Chapter Text
The pale morning light infiltrated through the cracks of the heavy curtain, drawing golden stripes on the wooden floor of the room. The air was still, heavy with the soft scent of Beatrice's hair, a light floral aroma from Meili, and the almost neutral smell, like ozone after the rain, of Spica. Natsuki Subaru had been awake for some time, his eyes fixed on the canopy above, tracing the dancing shadows as if they were constellations in an unknown sky. Beside him, a tangle of limbs and quiet breaths. Beatrice, with her drill-like curls spread across the pillow, snored softly, one hand firmly clutching his shirt sleeve, a habit she had developed since he had pulled her from the burning library. On the other side, Meili Portroute, the former assassin, slept with the deceptive innocence of a child, an arm thrown over Subaru's waist, her warm breath on his neck. And at the foot of the bed, curled up like a cat, was Spica, the silent shadow of a Sin Archbishop, who had followed him with an instinctual and unshakable loyalty since her bizarre "resurrection" in Vollachia.
He had succeeded. The sentence echoed in his mind, an empty mantra. Priscilla Barielle was alive, the Great Disaster had been contained, all his friends, every precious piece on his carefully arranged board, were safe and breathing. He should have been exultant, floating on a wave of relief and triumph. But instead, a cold torpor spread through his veins, a discontent so profound it seemed to corrode the very fabric of his soul. The victory felt... fabricated. Because it was. Fabricated by his countless, unnamable deaths.
"How many times?" he thought, the question gliding through his consciousness like a ghost. "How many times has the film of my life been rewound so I could cut out the bad scenes?" The deaths at the hands of enemies were almost... clean. Petelgeuse, Elsa, the cultists. They were monsters, and monsters kill. Simple. The pain was physical, terrifying, but there was a twisted logic to it. The real poison, the wound that never healed, were the deaths at the hands of those who now slept under the same roof. The hands of his friends.
With infinite care, Subaru slipped out of bed, the floorboards creaking minimally under his weight. He walked to the window, opening a sliver in the curtain to observe the awakening mansion gardens. The grass was covered in dew, sparkling like a field of diamonds. So peaceful. So fake.
"They're happy," his internal monologue continued, the cynical and tired voice of a veteran from a war no one else knew had been fought. "They believe they overcame adversity with courage and a bit of luck. They have no idea about the script. About how much blood—my blood—was used as ink to write this story with a happy ending."
His mind, a cursed archive, opened a drawer. Rem. Her gentle smile, her fierce devotion... and the crushing impact of her flail in the darkness of the second loop. The excruciating pain, the snap of his bones, the surprise in her eyes as she killed him on suspicion, for the scent he couldn't control. Had he forgiven her? No, it would be more accurate to say he had filed the memory in a section of his mind labeled "Do Not Touch - Risk of Existential Collapse." Ignored, yes. It was easier than confronting the ugliness that his beloved Rem, his hero, was his first executioner inside that sanctuary he fought so hard to protect. And then, upon waking from her coma, the first thing she did... he felt the phantom grip on his throat. She choked him. Fear and distrust. The cycle repeating in a cruelly ironic way. Don't think about it.
Another drawer opened. Emilia. His heart ached, a sharp, familiar pang. The abandonment at the royal palace. "It's for your own good, Subaru." Her words, so well-intentioned, so condescending, so selfish. She left him behind after he saved her from Elsa, after he publicly humiliated himself for her, after he declared his love for her in front of all the knights. And her justification? That he was getting hurt for her. A logic so flawed it was almost insulting. He got hurt to save Rem, to save Petra, to save the damn entire village, and she didn't consider any of that? Only what related to her. Didn't he deserve compassion? A chance to explain? Or did her opinion of what was "good" for him override his own agency? "Deciding for me... Who's the selfish one, Emilia? You, who discarded me with a pious excuse, or me, who dies repeatedly to keep your smile intact? We're the same, aren't we? Two egotists trying to force our own version of happiness onto the world."
The stream of bitter thoughts was a flood. Garfiel. "Just a scared kid." Such a convenient excuse for the image of him transforming into a golden tiger and slaughtering Otto and the Arlam villagers in one of the loops. Does fear justify murderous savagery? Since when did cowardice become a free pass for carnage? Don't think about it, Subaru. Ram. Standing in the shadows, watching in silence for hours while Rem tortured him, dismembered him. Not a word, not a move to intervene. Just her cold, calculating eyes. She was an accomplice. Don't think about it. Beatrice. His little Beako. Letting him wither away slowly from the Wolgarm's curse in that first loop inside the mansion, when she could have saved him with a snap of her fingers. "It's the end for you, I suppose." Don't think about it. Otto. Pushing him out of the carriage, a sacrifice to the White Whale. He redeemed himself, he said they were friends, but the memory of the wind hitting his face as he fell to his death never faded. And Puck... the gentle smile of that damn cat before the world turned into a tomb of ice. That "father." What a joke. Unable to protect Emilia even once without breaking a promise and destroying the world like a petulant child. Don't think about it.
A soft noise behind him pulled him from his abyss. Meili was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, her long, dark-blue hair a tangled nest. She looked at him, her expression still clouded with sleep.
"Hmm... Su-baru...?" she yawned. "Why are you awake so eaaarly~?"
He forced a smile, the mask falling back into place. It was a well-trained muscle. "Morning, Meili. Just admiring the garden. Shouldn't you go back to sleep?"
"Noo~," she mumbled, sliding out of bed and walking over to him, her nightgown dragging on the floor. She stopped beside him, peeking through the same sliver. "It's pretty... But your face isn't, you know? You look like you've seen a ghost~. Was it a bad ghost~?" Her voice had that childish, sing-song quality he knew to be a sharp, disarming knife. She, who had pushed him from the Watchtower stairs without hesitation. Another mark on his death log. Don't think.
"Just a nightmare," he answered, his voice a little hoarser than usual. He patted her head, her hair surprisingly soft. "But it's over now."
Meili's eyes narrowed slightly, too perceptive for her age. "You have a lot of nightmares~. Maybe you should tell me about them. Maybe I can send some mabeasts to eat them~."
Subaru laughed, a short, joyless sound. "I don't think even your beasts would have the stomach for my nightmares."
Spica, now also awake, approached silently, stopping on Subaru's other side. Her large blue eyes, once the abyss of Gluttony, now watched him with an almost animal curiosity. She said nothing, just reached out a hand and touched his arm, the gesture questioning and strangely comforting. She was the only one who knew, in a way. The only one who had glimpsed the mechanism of his power, even if she didn't remember.
"It's okay, Spica," he said softly, covering her hand with his. "I'm okay. Wow." He used the name she had given him. It was easier to interact with her on these simple terms.
The last to wake was Beatrice, who sat up in bed with a small huff of indignation upon finding the space beside her empty. "Subaru! Where did you go, in fact? Leaving Betty alone in bed is a violation of our contract, I suppose!"
She hopped out of bed, marching toward him with her cheeks puffed out. "What are the three of you looking at with such gloomy faces? It's too early for melancholy, in fact."
Subaru turned to her, his smile becoming a little more genuine in her presence. His Beako. The one he had chosen, the one he had offered a choice. "Sorry, sorry, Beako. I couldn't sleep. My head's a little noisy today."
Beatrice crossed her arms, but her eyes scanned his face with a concern she tried to disguise with irritation. "Hmph. You and your noisy head. That's what happens when you fill it with useless thoughts, I suppose. If the noise gets too loud, you just have to tell Betty. Betty can use Shamak and make everything quiet for a while, in fact."
Her offer, so sincere in its oddness, warmed something inside him. "Ah... that's why," he thought, looking at the three girls around him. A childish ex-assassin, the empty shell of a Witch, and a 400-year-old artificial spirit with tsundere tendencies. A collection of broken souls, all gathered by him. "It doesn't matter. Pondering it only brings suffering. Saving everyone was my decision. The love I feel for Emilia, for Rem... it's not a lie. Even if it's built on a mountain of my own lies and corpses."
He gave an exaggerated stretch, his bones cracking. "Alright, alright, enough gloomy thoughts! We've got a big day ahead! Emilia-tan is probably getting ready, Ram is about to terrorize the kitchen, and... ah." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Petra will be here in exactly nineteen minutes to wake me up with a lecture about oversleeping."
He knew. He knew every hour, every second. He knew Petra would bring tea, that Ram would complain about the mess in his room, that Otto would show up later to complain about some paperwork. The world was a script, and he was the director, the screenwriter, and the lead actor who died in every rehearsal.
"Maybe I've already found my happy ending," he thought, as he led the three sleepy girls out of the room, a tired but determined smile on his face. "A world where no one suffers, because I absorb all the suffering. If I need to lock the entire world into this perfect little stage play for that to happen... then so be it. It will be worth it."
The first step was breakfast. He already knew what was on the menu. And he already knew the taste of every bite. The knowledge was a burden, but it was also his greatest weapon. The curtain was rising on another perfect day. The show must go on.
Chapter Text
The hallway leading to the grand dining hall was bathed in the same morning light Subaru had observed earlier, now stronger and warmer, promising a clear day. The aroma of fresh bread and frying bacon wafted up from downstairs, a scent so domestic and comforting it could almost mask the hum of anxiety under Subaru's skin. He descended the stairs at a calculated pace, not too fast, not too slow, a step for each beat of his metronomic heart. Beside him, Beatrice trotted to keep up, her small hand holding his, an anchor in his meticulously constructed reality. Meili and Spica followed them, the former skipping and humming a nonsensical tune, the latter moving with a silent grace, her eyes fixed on Subaru's back.
"Frankly, Subaru, the amount of time you take to get ready is unseemly for a man, in fact," Beatrice declared, her tone a mixture of reproach and familiarity. "Petra must have set the table twice already. Are you trying to compete with Roswaal's vanity, I suppose?"
Subaru smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes, even if the light in them was a little dimmer, a little older than it should be. "Come on, Beako. A knight needs to present his best face for his lady. And since I have several ladies to impress, the effort needs to be multiplied. It's simple math." He gave her a wink, a gesture he had honed over countless repetitions, calibrated to extract the exact amount of blush and an irritated grumble.
As predicted, Beatrice huffed. "Hmph. Cheap flattery will get you nowhere with Betty. And stop calling me one of your 'ladies.' I am your contracted spirit, a being of a much higher caliber, in fact."
"The highest caliber of all," he agreed softly, squeezing her hand. The script was comforting. The responses were familiar. The predictability was his sanctuary.
And then, as they turned at the end of the hall, they appeared. Emilia. Rem. They were standing near a window, the sunlight wrapping them in a halo. Emilia, with her shining silver hair, was adjusting the flower-shaped ribbon in Rem's hair. Rem, in turn, kept her head down, her expression neutral, but there was a stiffness in her shoulders that Subaru knew intimately. It was the stiffness of someone on guard, of someone who saw the world through a filter of distrust.
"Good morning, Emilia-tan! Good morning, Rem!" Subaru's voice came out smooth, charming, without the desperate shrillness of his early days. He no longer needed to shout to be heard; he had learned to modulate his presence, to weave his way into conversations rather than breaking down the door.
Emilia turned, a radiant smile spreading across her face. The sight still made Subaru's heart stumble, a Pavlovian reflex that not even disillusionment could completely erase. "Subaru! Good morning! We were just... uhm... talking." Her hesitation, so characteristic, so endearing.
Rem looked up. Her light-blue eyes met his, and for an instant, Subaru's world froze. There was no affectionate glow, no devoted warmth that he remembered with a searing ache. There was only a cold, distant assessment. "Good morning, Subaru," she said, her voice polite, professional. No "-kun." Just his name, said as if it were a stranger's, a coworker's. The sting was as sharp as the first day he had heard it after she woke up. But he didn't show it. The mask remained in place.
"I see you're helping Rem with her hair, Emilia-tan. It looks beautiful. You both do," he said, his gaze shifting from one to the other, a comprehensive and safe compliment. He knew a direct compliment to Rem would be met with suspicion, and a too-effusive compliment to Emilia might seem like he was favoring her. Balance was everything.
"Th-Thank you, Subaru." Emilia blushed slightly. She still hadn't answered his confession, his kiss. The question hung in the air between them, a ghost in all their interactions. "I love you." Three words he expected to hear from her. He would hear them. It was just a matter of time, of taking the right steps in the dance. He had the script.
They went down to breakfast together. The dining hall was lively. Ram was supervising Petra, who moved with a surprising efficiency for her age. Garfiel was already devouring a pile of toast, and Otto was trying to read a document while eating, looking perpetually stressed.
"Captain! Morning!" Garfiel shouted with his mouth full. "You're late! I thought I'd have to eat your portion!"
"Keep your tiger paws off my bacon, Garfiel," Subaru replied with an easy laugh, sitting in his usual spot between Emilia and Beatrice. "Petra, morning. It smells amazing, as always."
Petra beamed, her small face lighting up. "Good morning, Subaru! I made it just the way you like!" She loved him. That was simple, a given, a comforting constant amidst his more complicated variables.
Ram approached, placing a pitcher of juice on the table with an unnecessarily loud thud. "Barusu. You're drooling. It's disgusting."
Subaru looked at her, his smile not wavering. "And you, Ram, did you manage to burn the water again? I hear it's a rare talent." He considered her incompetent. Not out of malice, but as a cold, observed fact. Without her horn, she was a shadow of her former self, her pride and her sharp tongue the only weapons she had left. She leaned on Roswaal, a dangerous crutch, and performed her duties with a carelessness that bordered on sabotage. But he couldn't say that. He needed her for the plan. So, the teasing, the theater of their rivalry, continued.
The conversation flowed around the table. Otto complained about a new import tax, Garfiel told an exaggerated story about a training session, Emilia talked about the lesser spirits in the garden. Subaru participated in everything, the conductor of an orchestra that only he could hear. He offered Otto advice on how to get around the tax (a trick he had learned in a failed loop), praised Garfiel's strength (knowing that validation was what he craved most), and listened intently to Emilia, asking the right questions to encourage her to talk about herself. He was calmer, more reliable. The persona of the over-the-top idiot had been shed, a snakeskin left behind. He was the version of himself they needed him to be: the steady knight, the caring friend, the pillar of strength.
His main focus, however, was divided. On one side, Emilia. He needed to create the perfect moment, the scenario where her confession would be a natural conclusion, not a pressured response. He knew he needed to show her a future, one where she could see herself not just as a queen, but as Emilia. A woman with desires and a heart that could belong to someone. He had the words, the actions, the events all lined up in his mind, a one-month timeline for love.
On the other side, Rem. The most difficult task. She despised him, or at best, viewed him with a deep, ingrained distrust. The Witch's scent, her subconscious registered as danger, even if she didn't remember. Winning her back was not a matter of grand gestures. It was a work of minutiae, of perfectionist obsession. Every word, every glance, every action had to be designed to slowly dismantle the wall she had built around her heart.
He turned to her, who was eating in silence, pushing food around her plate.
"Rem," he said, his voice calm and unpressured. "I was thinking. The greenhouse needs some attention. The roses Emilia likes are starting to wilt. I'm not much of a gardener. Could you help me later, if you're not too busy?"
She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes rose to meet his. He wasn't asking her on a date. He wasn't flirting. It was a simple request, related to something she knew was important to Emilia and to the upkeep of the mansion. It was useful. It was logical. It was safe.
There was a long pause. He could feel everyone at the table's gaze on them. He kept his expression neutral, patient.
"...If my other duties allow," she finally answered, and went back to eating.
It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no, either.
To anyone else, it would have been a banal, forgettable interaction. To Subaru, it was a monumental victory. The first brick, carefully removed from the wall.
He smiled to himself, a small, secret smile of triumph. The world was happy. His friends were safe. And he was in control. The board was set, the pieces were moving exactly as he planned. He would get what he wanted. He would have them both. One month. The timer had started. And in his perfect world, he never lost.
Chapter Text
The Roswaal Mansion's garden was one of the few places where perfection didn't feel entirely artificial. The flowers bloomed and withered at their own pace, the insects buzzed with a life of their own, and the wind whispered secrets that not even Natsuki Subaru, with all his precognitive knowledge, could completely decipher. It was a haven of controlled chaos, and the perfect venue for the first step of his meticulously orchestrated plan: the date with Emilia.
They walked side by side along a path of smooth stones, flanked by beds of ice roses that sparkled in the midday sun, each translucent petal capturing and refracting the light. Subaru had spent the morning with Rem in the greenhouse, an exercise in patience and precision, and now, the flowers he had helped tend served as the backdrop for his true objective.
"They're reeeally prettier, Subaru," Emilia said, her voice full of a genuine admiration that warmed the air around them. She leaned down to gently touch one of the petals with her fingertip. "I didn't know you had such a knack for gardening. Thank you for helping Rem."
"Anything to see you smile, Emilia-tan," he replied, his tone soft and devoid of any affectation. The phrase, which he once would have shouted with exaggerated enthusiasm, now sounded like a simple statement of fact. And, in his reality, it was. He had died to protect that smile more times than he could count. Her remark, her subtle blush, the way she averted her gaze for an instant, it was all cataloged and filed away in his mind. Positive reaction. Comfort level: high. Proceed to the next step.
"I was thinking," he began, gently guiding her to a stone bench shaded by a weeping willow. "About what it means to be a knight. And about... connections."
Emilia sat down, smoothing her dress, and looked at him with curiosity. Her violet eyes were like two amethysts, clear and inquisitive. "Connections? Like my connection with the lesser spirits?"
Perfect. The inroad he'd been hoping for. "Exactly. But also a little different. With the spirits, you have a contract, right? There are rules, expectations. You give them mana, they help you. It's an agreement."
"Yes," she agreed, nodding. "It's a promise. And promises are very important."
"They are," Subaru agreed, his gaze serious. "But the connection I feel for you... it doesn't feel like a contract. There are no rules. It's more like... feeling what you feel, even without words. It's wanting to be by your side not because I have to protect you, but because the idea of not being there to protect you feels... wrong. Incomplete."
He watched her closely, gauging her reaction. She frowned slightly, processing the information. Emilia's mind worked in a unique way; she needed analogies, comparisons to what she already knew. Romantic love was as abstract a concept to her as quantum physics would be to a villager from Arlam. Frederica should have explained the basics to her, but no one had ever had the courage or the delicacy to do so. In the one loop where Subaru had insisted, the result had been a disaster: Emilia, embarrassed and confused by Frederica's clinical explanation of human biology, had avoided him for a whole month. A month he didn't have. The approach needed to be different. It had to be through her language.
"That sounds a little like what I had with Puck," she pondered. "He always knew when I was sad. He was... my family." The mention of the name still brought a shadow of melancholy to her eyes.
"Puck was your family, your father," Subaru said, his voice full of a carefully calibrated empathy. "What he felt was the desire to protect his daughter. What I feel... is the desire to stand beside an equal. To share not just the dangers, but everything. The lazy mornings, the silly conversations, the worries... the future."
"Share everything?" The innocence in her voice was so pure it hurt. "Like sharing my chores? Or my sweets?"
Subaru laughed, a warm and genuine sound. It was this part of her, this untouched naivete, that he was determined to protect, even if it meant subtly manipulating her. "That too. But more than that. It's like... have you ever heard of how very, very powerful spirits, when they form a bond that goes beyond a simple contract, can do something special?"
He was improvising, building a convenient fable from the scraps of knowledge she possessed. "They say they can merge their mana, their very essence, in a way so profound and complete... that from that union, something new is created. A little light, a new spirit, born from their bond. Something that carries a part of each of them, but is entirely its own."
Emilia's eyes widened. Not with fear or embarrassment, but with pure fascination. He had bypassed the swamp of biology and landed firmly in the realm of magic and wonder. "Wow... that's... reeeally amazing! I've never heard of that! A new spirit... born from a bond?"
Bingo.
"It's just an old story," he said with a casual shrug, hiding his elation. "But I like to think that's how the strongest connections between people work. When two people care about each other so much, they start building a future together. And that future... it's like that new spirit. It's something that didn't exist before, something they created together, that belongs only to them."
He leaned a little closer, his shoulder almost touching hers. He didn't touch her. The script didn't call for that yet. "When I say I love you, Emilia-tan, it's not just a promise to protect you now. It's a desire to build that kind of future with you. A future that's just ours."
Emilia was silent for a long time, her gaze lost in the ice roses. Her fingers traced the frost patterns on the stone bench. He didn't rush her. He knew the gears in her mind were turning, connecting the dots between "bond," "merging of essence," and "creating something new." He hadn't talked about bodies, about physical acts. He had talked about souls, about mana, about magic. He had planted the seed of the concept of family, of offspring, in the purest, most ethereal way possible.
"A future... just ours?" she finally whispered, more to herself than to him. The question wasn't one of doubt, but of contemplation.
Subaru leaned back, a feeling of cold satisfaction washing over him. The lesson had been taught. The seed, planted. Now, he needed to water it carefully, with the right actions and words in the days to come.
"Think about it," he said softly, standing up and offering her his hand. "But for now, how about we go see what Petra's up to for lunch? I heard she was trying to make that apple pie you like."
She took his hand, her touch still a little hesitant, but warm. Her smile was shy, thoughtful.
As they walked back to the mansion, hand in hand, Subaru allowed himself a moment of grim pride. He was a teacher, and Emilia, his most dedicated student. The subject was the human heart, and he had all the teaching materials, all the answers from the answer key. The script was working perfectly. The first day of his month ended with a success. Only twenty-nine more to go.
Chapter Text
The afternoon fell gently over the Mathers Domain, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The air was cool, laden with the scent of damp earth after a brief, passing shower. Subaru walked along a path that wound along the edge of the forest, a territory that had once been synonymous with dread and curses, but was now just a tranquil backdrop for his plans. Between him and Rem, Spica skipped cheerfully, holding a hand of each, her blonde ponytail swinging like a golden pendulum. She was the bridge, the unlikely link that kept them connected.
Subaru sighed internally, the movement imperceptible. The old Rem, in her complexity, was paradoxically simple. Her emotions were absolute, volcanic. If she hated him, the flail would crush his bones. If she loved him, her presence was a constant, a satellite in his orbit, watching him sleep with a devotion that bordered on the frightening. The current Rem was a far more frustrating enigma. A labyrinth of contradictory reactions. She treated him with a cutting coldness, each word heavy with disdain, yet her eyes followed him with an intensity he couldn't decipher. And there was the jealousy. An unmistakable spark that arose whenever his attention towards Emilia became too apparent. It was subtle, a hardening of her jaw, a tightening of her grip, but it was there.
"Tsunderes," he thought, with a touch of bitter humor. "The bane of every protagonist. Their logic operates on a different plane of existence."
"Wow! Wow!" Spica exclaimed, pointing to a blue-winged butterfly that had landed on a fern. "Pret-ty!" She was still relearning how to speak, her words were fragments, but her joy was infectious.
Rem smiled, a genuine, warm smile she reserved exclusively for the girl. "Yes, Spica. It's very pretty. Like you." She crouched down, adjusting the ribbon in Spica's hair, her touch full of a maternal tenderness that completely transformed her face. To Rem, Spica was not the reincarnation of Rui Arneb, the Satiation of Gluttony. She was just Spica. Her daughter. The first person she had felt an unconditional bond with since waking up in a world of strangers.
The dynamic in the mansion regarding Spica was a constant source of tension. Otto watched her with the caution of an accountant examining a fraudulent ledger. Garfiel maintained a protective distance, as if she were a ticking time bomb. Beatrice tolerated her, but her eyes often narrowed with an ancient suspicion. They trusted Subaru's judgment, yes, but it was a reluctant trust. The only reason they hadn't done anything—no attempt at exile or confinement or murder—was fear. Not of Spica, but of Subaru. They didn't want him to be angry with them. He knew that, and a part of him resented it. They thought they had the right to judge his choices, to question who he decided to save or forgive. They didn't have that right. They hadn't paid the price of admission for this discussion. Only he had paid it, over and over, with his life.
"Subaru," Rem's voice pulled him from his thoughts. She stood up, her expression returning to a mask of neutrality. "Spica is getting tired. We should head back."
"Of course," he readily agreed. "The last thing we want is a cranky little archbishop." The joke slipped out before he could stop himself, a reflex.
Rem's face shuttered. "Don't call her that."
"It was a joke, Rem."
"It wasn't funny," she retorted, her voice low and sharp. "To you, maybe she's still that. The thing you tried to strangle in that jungle."
The memory hit him like a punch. Vollachia. The confusion, the panic of waking up with Gluttony's face hovering over him. His primal survival instinct, the tightening of his hands on her throat. And then, Rem's eyes, filled with a protective fury, as her hands closed around his neck to save Spica. He understood. In that moment, he was the monster.
"I know what you saw, Rem," he said, his voice losing all its levity. "And I understand why you don't trust me. But to me... Rui Arneb and Spica are two different people. I hate Rui. I hate what she represents. But Spica..." He looked at the girl, who was now yawning, oblivious to the tension. "Spica is my daughter. Just as she is yours." He loved Spica, but the ghost of Rui still haunted him. Were they the same person? What defined a person, if not their memories? And if memories were the key, then the woman beside him was also not the same Rem he loved. It was a paradox that made him dizzy.
Rem didn't answer. To her, the Witch Cult was just a story, a name whispered with hatred by her supposed sister, Ram. She didn't remember the destruction of her village, the smell of blood and ash. She didn't understand the fury in Ram's eyes whenever the subject was mentioned. Ram was a stranger to her, connected by a biological fact that evoked no feeling. Everyone in the mansion was a stranger. Except for Subaru and Spica. Her two pillars in an unknown world.
He knew that the archbishop who put her in a coma, the true thief of her memories, was Lye Batenkaitos. And he knew that Ram had decapitated him. A pang of regret hit him. A shame. He would have liked to have done it himself. Slowly.
"Ram... she worries about you," he tried, changing the subject as they began to walk back.
"She worries about an idea of me," Rem corrected, her voice devoid of emotion. "She worries about the sister she thinks she lost and doesn't remember. I am not that person. I don't know her."
"She's the only family you have," he argued gently.
"I have Spica," she replied, the tone final. For her, it was that simple. "And... you. Even if I don't like you."
Subaru couldn't help but smile. There it was. The contradiction. The "I don't like you" said with an inflection that betrayed a dependency. He was the only person who remembered her. He was the bridge to her past, the only source of information about who she was. He had told her about her life, about her service in the mansion, about her sister, about her strength. He had woven the narrative of the "Rem" everyone knew. He was the author of her identity.
"I know you don't like me, Rem," he said, his voice taking on a tone of calculated vulnerability. "And I don't blame you. But I remember you. I remembered you when no one else did. And I will never forget."
She looked at him, her eyes narrowing, searching for deceit, for manipulation. He met her gaze, his face a canvas of sincerity. It was the truth, after all. The most painful truth of his life.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Spica fell asleep and Subaru picked her up, her small, warm body heavy against his chest. Rem walked beside him, a little closer than before. The wall was still there, high and formidable. But he had found a crack. And he had all the tools he needed to tear it down, brick by brick. Patience was a virtue that death had taught him well.
Chapter Text
The kitchen of the Roswaal Mansion, normally a domain of quiet efficiency under Frederica's command or controlled chaos when Petra attempted a new recipe, had transformed into something else entirely. It was a laboratory, a training ground, and for Natsuki Subaru, the perfectly set stage for the next act of his play. The air was thick with the scent of flour, the sweet aroma of vegetables being chopped, and the sound of hesitant laughter mixed with the clatter of pans.
Subaru stood at the center of it all, a pristine white apron over his long-sleeved clothes, which he wore to hide the faded scars that told the stories of his failures. He moved with an economy of motion and a confidence that bordered on mastery. Years of practice—concentrated into loops of time only he remembered—had turned him from a clumsy neophyte into a surprisingly competent chef. He had mastered cooking out of sheer stubbornness, a small personal victory won amidst an ocean of tragedies, a tangible piece of happiness he could create with his own hands.
To one side of him, Emilia stood with a knife in hand, staring at a carrot as if it were a dangerous alien artifact. As a royal candidate, the idea of preparing her own food was as foreign as the idea of forging her own sword. Her days were filled with study, politics, and diplomacy, not the domestic arts.
"Uhm... Subaru?" she began, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. "Are you sure I should be... applying this much force? It feels like the carrot is going to scream."
Subaru laughed, a warm sound that echoed through the kitchen. He moved closer to her, positioning himself behind her, his hands covering hers on the knife. He was careful not to make the move seem too intimate, keeping it strictly instructional. "It's not about force, Emilia-tan. It's about the angle. See," he said, his voice low and calm near her ear. "You let the blade do the work. A smooth, rocking motion. Like this."
He guided her hands, and the knife slid through the carrot, producing a perfectly round slice. Emilia's eyes widened in surprise and delight.
"Wow! I did it! I... we did it!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up with the kind of pride a child feels when taking their first steps.
"You did it," he corrected her gently, stepping back to give her space. "I just showed you the way. You're a natural at this." It was a lie, of course. She was terribly clumsy. But it was the lie she needed to hear. Praise and encouragement. They were the keys to her heart.
On the other side of the kitchen island, Rem worked in silence, kneading a portion of dough with a restrained ferocity. The old Rem had been a gifted cook, but that skill was locked away along with her memories. Frederica had been trying to teach her, but progress was slow. There was a hesitation in her movements, the uncertainty of someone trying to remember a forgotten dance.
"How's it coming along over there, Rem?" Subaru asked, his attention shifting to her.
She didn't look up, her knuckles white as she pressed into the dough. "I'm doing what you said. But it doesn't feel right. The texture is wrong."
"Let me see." He came closer, taking a bit of the dough between his fingers. He rubbed it, feeling the consistency. "Ah, I see. You're overworking it. Bread dough needs strength, but pie dough, like this, needs a gentle touch. You're treating it like an enemy that needs to be subdued."
Rem finally looked up, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "I don't know how to treat it any other way."
The sentence was about the dough, but it wasn't. And they both knew it.
Subaru met her gaze, his expression turning serious. "You don't have to fight everything, Rem. Sometimes... you just have to trust the process. Trust that if you're gentle, things will come together. Here," he said, taking the bowl. "Let's start over. But this time, think of something that makes you happy. Think of Spica laughing. And put that feeling into your hands. Be light."
He watched her as she reluctantly began anew. He could see the subtle shift in her posture, the relaxing of her shoulders. The mention of Spica was a powerful weapon in his arsenal, the one topic guaranteed to elicit a positive reaction from her. He was using their daughter to get closer to her, and the realization left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it down. The ends justified the means. They always did.
While Rem worked on the dough, Emilia, now more confident, had graduated to chopping an onion. The result was inevitable.
"Oww! My eyes!" she wailed, recoiling from the cutting board as tears streamed down her face. "Subaru, it's broken! The onion is attacking me with some kind of invisible poison magic!"
Subaru smiled, grabbing a clean, damp cloth. "It's not poison, Emilia-tan. It's just the onion's vapors. It happens to everyone." He gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. The touch was brief, respectful, but loaded with meaning.
Suddenly, he felt a gaze on him. He turned and saw Rem watching them, her work with the dough stilled. The expression on her face was unreadable, but the intensity in her eyes was unmistakable. Jealousy. Clear as day.
Phase three, initiated, Subaru thought.
"Rem, could you pass me that small bowl, please?" he asked, his voice casual.
Rem blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and pushed the bowl across the counter with a little more force than necessary.
"Thank you," he said, not commenting on her reaction. He turned back to Emilia. "The key to not crying with onions is to not get emotionally attached to them. You have to show it who's boss." He took the knife and, with a series of swift, precise movements, reduced the rest of the onion to perfect dice in seconds.
Emilia watched him with awe. "You're reeeally good at this. At everything. At fighting, at planning... and even at cooking. How did you learn it all?"
The question hung in the air, weighted with a heaviness only he could feel. "I learned by dying," he wanted to say.
But instead, he shrugged, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "I've had... a lot of time to practice. And good teachers. You learn fast when you have the right motivation."
His gaze met Rem's over Emilia's head. The right motivation. He let the words hang there, allowing her to interpret them however she wished.
The cooking lesson continued. He guided them through the making of a meat and vegetable pie, explaining each step with infinite patience. He taught Emilia how to brown the meat, how to smell the spices as they released their flavor. He taught Rem how to gently fold the dough over the filling, how to make the small cuts in the top so the steam could escape.
At one point, Subaru's long sleeve rode up a bit as he reached for a jar on the top shelf, revealing a glimpse of a pale, jagged scar on his forearm. Rem noticed. He saw her look, her eyes locking onto the mark for just an instant before she quickly looked away. He said nothing, just pulled his sleeve back down. Every scar was a reminder. For him, of a death. For her, perhaps, of a mystery, of a danger she instinctively felt surrounded him. He needed her to see those mysteries. He needed her to wonder, to feel compelled to understand the man who remembered her when the world had forgotten.
When the pie finally came out of the oven, golden brown and bubbling, the kitchen filled with a delicious aroma. There was a palpable feeling of accomplishment in the air.
"We did it!" Emilia said, clapping her hands like a child. "We reeeally did!"
Even Rem had a small, almost imperceptible smile on her lips as she looked at their creation. "It doesn't look... terrible."
"It's the result of teamwork," Subaru said, taking off his apron. "See what we can accomplish when we work together?"
Later, at the dinner table, as everyone praised the pie, Subaru watched his two targets. Emilia was beaming, telling everyone about her kitchen adventure, exaggerating her own contribution with a charming innocence. Rem was quiet, but when she thought no one was looking, she would glance at Subaru. It wasn't a look of love, not even of fondness. It was a look of assessment. Intense, confused, questioning.
It was exactly the look he wanted. He didn't need her to love him yet. He needed her to think about him. To see him not just as the dangerous stranger, but as the man who taught her to be gentle with dough, who wiped away Emilia's tears, who carried scars and secrets.
The meal was a success. The plan was on track. And as he ate a piece of the pie he had orchestrated into existence, Subaru tasted a familiar flavor in his mouth. It wasn't the taste of meat or vegetables. It was the taste of control. And it was absolutely delicious.
Chapter Text
The library of the new Roswaal Mansion was a grand space, a silent testament to the long lineage of the Mathers. Unlike Beatrice's chaotic and overcrowded pocket dimension, this was a room of airy proportions, with high ceilings, arched floor-to-ceiling windows, and shelves of dark mahogany that lined the walls, organized with an almost military precision. The scent of old paper and polished leather hung in the air, a perfume of knowledge and tranquility. It was here that Natsuki Subaru sought refuge when the noise of the mansion became oppressive, or more accurately, when he needed a controlled environment to review his mental script.
He sat in a plush leather armchair near one of the windows, the afternoon light gilding the pages of the book in his lap. It was not a tome of ancient magic or a record of Lugunica's history. It was a simple picture book, with a colorful cover depicting a knight in silver armor. The title, in whimsical letters, read: "The Loyal Knight and the Princesses of the Sun and Moon." It was a children's book. A tool.
Subaru wasn't reading the words. He knew the story by heart, every twist, every line of dialogue. He was feeling the weight of the book in his hands, the texture of the paper, calculating the exact impact it would have when the person he was waiting for finally entered the room. The day was running on schedule. The morning had been a success. The cooking lesson had achieved multiple objectives: it established a shared activity, broke down the status barriers between them, allowed for moments of calculated proximity with Emilia, and planted the seeds of doubt and jealousy in Rem. Now, it was time for phase four: The Intellectual Seduction.
The soft sound of the door opening did not startle him. He had expected it. He didn't raise his head, keeping his attention fixed on the book, projecting an aura of peaceful absorption.
Rem stopped in the doorway. He felt her there, her presence silent but charged. She was likely looking for a quiet place to get away from Petra's chatter or Garfiel's loud training. The library would be her logical choice.
"What are you reading?" Her voice was neutral, devoid of its usual cutting coldness, perhaps softened by her curiosity. Seeing the man she considered dangerous and manipulative engrossed in a fairy tale was, undoubtedly, dissonant.
Subaru finally looked up, as if he had just noticed her presence. He gave her a small, slightly melancholic smile. "Rem. I didn't hear you come in. It's just... uhm, a bit of research."
She approached, her steps silent on the thick carpet. She glanced at the book's cover, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Research? It looks more like a book for Spica."
"It is for Spica," he admitted, closing the book but keeping his finger to mark his place. "I was thinking... she has no stories. No memories of what it was like to be a normal child. I thought maybe... if I read to her, I could give her something. A piece of a childhood that was stolen from her." The logic was flawless, the motivation, noble. It was a perfectly constructed half-truth, concealing the whole truth.
Rem didn't answer immediately. She walked to a nearby shelf, running her fingers along the spine of a leather-bound book, the dust dancing in her touch. "That's... thoughtful of you." The admission seemed to cost her some effort.
"I care about her. We both do," Subaru said, his voice gentle. "We're her parents, after all. That's what we became in that jungle." He was binding her to that shared identity. We. The word was an anchor.
She turned to him, arms crossed, a defensive barrier. "I care about the child I know. You... you seem to care about something else. Something complicated. You call her Spica, but your eyes, sometimes, they look like they see a monster." She was frighteningly perceptive. Her amnesia hadn't dulled her intuition.
Subaru sighed, a sound of genuine resignation colored by masterful acting. "You're right. It's complicated for me. But this book... in a way, it helps." He opened the book again. "It's about a knight who swears to protect two princesses. One was the Princess of the Sun, bright and loved by all, bringing light wherever she went." He didn't need to say Emilia's name. The image was clear. "The other was the Princess of the Moon. She had lost her memories to a curse, and she lived in a castle of shadows, distrusting everyone, even the knight who tried to reach her. She was strong and fierce, but also terribly lonely, because she couldn't remember what it was like to trust someone."
He looked up at Rem, his gaze direct and unwavering. "The knight didn't see her as a cursed princess. He remembered who she was before. He remembered her kindness, her smile, her strength. And even though she looked at him with the eyes of a stranger, he refused to give up on her. Because to him, she was still his princess, even if she had forgotten."
The silence in the library grew heavy, thick. Subaru's words hung in the air, each one an arrow carefully aimed at the heart of Rem's insecurity. She was the Princess of the Moon. He had placed her in a narrative, given her a role, an archetype that was both flattering and tragic.
Rem looked away first. "It's just a silly story," she murmured, but her voice lacked conviction. She walked to the window, her back to him, looking out at the same garden he and Emilia had walked through.
"Maybe," Subaru said. "But stories are important, aren't they? They tell us who we are. What is a hero? Someone a story calls a hero. What is a villain? Someone the story condemns. What is a person without memories? Are they a blank page? Or is their story still written somewhere, just waiting to be reread?"
He stood up and walked slowly until he was a few steps behind her. He could see the slight tremor in her shoulders.
"You know," he continued, his voice almost a whisper. "Sometimes, I feel like a blank page too. There are parts of me, things I've done, that I wish I could forget. But they're there. And I have to live with them. But you... you got a chance to start over. That's why you don't understand Ram's hatred. Your book was wiped clean. Hers is filled with pages stained with blood and tears."
"Then what am I?" Her question came out muffled, barely audible. "If I'm not the sister she lost, and I'm not the person you remember... who am I?" The vulnerability in her voice was a crack in her icy armor.
Now.
"You are Rem," he said, with a simplicity and a certainty that were absolute. "You are the woman I watched fight to protect a helpless child. You are the woman who learned to make a pie today with her own two hands. You are the woman who is standing here right now, trying to find her place in a world that doesn't make sense. And to me... that is more than enough."
He reached out his hand, not to touch her, but as an offering. "I'm not asking you to remember the past. I'm asking you to let me help you write your future. Our future. With Spica."
Rem remained with her back to him, her body as taut as a bowstring. He could feel the battle raging within her. Distrust against logic. Fear against the need to belong. He had offered her an identity, a purpose, a family. Everything she craved.
"You... you always know exactly what to say, Subaru," she said finally, her voice low and laden with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "It feels... rehearsed. Too perfect."
The accusation hit him with the force of a physical blow. She felt it. She sensed the script. Panic rose in his throat, but he crushed it with iron-willed discipline. It was time for an improvisation, a risky gambit. Honesty. An edited version of it.
"That's because I do rehearse," he said, his voice sounding tired, defeated. The best way to hide a grand manipulation is to admit to a small one. "I think about everything I'm going to say to you. I run the conversations over in my head again and again. Because I'm scared. I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing and pushing you away forever. You... and Emilia... you're everything to me. If it seems like I'm trying too hard, it's because I am. I'm trying desperately to fix what was broken."
He lowered his hand. The trick was to show vulnerability, to admit a flaw that actually reinforced his devotion. He was painting himself not as a master manipulator, but as a desperate, slightly pathetic lover.
He waited, his heart hammering against his ribs. Was it the right move?
Rem turned around slowly. There were tears in her eyes. Not of sadness, but of overwhelming confusion. Her face was a battlefield of conflicting emotions.
And it was at that moment, on that precipice of an emotional breakthrough, that the library door opened with a cheerful creak.
"Subaru! Rem! I was looking for you! Otto told me you might be in here. Look what I found!"
Emilia entered, radiant as the Princess of the Sun, holding a bouquet of wildflowers, completely oblivious to the heavy, charged atmosphere in the room. Her smile was pure innocence, her presence, a bright light that cast the tension between Subaru and Rem into sharp relief.
Rem's face shut down instantly. The tears vanished, replaced by a mask of impenetrable coldness. The vulnerability was gone, swallowed by a wounded pride.
"I... need to check on Spica," Rem said, her voice tight and formal. She walked past Emilia without even a glance and left the room, her steps quick and decisive.
Emilia blinked, confused. "Uhm... did I say something wrong?"
Subaru turned to her, the melancholic, desperate smile transforming into a warm, reassuring one in the blink of an eye. The transition was flawless. "Don't worry about it, Emilia-tan. Rem is just like that sometimes. Thanks for the flowers. They're beautiful. Just like you."
He had lost his chance with Rem for the moment. But at the same time, he had gained something equally valuable. He had created a moment of deep emotional connection with Rem, and had it interrupted by the arrival of her rival. He had left her with a whirlwind of questions, vulnerability, confusion... and jealousy.
He looked at the door through which Rem had left. The wall had not fallen. But he was certain she would spend the entire night thinking about that conversation. Thinking about him.
The plan was more than on track. It was accelerating.
Chapter Text
Natsuki Subaru's room in the new Roswaal Mansion was a reflection of his paradoxical position: the unsung hero, the secret pillar of the entire camp. It was not ostentatious like Roswaal's quarters, nor ethereal like Emilia's, but it possessed a luxurious comfort that set it apart from the others. The bed was large, with a dark oak canopy, the sheets a fine linen that always seemed cool. There was a mahogany desk by the window, always tidy, and a small marble fireplace that, even unlit, exuded an aura of warmth. The room was not just a place to sleep; it was a sanctuary, a war room, the only place where he could, for brief moments, let his guard down without the risk of being observed.
Night had fallen. The moon, nearly full, poured a silver light through the windowpane, drawing long shadows across the floor. Subaru sat on the edge of the bed, his jacket off, the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the web of old scars on his forearms. Beatrice sat in a small upholstered chair he had brought in especially for her, her feet dangling inches from the floor, a thick book open in her lap. The silence between them was not tense, but companionable, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional turning of a page.
"You're quiet today, Subaru," Beatrice said, her eyes not leaving the book. Her voice, in the silence of the room, sounded clear and crisp. "Quieter than usual. Has your brain finally overheated from thinking so many absurdities, I suppose?"
Subaru smiled to himself, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. "Just... organizing my thoughts, Beako. The day was productive."
"'Productive'," she repeated, skepticism dripping from her voice. "Betty saw you. In the garden with the half-elf. Then in the library with the other one. You looked like a merchant trying to sell the same rotten fruit to two different customers, in fact. It was a rather pathetic performance."
He laughed, a genuine sound. With Beatrice, the need to perform lessened. She might not know about Return by Death, but after four hundred years of observing humanity from her lonely library, she had developed an incredibly sensitive lie detector. She didn't see the repetitions, but she sensed the artificiality, the unnatural precision of his interactions.
"Rotten fruit? Wow, Beako, that's harsh. I prefer to think of myself as a skilled gardener, tending to two very delicate and very different flowers," he retorted, his tone light.
"Flowers aren't tended with flattery and half-truths, Subaru," she said, finally closing the book with a soft thud and fixing her gaze on him. Her eyes, with their butterfly-shaped pupils, were intense and perceptive. "They need sunlight and water. Truth. What you're doing... it seems more like creating an illusion in a dark greenhouse."
Subaru met her gaze, his smile faltering for an instant. She was too close to the truth. "What exactly do you think I'm doing?" he asked, his voice serious.
"I don't know the what," she admitted, and there was a genuine frustration in her tone. "But I know the how. It's calculated. Every word, every gesture. You're not stumbling in the dark like you used to, Subaru. You're walking on a path you've already paved. And that... that bothers Betty. It's as if you're reading from your own gospel, one only you can see. And I remember someone else who used to do that." The unspoken comparison to Roswaal hung between them, heavy and ominous.
He stood up and walked to the fireplace, leaning against the marble mantel. The heat warmed his back. He thought about how to respond. Denial was useless. She would sense the lie. So, he chose the only option left: a partial confession, wrapped in a justification that she, of all people, could understand.
"Maybe you're right," he said softly, his eyes still on the fire. "Maybe it is all calculated. And maybe I am following a path only I can see. But why do you think that is? Do you think I enjoy this? Weighing every syllable, predicting every reaction? Feeling like my entire life is a play that I have to direct perfectly or the whole set will collapse and kill everyone in the cast?"
He turned to her, and for the first time that night, he let some of his true weariness show through. The mask cracked, and the exhaustion in his eyes was genuine.
"I do it, Beako, because there is no other way. You know what the world is like out there. You've seen it. We've fought Archbishops, Great Mabeasts, assassins, and empires. We won not because we were the strongest, or the smartest. We won because I found the single, narrow trail through the minefield that led us to victory. If I deviate a single step, if I say the wrong word, if I hesitate... boom. Game over. For everyone."
Beatrice watched him, her small face serious. "That sounds like a terrible burden, Subaru. One that no one should have to carry alone, in fact."
"But I do have to carry it alone," he said, his voice a little rougher. "Because no one else can. And it's a burden I chose. I chose to save Emilia. I chose to save Rem. I chose to pull you out of that burning library. These were my choices. And I will deal with the consequences. If the price for keeping them safe and smiling is for me to become... an obsessive strategist, a 'pathetic actor', then it's a price I will gladly pay."
He moved closer to her, kneeling so their eyes were level. "I'm not asking you to like it, Beako. And I'm certainly not asking you to participate. I'm just... asking you to trust me. Trust that even if the methods seem strange, the goal is the same as it's always been: a happy ending. For all of us. For you, too."
Beatrice looked at him for a long, long time. She saw the calculation in his eyes, but she also saw the desperate sincerity behind it. She saw the manipulation, but she also saw the protective love that drove it. She was a 400-year-old spirit, daughter of the Witch of Greed. She understood complexity. She understood that sometimes, the purest intentions require the darkest methods.
"Do you know what Betty thinks?" she said finally, her voice soft.
"What?" he asked, his heart in his throat.
"I think you're an idiot," she declared. He blinked. "Do you think Betty, the Great Spirit Beatrice, would be sitting here, in this ridiculous chair in your room, if she didn't trust you? I chose you, Subaru. That contract... it wasn't just for magic. It was Betty saying that I would stand by you, even if you are a stubborn, complicated fool."
She reached out her small hand and touched his face. The gesture was surprisingly gentle. "Your paved path looks lonely. Don't leave me out of it. You may not be able to explain the whys to me. But Betty can at least hold a lantern to light the way, in fact. So you don't trip over your own machinations."
Her words hit him with a force no physical blast ever had. A crack formed in the dam he had built around his emotions. For an instant, he felt the overwhelming urge to tell her. To tell her everything. About the returns, the deaths, the unbearable burden of his knowledge. But he crushed it. It was too dangerous. The Witch's scent would intensify. The penalty... he couldn't risk it.
Instead, he leaned forward and rested his head in her lap, an act of surrender and exhaustion. He didn't cry. He'd forgotten how. But the relief that washed over him was so deep, so absolute, it was almost painful. He wasn't entirely alone.
Beatrice hesitated for a moment, surprised by his action, and then, slowly, her hand came to rest on his hair, her small fingers stroking through his black locks.
"Idiot," she whispered again, but this time, the word was full of an unmistakable affection.
They stayed like that for a long time, in silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. In the sanctuary of his room, the puppet master finally allowed one of his strings to be held by someone else. The night was still long, and the plans for the next day were already forming in his mind. But for that moment, the burden felt just a little lighter. He had an accomplice. And that, he realized, was a luxury he hadn't known he desperately needed.
Chapter Text
The fireplace, which had once danced with a vibrant blaze, had surrendered to embers. Now, only a deep orange glow pulsed softly in the heart of the darkness, casting long, trembling shadows that moved like sleepy ghosts across the bedroom walls. The only constant sound was Subaru's deep, rhythmic breathing, the sound of a man who was not just sleeping, but who had collapsed into an abyss of exhaustion. He slept like a soldier after a battle, the body finally forcing the mind into a temporary armistice.
Beatrice lay beside him, under the same soft sheets, her small form almost lost in the vastness of the bed. She did not sleep. Her large blue eyes, which could see the flows of mana and the hidden truths of the world, were open, fixed on the dark ceiling but seeing nothing there. Her gaze was turned inward, to a four-hundred-year-old landscape of memories and silence.
Her hand was intertwined with his. It was a hand that did not belong to a nobleman, nor to a scholar. The palms were rough, with calluses that told stories of wielding makeshift weapons, of clinging to rocky ledges, of manual labor in the mansion that he did not have to do. The scars she had seen earlier were lines of pale relief on his skin, a map of pain whose geography she could only guess at. It was a strangely strong, reassuring hand. It was the hand that had pulled her from the fire.
For four hundred years, time for Beatrice had not been measured in days or years, but in the slow accumulation of dust on the spines of books. Time was the silence between the rare visitors who stumbled into her library. It was the endless repetition of the same empty promise, waiting for "That Person," a mythical figure who had become more of a concept than a hope. Her life had become a static existence, an infinite loop of boredom and a sorrow so deep and ancient she barely recognized it as an emotion anymore. She was the sentinel of a tomb of knowledge, and slowly, she was becoming one of its fossils. Her mother's gospel, the promise of salvation, had become a chain, and the Forbidden Library, her cage.
Then, he arrived.
Natsuki Subaru. Not a scholar seeking knowledge, not a mage in search of power. He was an anomaly. A loud boy with strange eyes and a scent that unnerved her, who stumbled into her dimension by chance and, instead of being intimidated, decided it would be fun to tease her. He was chaotic, irritating, and completely uninterested in the secrets of the universe that surrounded her. He was interested in her. He called her Beako. He treated her not as a powerful artifact, but as a grumpy little girl who needed company.
The memory of the fire was still vivid. The smell of smoke, the crackle of wood, the cold resignation in her own heart as she waited for the flames to consume her along with her broken purpose. It would have been a fitting end, poetic in its tragedy. But he wouldn't allow it. He had burst through the doors, his face smudged with soot, his eyes burning with a stubbornness that defied death itself. He had yelled. He had pleaded. And when she rejected him, when she pushed him away to save his useless life, he had come back. Again and again.
And then came the words that broke the four-century spell. "Choose me!" He didn't say he was the one from the prophecy. He didn't claim to be the answer to her mother's riddle. He placed her at the center of the equation. He gave her a choice. He was not "That Person." He was Natsuki Subaru. And he invited her to choose him, not out of duty, but out of will. And she had. It was the first act of true free will she had exercised in centuries.
Her gaze moved from the ceiling to the sleeping face beside her. Even in sleep, there was a tension in his jaw, a slight furrow between his brows. The burden he had spoken of. She didn't understand its nature, but she felt its weight emanating from him like heat.
The conversation they'd had earlier spun in her mind. The "pathetic actor." The "skilled gardener." The metaphors didn't matter. What mattered was the truth beneath them, a truth she was beginning to comprehend. The Subaru who had saved her was driven by a blind desperation and a raw courage. The Subaru of now was different. He was sharper, more precise. The raw courage had been tempered into a steel blade, forged in the fires of failures she knew nothing about. He had become a strategist not by choice, but by necessity. The obsession, the perfectionism... they weren't character flaws. They were symptoms. Symptoms of a love so fierce, so absolute, that it had compelled him to become the architect of their very destiny.
In a way, he reminded her of herself during her long vigil. She too had been bound to a single goal, to a promise, blindly following the instructions left behind. The difference was that her goal was passive, an endless waiting. His was terrifyingly active. He wasn't waiting for the happy ending to happen. He was building it, piece by piece, life by life—though she did not know that last detail.
The contract they shared now felt like something much deeper than a simple exchange of mana. It was a mutual promise. He had promised to never leave her alone again. And she, silently, in moments like these, promised to never let him carry his burden completely alone. To be his "lantern," as she had said. Not to guide him—the path was his and his alone—but to ensure he did not get lost in the darkness that path surely held. To remind him that behind the puppet master, there was still the stubborn idiot she had chosen.
A small sigh escaped Subaru's lips, and he stirred, turning onto his side toward her, his face now nestled in the pillow. The tension in his features seemed to ease for an instant. Instinctively, his hand in hers tightened slightly, an unconscious grip seeking an anchor in the stormy sea of his dreams.
Beatrice squeezed back. A small, firm reassurance. I am here, in fact.
He was no fairy-tale hero. He was complicated, flawed, and was treading a morally ambiguous path that terrified her a little. He used the affection of others like pieces on a board, manipulated emotions with a surgeon's precision, and carried a sorrow in his eyes that was far too ancient for his young face.
But he was also the boy who read stories to a child who had never had a childhood. The boy who had taught her the warmth of a held hand and the sweetness of teamwork. The boy who had broken the chains of her solitude and dragged her, kicking and screaming, into the blinding light of life. He had given her a gift that not even all the knowledge in the Forbidden Library could contain: he had given her a present. And a future.
Yes. Watching him sleep, feeling the warmth of his hand in hers, Beatrice came to a simple, silent, and absolute conclusion. Despite all the witches, all the mages, and all the nobility she had known in her long, static existence, this broken, complicated human boy was, without a shadow of a doubt, the best and most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. And she would not let anyone, not even him, ruin it.