without her sword, either: a stunningly large blade that Yeseo wouldn't even be able to lift with both hands if he tried. It was almost as if she were born to be Queen, a small sun that one day blinked into this world with a clear purpose, drawing to itself the adoring gazes of everyone around her.

“Did you like the novel I sent you?”

“Please do not tease,” Yeseo quickly got out. It wasn't his fault that his main source of entertainment happened to be cheesy and melodramatic novels. Christanne certainly found joy in finding some for him, picking them out for him to read during their time apart, and the next time they met they would discuss them—usually consisting of Christanne quietly teasing him for his tastes, while he passionately explained his opinions on whatever absurd conflict was occurring in the novel next.

She took to her duties as his future fiancée rather diligently. She always cared for him, in a way that was achingly touching, like a gentle hand that fed a quivering lamb. Christanne knew his favourite food, and though he was never picky about his appetite, anything she brought over was bought from a renowned bakery and the table of sweets she had prepared for whenever he was invited for tea at the palace were all carefully picked with a range of variety for whatever urge he fancied satisfying. All of her gifts were thoughtful, and it would have felt overbearing if they weren't so considerably prepared with him in mind.

They still had yet to exchange rings. Yeseo didn't know how any piece of jewellery could ever suit someone who shone as brilliantly as her, but that was something he'd had to discuss with Wilhelmina when she came back for him.

Knowing her, she probably had something already prepared. The fact that she didn't present it to him beforehand was reassuring, as it meant she would surely be coming back to show him soon.

Maybe that was why she left. Wilhelmina was always excessive when it came to him—perhaps she was scouring the lands for the most perfect engagement ring she could find before sending her brother off, lining up at some secret auction house somewhere on the continent, perhaps even in Corleone... But naive as he was in some matters, Yeseo knew better than to think that.

“I brought you another gift,” Christanne diffidently said. Over the course of the days, she had grown infinitely more comfortable showering him in presents as if it were no big deal, but sometimes she would still hesitate, treating him carefully as if not wanting to accidentally hurt or offend him.

Holding an ornate little box in her rough palms, she gently opened the hinges, a velvet clam presenting on a soft bed a small white diamond. He was stunned for a second, the design before him simple yet almost blindingly stunning.

“May I?” Christanne softly asked after allowing him his silence, tentative and ever patient, and what else was Yeseo to do but mutely nod, tilting the side of his head her way. Her hands which were so accustomed to wielding the sword were surprisingly fragile with his hair as she brushed it behind his ear, fingers carefully adjusting the single earring into the lobe he had pierced since childhood.

When it was finally slipped on and secured, Yeseo's hand hovered near the foreign weight, light enough to not be a hindrance but just present enough to remind him that they would perpetually be there.

Quick to present him with a silver hand mirror, Christanne wordlessly awaited his reaction. He observed the latest gift he had received—a small, dangling white diamond that was complemented by the shape of a silver crescent moon, wrapping around it to contain the stones like starry eyes within the inner curve. It was intricate craftsmanship, perhaps more than he could ever deserve, and he knew he couldn't refuse it with the excuse of it being too excessive because it seemed Christanne knew him well—it was pretty but simple, demure and as beautiful as the humble wink of the moon, all the intricacies encompassed within cuts of the diamond.

“It's beautiful,” he murmured, fingers lightly grazing the dangling crescent.

“You are beautiful,” Christanne replied simply, reiterating where his praise should go. She said this with such simplicity, as if there were no other way to describe him, and the thought made him somewhat embarrassed knowing that an esteemed person like her could ever hold him in such undeserved regard. In any other situation this would've been heart-fluttering; maybe in another world, ‘Werner Sneijder’ would have fallen madly in love with the attention bestowed upon him by someone as grand as a the country's Queen, but Yeseo could see the situation as it was now and he saw it clearly in its entirety.

This was an olive branch—a token of friendship—carefully chosen as one would for a future spouse or even lover, but of all the words in the world that they could use to describe their relationship, none could begin to attribute what they had to the bonds found in his silly beloved novels, but the gesture was so gentle and so kind as if it were no different.

Neither of them said anything about what the future awaited for them. Nothing about being fiancés, or being betrothed, or what married life would be for them.

It was a nice moment, rooted peacefully in the present.

Yeseo called upon his ether and drew pictures in the air between them—galloping horses and pretty songbirds, a small theatre of golden dust fluttering about. Christanne smiled, ever so appreciative of abilities, fondly gazing upon the fantastical little play that flew above them like a festival procession with quiet awe. A fairytale it was, a puppet play, images so vivid thanks to the extent of Yeseo’s imagination—a surprising requirement of divine power, should one awaken as a priest. Playfully, he drew a shower of flowers above the young Queen’s head, gathering around her like a wreath of laurels and he watched as her smile softened as it widened, a graceful pull of her rose lips, the gentle sentiments of Yeseo’s emotions seeping into her head and nestling into her golden hair, blessing her with an insurance of good dreams should she later fall asleep.

It was in no way a gift that could match the one Christanne had given him, but if you were to ask her she’d say the opposite, and admit that there was no greater gift he could have given her than this.

'There is not a single regent in the entire history of the Venetiaan Kingdom that hadn't gone mad', she had once told him.

('I hope to be the first that doesn't.')

Her apricot eyes were steady—unfaltering and unwavering. Yeseo's hands reached to cup the sides of her head, fingers lightly brushing against the strands of golden hair that framed her regal face, and he kissed her forehead as she bent her chin just enough so that he could reach it, receiving his blessing with a relaxed smile.

His ether lasted only for a moment in physical form, but by the time Yeseo was on his way back to the Sneijder residence, it had seeped into her skin and clothes, polishing the brooch she wore upon her vest with a golden shine, providing her with warmth even when he was away.

The white diamond gently swayed from his ear with the soft movements of his carriage, lulling him into a short nap.

The dreams of another life began resurfacing.

It had been quite a while since he'd had any, so when he woke up, he was shocked to find himself in tears, wetness on his cheeks and a dampening of his lashes. His heart trembled widely—in the silence of the room, it sounded thunderous, accompanied by his hitched gasp and quivering limbs, grasping desperately at his covers in an attempt to hold hands that he could no longer reach.

He sought out Wilhelmina at once, like he had so often done when he was younger—shaking limbs and shuddering breaths—but their capital estate was different from their ducal castle, and so he wandered the halls of the manor for quite a while feeling no different from a young child, lost in a bustling marketplace looking for his sibling, stumbling in the darkness blind until he finally found her office.

It hurt more than it should have when he noticed a familiar blanket placed over the sidelined armchair, expecting his presence.

Yeseo curled up into it anyway, clinging onto the remnants of cold warmth.

When Wilhelmina finally came back, it was early in the morning.

The hems of her cloak were stained with mud, faintly visible as it matted the inconspicuous dark fabric. As she lifted her hood, she was met with the unexpected sight of her brother's figure, visible at the top of the stairs where he was wrapped in a soft white shawl, illuminated with a faint glow from the light of the candle holder hooped around his finger. He lingered, pale in his sleeping robes, a little ghost in their own large home. For a second it felt that he could disappear should she look away from him or even blink, but the thought didn’t occur to her for one second to interrupt her gaze—transfixed, almost, by the sight of the boy who she had not seen for well over weeks and a month.

Sometimes a feeling of void swept over her while she had been away, subconsciously seeking his head of lavender amidst dark hoods and clouds of dust. The Jericho Underground oddly made her miss the sky, the natural light bestowed upon them by the universe up above, and wordlessly she watched as Werner descended the coil of the stairs like a flickering light, soon passing under their family portrait of two on the plateau, obscured faintly by the shadows of the hour.

He’s had a habit of staring at it with fond remembrance ever since its completion, though he did not pay it attention this time, occupied with making his way down the steps. Soon, he stood before her, face just as reticent as hers in a way that truly confirmed he was her brother, but it was still softer in every possible way, from the angle of his lashes that softened his sharp upturned eyes, to the lack of grit in his lips that in his entirety still reminded her that he was so very different.

“You forgot your handkerchief when you left, noonim,” he said, his voice barely echoing in the foyer, and though his tone almost felt like it could be chiding it was undeniably soft. Setting the candlestick on the console table near the door, he reached out for the back of her familiarly cold hand and pressed the carefully folded fabric back into her palm.

“Do you not remember? It was a gift.”

His smile was quiet, and his voice just as much, but to Wilhelmina it sounded as if it were filling the entire room, spreading like a blanket that forgave rather than accused, and she found that wanted nothing more than to thrash against it, tugging at the warm velvet fabric that she was now drowning in all over again.

“I already have mine.” (Because, she remembered wryly, the boy had made two for some reason, despite it having been her birthday and not his.) “This one belongs with you. Please do not leave it behind again.”

Wilhelmina remained silent, her cold fingers barely grasping onto the boiling folded rag. The embroidery was as ugly as she remembered, and no matter how much she looked at it, her opinion always remained the same—but still, she held onto it, just enough so that it wouldn't slip from her grasp and disappoint the child so earnestly handing it back to her.

Werner, that foolish boy, was shifting around to help her with her cloak, unclasping the brooch that held it together at the front, before passing it carefully over her shoulders. His movements were attentive, careful not to accidentally nick at her tightly pinned-up hair, measured motions that spoke of care, as if she were a young child that had just returned from playing outside in the unblemished snow, and not a grown adult who knew how to wash their hands after tending to their filthy gardens.

She stood still, allowing him this indulgence for a reason that did not make itself immediately clear to her. The butler who had been informed of her prior arrival had long since left them in the foyer, headed off with her luggage to take care of her affairs. This early in the morning, the scullery maids had just recently woken up, readying themselves and preparing for the household breakfast to be ready for when the masters were later wakened, and yet there Werner was, tending to her as if he weren’t her brother but a common servant, but despite the comparison, there were no real similarities at all.

The help was invisible as they did their duties—not speaking a word even if they had mouths, not looking up even if they had eyes, not listening even if they had ears, accomplishing their tasks with downturned lashes and swift, precise moves. But Werner who had hit his head and lost all trace of cruelty, oozed care with a mere lift of his hand, love flowing from every inch of his loosely undone hair and coiling down to his feet like an overabundant clear spring.

“Beatrijs.”

Finally, she spoke, her low voice—an echo almost to her own ears—detached as he took her cloak. In response he merely hummed, a light sound that acknowledged he was listening, always listening.

In her other hand was a box of sweets, no longer warm and fresh. She had grabbed them on the way back to him out of habit, and as always she wasn't quite sure what for.

“You will be happy.”

The words came out awfully quiet.

She hadn't intended to sound like that, her throat oddly choked up and thick, but even in the face of her uncharacteristic hoarseness, Werner's understanding smile never wavered. For a second, he even looked exasperated, perhaps even defeated but long resigned, and it felt as though there was nothing she could do to shake him. He was the very image of tranquil passivity, a steady stream of unobstructed water that did not cease to flow even with a stone placed right at the centre. He nodded at her words as if out of everything in the world that she could have said he had expected such a thing to be spilled from her lips, and Wilhelmina didn't know her brother's easy and compliant nature could have annoyed her like so.

 “Okay,” he said simply, indulgent and forgiving. So agreeable and so infuriating.

Below their feet, a golden circle slowly bloomed, illuminating the foyer in a gentle light not unlike a zonnekrans but fundamentally different all the while. Werner's ether represented everything that he was, everything that fundamentally annoyed Wilhelmina that she adored and envied all the same, a suffocating cocoon that embraced her with such tenderness it was as if it could forgive her for all her wrongs.

[“I will be happy.”]

The transom stained glass window above the main door, shaped like half of a moon, stared down at her with an overwhelming weight not unlike the judging eye of God. But Heavens knew, just by the way they had sent this person before her, that the real witness of all her sins stood right there only a step away, wearing a kind face and an even kinder voice, holding her dirty cloak and folding it as if it were something to be preciously handled instead of recklessly discarded as it should be.

[“So in return,”] he continued, [“Noonim has to promise me this—that she, just like me, will be happy in the future, too.”]

Such an ungodly sentence had just poured out of that silly child’s mouth, and Wilhelmina only barely withheld the urge to bark out a truly ugly laugh, nearly thrown off guard by his demands for a concession as if him being happy wasn't and wouldn’t ever be enough. For six years, the boy had been content with the barest minimum—she couldn't begin to fathom why now, and only now, he was starting to make unreasonable demands, but from the way the light of his sanctum curled around her dirty boots as if coaxing a response, the reason soon hit her.

That was penance, she realized, inwardly almost hysterical, but Wilhelmina could not bring herself to accept it. The glow of the ether blinded her and the warmth felt scalding, and though she abhorred the feeling she wanted nothing more than to be burnt alive by it—if only, perhaps, so that she could show that she could survive it, and come out charred and burnt without reproval, alive only through her sheer force of defiance and will.

God's will.

Sneijder's will.

The Lord had graced her, all those years ago, and presented her with Her blessing by awakening Werner—the ultimate sign of approval doused in his purple hair and polished amethyst eyes. An act of violence was how she had brought back her rightful brother, and violence was what was going to propel her position to the levels where even the Royal Crown would not be able to easily touch her hems.

Being content did not build palaces, being soft-hearted did not create armies; the close-mindedness of men has halted change and drove progress Underground, where the boundless opportunities of brilliant minds and ostracized mages had no choice but to study their craft and practise their natural abilities under heavily-veiled covers.

Wilhelmina would build palaces, create armies, and enact true, genuine change.

What did she have to be sorry for, if all this had to be accomplished through dirty means?

Ancestors and predecessors have all tried and failed for generations, none passing the trials set out before them and resulting in nothing but fracturing this country that should have been prosperous and pure, but Wilhelmina would be different. She would make the kingdom of Venetiaan as it should be, a land of answered prayers that would no longer remain stagnant, where people would be able to reign without hoping for divine intervention to save them.

God's gaze, God's embrace, God's acceptance—foolishly living the rest of their lives yearning for love that will never come for them, a cold Mother who would never spare affection for her suffering, unimportant, unremarkable Children, lives who to Her were so uninteresting that it wasn't worth the time and affection.

Why?

For what reason would she need penance?

Why should she have to feel......?!

God's grace and judgement stared her kindly in the eye, a delicate pinky extended and raised in her direction. On his left ear hung a white diamond surrounded by a silver moon, and the glint blinded her whole.

[“... I will be truly glad, should the day come where I can see my sister peaceful and happy.”]

Gentle words coaxed her with a patient smile. Proof of Her love visible in his hair and eyes, divinity and forgiveness and love manifested in a truly cruel human form. Why was such a person born, awakened in the body of her brother? How could the Lord condemn her to the punishment of having a child like him by her side? Why was he here, gazing upon her with such forgiving eyes, and not somewhere else that could be deserving of it?

The worst birthday present she had ever received was the news of his birth.

The best was an ugly, clumsy, badly embroidered handkerchief, now tightly gripped in her hand.

Chest aching, nose itching. She needed to sneeze but the growing untreatable urge only stung her eyes and scratched her throat, stealing her of any words. She didn't want to touch him.

Her hands were dirty.

There was too much pollen.

With the world buzzing in her ears, her finger lifted to curl around his, the handkerchief chafing between them, and she let the vessel squeeze their fingers together halfway—a promise he believed she was making, in reality not even prompting a reaction from his sanctum.

The golden circle spun, the spotlight of Her gaze—manifested—slowly closing shut.

Werner's smile was like a small, slivered moon, pointlessly earnest and persevering.

The transom light of the waking sun crept over them from the doorway, bearing down on her back like a sentence.

(It was the last morning of the Waning Crescent.)