3. False Roots
The mansion Daphne remembered was a very quiet place. Her mother preferred trees over flowers, and she especially cherished the laurel tree that resembled her.
"I hate how flowers bloom and wither. It's too much fuss. They're far too fragile."
When Daphne once broke off a narcissus with her small hands and brought it to her mother, her mother said that as she accepted the flower.
"Look at it."
The narcissus in her hands had already begun to wilt. It was not the fresh flower she had wanted to show her mother. The drooping stem was already proclaiming the flower's death.
"Poor thing."
Her mother murmured as she took the flower clutched in her daughter's hand. Daphne had picked that yellow flower because it resembled her mother. But even in her youth, she dimly realized it.
It was the wilted flower that truly resembled her mother. That gentle, delicate appearance. That mournful smile. That fragility, as if she might snap at the slightest gust of wind.
"It's all right."
"..."
"Hic... Mommy!"
"Mommy's here, aren't I? You are a tree. Trees are all right."
The most notorious temptress in history who kept the Emperor between her legs, the lecherous whore who couldn't live without a man. The bastard child carrying filthy blood.
The woman to whom every insult in the world clung, yet who was young Daphne's entire world and the person she loved most—Beatrice—wrapped her beloved daughter in a tight embrace.
"You will never be the one who falls. My precious daughter."
Beatrice didn't know why Daphne was crying so. Perhaps it was because the hand patting her back was so tender.
Perhaps it was because the embrace was so warm, or because the soft voice whispering in her ear was so lovely. Daphne cried for a long while.
Daphne.
A name taken from the laurel spirit. A name Beatrice had chosen herself. "I hate how flowers bloom and wither. I like trees that shed their leaves only to sprout anew if you wait. A tree that takes root in the earth and stands firm."
"So, my daughter, you must always wear that necklace. Never take it off in front of your father."
"Yes, Mommy."
When Beatrice unfastened the clasp of the necklace, the green eyes turned blue. Beatrice dearly loved Daphne's 'blue eyes' rather than her 'green eyes.'
"Only when it's just the two of us."
"Yes, Mommy."
Daphne smiled, knowing her mother loved her eyes. Beatrice raised her hand and stroked her poor daughter's hair.
"A woman is like a flower. I, too, had no choice but to become a flower. But you will become a tree."
"..."
"My love, my eternal beloved. Like Oliver."
Beatrice smiled sadly. Daphne didn't know what that meant back then. She only knew that her father's name was 'Oliver.'
* * *
"Daphne!"
Daphne beamed and threw herself into the arms of the man lifting her up. The man with black hair and green eyes pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"Daphne, my pretty little thing."
Daphne's father was not always home.
He only visited this secluded mansion on very rare occasions. Sometimes he wouldn't arrive until the snow had fallen and fallen, until leaves began to sprout from the bare branches.
Today was one of those summer days when the greenery of the garden grew even deeper in color—Daphne's ninth birthday.
"Your Majesty has come?"
Majesty. Daphne's face darkened at the word. Having begun her lessons in etiquette, she now understood what 'Majesty' meant.
The Emperor of this land.
Her father was the Emperor of this land. At some point, Daphne had realized that 'Oliver' was not simply her father, but the Emperor. Every time she saw this man who loved her, her heart felt as though it were sinking.
That her mother was a mistress didn't matter. What mattered was that she was deceiving her green-eyed 'father.' Someone who loved her so, like this.
"Daphne. What is this with Father? I thought you were still five years old."
The moment the Emperor set her down on the ground, Daphne grasped the hem of her skirt and bowed.
"Father, it has been a long time."
"What is this! Stop that, hahaha!"
Her father burst into laughter.
"Such a clever child. They say she's already read through the histories at only nine."
"Is that so?"
"All her tutors praise her. They say she's remarkably intelligent."
"How remarkable, Daphne. I'm proud of you."
At some point, she could no longer look properly at those warm green eyes. She bit her lip slightly and lowered her head. Thinking it was shyness, her father laughed heartily.
No.
No.
She was ordinary. She did enjoy reading histories, but that was because they were fun.
The tutors' praise was merely flattery directed at the mother who held the Emperor's favor. When she overheard a tutor cursing her mother's wantonness, she understood that her world was askew.
"That is why that woman's son is useless."
Beatrice smiled coquettishly and linked her arm through the Emperor's. The Emperor kissed the sycophant gazing at him with adoring eyes.
"So, as a birthday present for the child—will you grant me just one thing?"
"What is it?"
"Please take her to the Imperial Palace, just once."
At that moment, her mother's face darkened, her eyes taking on a shadowy gleam. Her sorrowful, fragile mother had begun showing affection in ways she never had before.
The Emperor lifted one corner of his mouth into a smile, looked at Daphne, and said gently:
"Of course."
"How wonderful for you, Daphne."
No, nothing is wonderful.
Mother, no. I don't want to go.
But Daphne's opinion was not taken into account.
* * *
"Do you understand? I cannot go."
"..."
"Go and show yourself to the palace. You need only follow your father."
Daphne wore a vivid green dress that matched her eye color best. It was the most full-skirted garment she owned. When the silk sash with white flowers cinched her waist, she felt slightly breathless. Beatrice carefully braided her hair up and adorned it with flowers.
Looking in the mirror, she looked like a tree nymph.
Her face was covered in mottled freckles, and the flush on her cheeks was as unbecoming as a ripened tomato. Her golden hair looked drab, as if its color had faded, rather than radiant.
The Imperial Palace was said to be even more magnificent, frequented only by people as beautiful as flowers. Would it be all right for someone like her to go there?
"You must wear the necklace."
"Yes."
The golden necklace fastened around her neck. As she fiddled with the pendant, her eyes turned green. They waited a long while for the Emperor.
At the sound of an approaching carriage, they went outside—but the one waiting for them was not the Emperor, but the Emperor's attendant.
"His Majesty has commanded that the young lady be escorted."
"And His Majesty?"
When the attendant looked at her with contemptuous eyes, her mother could ask no more. Instead, she pushed Daphne forward. As the girl hopped up into the carriage, her mother saw her off with a smile.
"The poor prince."
The attendant said, looking at the insignificant girl barely waist-high. Daphne did not know what that meant.
Truly, she did not know.
* * *
Daphne was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Imperial Palace. It was vast, enormous, towering high. The garden decorated not with trees but with flowers made her cheeks flush red.
"Well then, I take my leave."
"Sir, where are you going?"
At Daphne's innocent question, the attendant said mischievously:
"I'm a busy man. You can find His Majesty yourself, can't you? The way is easy. Over there."
What he pointed to was the large building at the very center. Unlike their small mansion, the rectangular building bore a striking blue dome, as if a round sphere had been sliced in half and set atop it, crowned with a pointed spire.
She would have to walk quite a long way through the garden to get there, but that was fine. Mother said to do well. This sort of thing isn't hard. Daphne nodded with a determined expression. The attendant smiled and said:
"Good girl. Then have a pleasant day."
Daphne offered an elegant bow, just as her mother had taught her, and set off toward her destination.
But the enormous building was far more distant than she had imagined. What's more, the garden was laid out like a maze, and she wandered and wandered.
On a hot summer day, the sunlight was scorching. Where even was this place? She thought she was heading straight, but the path kept leading her elsewhere.
She approached a secluded cluster of trees and let out a deep sigh, standing where the shade looked coolest. She wanted to collapse right there, but she was afraid that if anyone learned she hadn't acted like a proper lady, her mother would scold her later.
So she gave a soft groan and stared at the building that still showed no sign of growing closer. That was when a man appeared—no, a boy.
"Are you lost?"
It was a gentle voice. But she knew now that when something is too gentle, it sends a chill down your spine. Daphne looked toward the voice. Someone emerged from behind a thick tree. The first thing she saw was a straight nose.
The boy's attire was ill-suited to this splendid, stifling place. A loose shirt. Rumpled clothes. Was he a boy who worked here?
"I asked if you were lost."
Perhaps because his voice was breaking? A shiver ran through her at that voice, and she instinctively flinched backward.
As the boy moved, there was the sound of something dropping. Daphne realized it was a book. The boy bent down, stretched out his long arm, and picked it up. Daphne noticed that his eyelashes were quite long.
But the moment he lifted his head slightly and looked at her clearly, she couldn't help but startle, as if someone had seized her heart in a tight grip.
Hawk-like green eyes were gazing at her.
He was truly a beautiful boy. His black hair, without even a trace of brown, was so dark it seemed light itself could not pass through it. The reason it didn't feel ominous, like a crow's feathers, was the boy's appearance and his kind eyes.
"You're lost, aren't you?"
Daphne nodded. The boy snorted with laughter. She couldn't tell what was so amusing.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to find His Majesty."
"His Majesty?"
His eyes narrowed. A leisurely blink, not particularly surprised. Had she been an adult, she might have found that strange—but she was only nine. Even so, even if she were precocious and sunk in melancholy under the weight of every worry in the world, it would have been so.
Not knowing the meaning of those leaf-green eyes, she smiled brightly and followed behind him.
"How old are you?"
"Nine."
"I'm eleven."
He didn't look it. He looked about fifteen. His long, straight arms and legs, his tall stature said as much. The boy started conversations smoothly even at a first meeting, and they laughed together now and then. Was this what it was like to make a friend your own age? How nice it would be if I had a friend, or at least a sibling?
"Here we are."
At his kind tone, her face fell with disappointment. It was time to part from the boy. And time to meet her official 'father.'
"Then I'll be going."
"Your, your name..."
When she asked timidly, as if mumbling, he narrowed his eyes and said:
"Asherad."
"Asherad."
It was an unusual name. Like something out of a myth, a dreamlike name. When she struggled over the pronunciation of 'she,' he gave a deep laugh. The line of his upturned lips was so elegant that Daphne felt ashamed of her own disheveled expression before him.
As her body drooped in dejection, the boy—Asherad—patted her shoulder soothingly.
Then—crunch—when the grip tightened on her shoulder, she involuntarily sucked in a sharp breath.
It was pain she had never known. Unable even to scream, she stared at Asherad, and he was smiling kindly. It took her time to realize that the good, gentle smile and the pain he inflicted on her were one and the same.
"A-ah, it hurts!"
"Oh dear. Forgive me."
Asherad hastily lowered his hand. Daphne looked at him with frightened eyes, but he seemed truly sorry. As he looked down at his own hand gripping Daphne's shoulder, he lifted the corner of his mouth.
"So, let's meet again. Daphne."
She thought she had heard it somewhere before, but she couldn't remember who. Without any suspicion about the familiar name, or about the boy who knew her name, she nodded glumly, sorry only to part from the boy before her.
Looking back now, she should have cut off her own feet before they could carry her to the palace. She should never have met that man.
No—simply, the moment she met him, she should have killed that man. That bastard.