MLRLM 04

Chapter 4 …
The End of the Pilgrimage

Philis sighed deeply as she stepped onto the carriage first. She had come to Aljaz alone, without even a maid. But that was how desperate she had been. Once she returned, Ana would surely scold her all day. Thinking of her life in Brjul, Philis felt genuinely exhausted.

Outside the carriage, Timeo Vollreban was listening attentively to the countless instructions from the abbot priest. The two looked very much like a father and son. They were about to travel a considerable distance, yet Timeo’s baggage seemed remarkably light. As the abbot’s sermon barely registered in his ears, Timeo’s eyes briefly met hers. This time, Philis looked away first. As expected, he was not easily swayed. Twisted in mood, Philis drew the curtain back down.

“I suppose you won’t be wishing for your brother’s recovery.”

The abbot sounded sincere. It wasn’t the first time the eldest Vollreban son had been gravely ill. That eldest son was a severe mental case, constantly seeking attention, particularly during seasonal changes or national anniversaries, when he would complain of extreme suffering. Every time, the foolish Vollrebans—from distant relatives to servants—would gather to “bless” their noble eldest son’s swift recovery. A few years ago, when Timeo visited Brjul upon hearing that Marcel was critically ill, he vividly remembered the icy stares. They had looked at him as if he were a peasant rushing to grab the fallen grain after his brother’s death.

“Why not visit Brjul sometime this year? Isn’t it your homeland?”

“Your lands are disgustingly filthy; I have no desire to visit them again. Don’t you know that better than anyone? …There’s no better place to avoid the curse of the twin gods than there.”

“I’m not a twin, though.”

The abbot simply stared at Timeo, like a father at his son. He was one of the few saints who breathed life and faith into children weighed down by despair and led them toward the light.

All lives deserved respect, but there were three exceptions: illegitimate children, twins, and that cursed Timeo Vollreban. Illegitimate children were treated as pleasure-born livestock, and twins carried a dire superstition: if twins were born in a family, the lineage would be entirely cursed because ignorant people claimed it offended the twin gods. Timeo was neither illegitimate nor a twin, yet he had endured a life of contempt rather than respect from his siblings and father.

Timeo looked down at the abbot’s rapidly aging head. The abbot, slightly embarrassed, awkwardly hugged Timeo.

“Timeo.”
“Yes.”
“You are the son born of God and me. Remember that you are different from them.”

As soon as Timeo stepped away from the abbot’s embrace, he bowed respectfully. The other priests seeing him off did the same.

Timeo glanced again at the carriage bearing the Vollreban crest. Just as he was about to step in, a thin arm suddenly shot out from the doorway. He ignored the arm extended toward him—it was obvious that if he grabbed it, both would tumble outside the carriage.

“So they still think I’m a child.”
“I thought you were younger than me.”
“Only half a year difference.”

Philis, who had once actively courted Timeo, now remained largely silent in the carriage. It was probably because he had firmly rejected her proposal.

The fastest route the coachman suggested was a road lined endlessly with thick forests. Every jolt of the carriage shook Philis violently. She looked at Timeo sitting arrogantly across from her, legs crossed. He barely moved, only scanning her as if she were some curious creature.

“Tiring?”
“…Not at all.”

Timeo felt the seat slightly sink under him. Philis had deliberately sat beside him. They weren’t married, yet their closeness seemed oddly comical. Just as she was about to speak, the carriage jolted again over the rough path. Timeo caught Philis’s arms as she nearly fell forward.

“A protest, asking to switch seats?”
“I’ve been annoyed by your glances for some time now.”
“You were all sweet and persistent when you begged me to marry you. Now you’re being picky, Philis.”
“I never begged.”
“Yes, you shamelessly demanded it.”

Despite having spent two days pressing for marriage, Philis shamelessly complained about her annoyance. As she naturally brushed shoulders with him, Timeo leaned against the window. With nothing else to do, he occasionally observed Philis’s pale face with her eyes closed. Though she claimed she was fine, her expression was tense. Traveling such a rough road must have been a real ordeal for someone used to the well-kept roads of the monastery. Acting on impulse, Timeo gently adjusted her hair that had fallen loose, picking up her shawl from the carriage floor and placing it carefully between her head and the seatback. Philis, eyes closed, did not react, and Timeo did not linger on her neck.

When young Timeo had been cast out to Aljaz, the carriage carried only his personal luggage and himself. The carriage offered no courtesy stops; the coachman was blunt, and Aljaz itself was so desolate it seemed like corpses lived there.

Recalling those times, Timeo leaned his head against the window, idly watching the dry branches scrape past the carriage. That was when Philis spoke.

“Before we arrive… I hope he’s already dead.”

Philis sometimes thought that Marcel Vollreban should have died young. Because he did not, his brother had to live as if dead, feigning devotion to God in the foreign Aljaz region, and Philis, Marcel’s fiancée…

Brjul, the Vollreban estate, was a damp, humid city of dense forests and constant rain. Anything planted would grow, though rarely straight. The capital called Brjul “a vast cemetery in scale,” yet even commoners could maintain lovely gardens, so the city’s appearance was not terrible. Seeing the city from the Vollreban castle, Timeo felt his heart throb unpleasantly. Ten years ago, he had been exiled there almost as punishment for revealing Marcel’s illness. Back then, he was an inexperienced boy unable to defend himself. Now, Timeo was a strong young man of marriageable age.

Six hours of relentless travel had left even his godlike face showing fatigue. Yet, his tired eyes only added a certain melancholy. Sweat and dust clung to his body, highlighting his firm chest in contrast to his delicate, troubled face.

The elderly steward, who had known him since his cradle, glanced at the returning master with disbelief, regardless of Timeo’s slightly rude demeanor. From the moment he entered Marcel’s bedroom, Timeo’s gaze lingered on one particular point.

“Lady Menes, he is…”
“A priest, called for prayer.”

The elderly family physician alternated glances between Timeo and Philis, looking at her as if uncertain how to deliver the final prognosis. Seeing Marcel’s younger brother grown so finely left him nearly speechless. His gentle warnings that Marcel would not survive the night sounded sweeter to Philis than anything else. As the physician went to inform the rest of the family, Philis looked down at Marcel. Timeo, meeting his sick brother unexpectedly, remained composed as if he had long practiced such moments.

As always, the first thing that caught the eye were the countless portraits. Filling the walls with the fiancée’s image was surely the work of a lunatic or a highly obsessive soul—and Marcel was both. From the early summer when their engagement began at twelve until now at twenty-two, Marcel had commissioned Philis’s portrait every year.

His room was otherwise sparse, with only the bed and a few pieces of furniture. Outsiders visiting the bedroom were often speechless at the sheer number of Philis’s portraits, unaware they were commissioned by Marcel rather than Philis herself. Rumors flew: “The Marquess’s daughter is obsessed with her fiancé to the point of plastering his room with her image,” or “Those portraits seem to drain the very life from young Vollreban.”

The window was half-open. Philis hurried over, aggressively opening it fully. The room quickly turned cool. Timeo remained rooted, staring at the many portraits. Philis’s voice, at odds with her expression, spoke kindly.

“Marcel, when exactly do you plan to die? I feel like I’ve heard a thousand times that you won’t survive the night.”
“…P-Philis.”

Marcel’s thin, cracked voice made Philis lift her head. She looked down indifferently at her sick fiancé, barely clinging to life. Once he had twirled her around the house, insisting she hated it, but now he resembled nothing more than a dried stick. Philis gently plucked a few strands of his thin blond hair from his forehead and cleaned them with a lace handkerchief. Marcel, unable to lift an arm and trying to hide his frail body, looked almost comical.

Timeo also gazed silently at Marcel’s emaciated face, their unfocused eyes briefly meeting. Philis watched the dry reunion between the siblings.

In early spring, when ten-year-old Philis had made her first assessments, Marcel had seemed fragile among the other children. The blond, blue-eyed noble boy was sickly, with asthma, mild digestive issues, and more ailments than she could count. His tiny body stirred a protective instinct. Though everyone claimed the eldest Vollreban would outgrow his illnesses, Philis immediately sensed he would not live long.

Despite her early intuition, Marcel lived over a decade more, meaning Philis’s judgment had been slightly off. She became his playmate and, after frequent trips between Brjul and Banuole, had grown indifferent to him by the time engagement talks began. She needed a suitable partner for the sake of her father’s promise.

“Philis, Philis…”
“Sorry, I was distracted.”

Though, in truth, she felt little remorse.

“Why did you… bring that one? Did you… conspire with him all along? Acting noble while secretly doing… all sorts of sinister things…!”

Even on the day of his death, Marcel was all talk. His sudden coughing fit was provoked by speaking so much at once.