IWMHWD 115

Chapter 115 – Love
2024.02.23

The sharp stench hit her nose, and Cordelia froze on the spot.
Even without seeing, she had a vague sense of what was happening—or had happened—inside.

She turned to Veluche and Gasil.
“I’ll go in alone.”

“Yes, understood. We’ll wait here.”

Because they believed she had rushed here to keep vigil at her father’s deathbed, the two men didn’t question her and remained outside.

Cordelia entered, shut the door tightly to keep any sound from leaking out, and took a deep breath.

The place where her father lay was so cramped and filthy it could hardly be called a home.

Even if the glory of the Vásquez family had waned compared to the past, Pablo Vásquez was not a man who should be ending his days in such a hovel fit for commoners. In other words, this was the last place he would ever have chosen to face death.

“Father.”

“Cough!”

Cordelia slowly approached the bed where her father lay. The mattress was so old and dirty that dust flew up with every slight movement. He pushed back the blanket and raised himself up.

“I received your letter. That your health was failing.”

“Y-yes. It seems I don’t have many days left now.”

Pablo hunched like a shrimp, coughing harshly. Cordelia looked down at him with a face drained of expression, indifferent.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your funeral is grand. All the people of Yevo Delim will shed tears before your coffin and scatter blue flowers.”

No sooner had she finished speaking than Pablo shook violently up and down. For a man supposedly at death’s door, his movements were surprisingly vigorous.

“Funeral? I’m still breathing and all you can think about is burying me?”

“The physician said your end was near, that even breathing was difficult. Yet you seem quite recovered. Did you buy yourself some fine medicine?”

If he were truly dying, the small room wouldn’t reek so heavily of alcohol.

Cordelia let out a laugh of disbelief. She had suspected—but never imagined he’d go so far as to lie about his own impending death. It was so absurd that she couldn’t even muster anger.

“I even brought mourning clothes. Looks like I won’t be needing them.”

“Mourning clothes? Why don’t you just pray for my death at the temple while you’re at it?”

“Have you already forgotten? You lied to me that you were on your deathbed. As a daughter’s duty, I prepared everything, even the mourning clothes, and rushed all the way here from Wilas. Ha!”

What was this feeling?

Cordelia felt something itching, gnawing in her gut that she couldn’t suppress. It was too deep to be called mere hatred or resentment. It was like facing an endless well of loathing that could never run dry.

“Cough—lie, you say!”

“Out of money again? My teacher told me you received nearly a hundred thousand lincats. Already squandered such a fortune?”

“How dare you speak to your father with such insolence!”

As was his habit, Pablo swung his hand at her. But this time Cordelia was not defenseless as she had been at the Saracen banquet.

“Argh!”

The blow rebounded against her barrier, proof of how hard he had tried to strike her. He received back the full force of his own violence. Clutching his right arm, he screamed as if dying.

The noise was so shrill it was like a pig being slaughtered. Cordelia grimaced and stepped back.

“Your throat seems better already. You’re not even coughing now. I’m relieved, Father.”

“You wretched brat! Your father is sick, and that stiff attitude is all you can show? Do you know how much it cost to raise you? The clothes you wear, the food you ate—all from my pocket!”

“Now you’re even keeping tabs on that? Oh, what about the fee for giving me life? Don’t you want that too?”

Cordelia burst into laughter. Her voice was loud, but she no longer cared if the two knights outside overheard. The man before her felt utterly base.

“I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any further, but you’ve managed to show me the very bottom.”

“You! Watch your tongue.”

“Just admit it. You called me here because you’ve run out of money for drink. Dress it up however you like—whether it’s ‘life-giving debt’ or whatever—but all you wanted was to squeeze more money out of me. If you’d said so honestly, I might’ve even brought more.”

Her blatant mockery made Pablo clench his teeth and breathe raggedly, then, as if reaching a decision, his expression shifted.

“There’s one thing I can’t collect, no matter what—the price for giving you life.”

“Well, of course. That debt should rightly go to Mother, not you.”

“No. Because you’re not my child. How could I shamelessly demand payment for something that isn’t mine?”

“…What?”

Cordelia blinked, unable to believe what she’d heard. A word she had never imagined slipped into his sentence. For the first time, she was struck speechless. Thinking he had gained the upper hand, Pablo’s voice grew stronger.

“Do you know how I felt every time I looked into those accursed green eyes of yours?”

“W-what are you saying?”

“The Vásquez line has always had black eyes. My father, my grandfather, even my son—all of them.”

Cordelia’s mother, Grita, had light brown eyes. Cordelia had always resented her own eyes, which resembled neither parent’s, but she had never once doubted her parentage.

When little Cordelia cried, rubbing her eyes, Grita would hug her and say,
“Your grandmother had green eyes. You got them from her. That’s why they’re green.”

“Ridiculous. The late Madam Manson—your grandmother—had the same brown eyes as your mother.”

“…”

“For over twenty years I had to endure those eyes, the proof of her betrayal, right in front of me. Do you know how that tormented me?”

He pointed a shaking finger at her, wearing the mask of grief.

“Betrayal? You can’t know for certain with just this. Eye color alone can’t prove—”

Cordelia rejected the words with every fiber of her being. They shook her very roots, crashing over her like waves. She even forgot how to breathe until she forced the air out at last.

“Your mother met a man with the exact same eyes just before she married me. And you just happened to be born two months premature? Ha! Even a dog wouldn’t believe such a coincidence.”

Pablo spoke as though he had been waiting for this moment, merciless. With long, sharp nails he tore into the daughter who had borne his name for twenty years. Cordelia’s face turned ghostly pale, as if she might collapse at any second.

“Do you see now? Taking you in and raising you was an act of immeasurable mercy. I even allowed a bastard of filthy blood to bear the Vásquez name! And you dare talk about ‘the bottom’? About money for drink?”

“…”

“I thought I might at least get some compensation through Atillay. But Dennis told me you barged into their inn, yelling without an ounce of refinement. After that, Atillay changed his mind and refused to give me the promised money. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

“…”

“Don’t just stand there dumb like an ox—answer me! What did you whisper to Atillay? Because of you, Dennis was expelled from the Order, and Atillay went back on his promise!”

Pablo no longer bothered with his sick act. He sprang up from the bed.

Cordelia’s mind was blank. She didn’t cry, she didn’t rage. The weight of it all was simply too much to bear. Like a dream, she vaguely recalled a scene from childhood—her father pointing at her while quarreling with her mother.

‘The proof of your betrayal is written in her eyes. What excuse do you have?’
‘No, Cordelia is our child. I swear before God. Please, believe me.’
‘Swear? Ha! How can you say that when you see those revolting eyes?’

She had been too young then to understand why they fought. Later, when she grew older, Pablo never spoke of it again, and she thought the matter forgotten.

Or perhaps she had simply refused to hear it. She never wanted to believe her eyes were evidence of her mother’s betrayal.

Pablo stared straight into her eyes. His breath reeked of alcohol, his stooped back pitiful, but his black pupils gleamed like polished beads.

“I gave you everything. I fed you, raised you, even married you off well.”

“Ah…”

She couldn’t call him Father. Cordelia opened her lips silently, then closed them again. Pablo glanced around restlessly, as if searching for something or waiting for someone, muttering under his breath.

“If you hadn’t ruined things with Dennis, if Atillay had kept paying as promised, I wouldn’t have gone this far.”

Cordelia, still half in shock, barely registered his words.

Just then, sounds of a scuffle erupted outside the door. Startled, Cordelia turned her head toward it. At that instant, Pablo seized her shoulder roughly, making her wince.

“Listen to me carefully. You are no longer a Vásquez.”

“Father!”

Her mind, muddled with shock and despair, snapped into focus. She stared at him.

His next words were colder still.

“I won’t write to you begging ever again. You and I are strangers now—completely, utterly.”