Chapter Text
Being the eldest daughter of Keel Freezis, I was raised among many servants.
My family’s pockets were deep—they were able to keep around various housekeepers, cooks, butlers, and maids. When my younger brother was born, their attention dedicated solely to me waned, and I turned to those servants they employed. They became a major part of my world.
My parents always worked. They earned their wealth through work and they never did stop, not even for a moment. Their love, during my youth, was split—between me, my siblings, and that work. They did their best to be affectionate and present, but to little me, it was not enough. Never enough.
So, then came in the staff.
I was mischievous back then—always pulling pranks just to get someone’s, anyone’s, eyes on me. My true goal was to make my parents notice me, but the servants around the house were the people who actually had to deal with me. They were the ones to scold me, punish me, care for me. Again, my parents always did their best—but there were only two of them, while there were nearly a hundred servants, their jobs all with me at their core.
Their jobs were to keep me and my family pleased. I believe even back then, at my young age, I understood that, at least to a degree. I always knew, in the back of my head, there would always be a slight wedge between me and them, that no matter how I clung to their legs and gave them my best puppy eyes as I badgered and begged for attention and love, that we would always be a little distant, different.
My mother, Mistress Mikina Freezis, always treated the staff like family despite this. With us living in Aceid, Elphegort’s capital, you would have expected heads of green and heads of green only rushing down our halls, pulling each other along as they went through their daily chores, but no. My mother always had a soft spot for the immigrants and a distaste for the natives. She exclusively hired those originating from outside of Elphegort.
While I never truly understood or even agreed, I knew my mother did have her reasons as to why. The people of Aceid were cruel to her and my father, casting them out, never letting them be anything other than those odd immigrants from Marlon.
I never did remember those times of being fresh in Aceid all that well, but my parents (especially my mother) always did their best to remind me. They told me of the hardships and falls from grace they, in their own youths, had to face, and how I was a very lucky girl for being where I was in life, so young but so set up for success.
I always received their feedback well, even when I barely understood half of it, as all I wanted was for them to be proud of me, to notice me, to love me.
That was around the time I started writing.
According to what my father used to tell me each time I visited his office and poked around his old collection of books, very few girls knew how to read and write. Those in the streets who worked dawn to dusk never had the time to learn and, even some of those like me with a wealthier background, were never given the chance to.
I really took his words to heart.
From then on, it was my mission to read as much as I could, to write as much as any girl or boy could. For me, it was a mission to be extraordinary. I not only wanted to stand out, but I wanted to stand tall, taller than anyone else before me. I wanted to be number one when it came to storytelling.
My father was thrilled to see my talents develop. I always poured my heart into writing and, even within my primitive drafts coming from the undeveloped mind of a young girl, he saw that and understood. When I began to request paper, pens, and other materials, he went out of his way to get the best, just for me.
Thanks to his generosity, I had this vast collection of feathers—they were all different colors, from all over the Bolganio, each and every one of them beautiful and unique in their own right. But my favorite of these pens were those sourced from the Rollam birds; their feathers were the softest and always were the highest quality of any I had ever owned. I was obsessed, really, especially with the black ones. Looking at them was like looking into an abyss, a matching shade to the ink I used when writing.
My parents knew some acquaintances in Aceid’s central district who always managed to have them in stock. They used to trek their way down there on foot, through those bustling crowds of people, just for me and those feathers.
It was on one of my mother’s trips down there that she met her—a woman who was staying at her acquaintance's inn, who she hired on the spot. I did not meet her immediately. Instead, she was described to me by the servants.
They were very invested. It was so odd, they said to one another as I had eavesdropped in, the new maids—an Elphe, something unheard of in the Freezis Mansion, hired alongside a Netsuma.
I had never heard of a Netsuma before, so right then I had walked up to the servants speaking before tugging lightly on the dress of one of them—a housekeeper. She had looked down at me with these big, deep brown eyes that so many of the staff seemed to share.
I had then asked what a Netsuma was, and she responded simply. She told me the Netsuma were a kind of people—like the Elphes—but were ones with white hair and red eyes, pale skin, and pale lips. They were kind of like wanderers, the other servant added in halfway, pushed out of Akuna and into Evillious, never really being accepted.
At that, I had tilted my head, not truly understanding everything they mentioned but being interested, nonetheless. This interest manifested in me, every time I peeked my head around a corner or hallway, looking out for a head of white hair or a pair of piercing red eyes, searching for her. I never did bump into her though. That is, until my mother introduced the two of us.
I had been with my mother then, walking through our high-ceiling halls with one of my tiny hands intertwined with hers, being led along, clueless, toward our mansion’s parlor. There, my mother had shepherded me in like she would have a lost lamb, those old, grand doors opening to reveal her.
That parlor had always been quite the open room. A splendid, crimson rug lay on the ground, some lavish couches set right atop it. Scattered around on side tables were some artifacts—select objects from my father’s vast collection of items—though they were not all that marvelous, not in comparison to the room’s windows, the true centerpiece of the parlor.
There were three of them, to be exact—two smaller ones with the largest and most decorated sandwiched between.
Right in front of that main window, she stood, a woman a few years younger than my mother had been then, staring out at the outdoors.
Even now, all these years later, I remember the sight. Treasure it, even.
She was beautiful, at that moment, with the morning sun’s rays illuminating her pearl hair, making it look as if she had a halo around her head. She wore her uniform, tinted a slight yellow from the light, the same dress every maid working at the Freezis household wore day by day and night by night, though it was different when draped over her. It matched her in a way it did not with the others.
Yet, after a second or so of me staring, she had turned, revealing her timid, ruby eyes to me and my mother. Before that meeting, I had spent so much time just envisioning what those eyes would have looked like, but I had never imagined they would have been so beautifully red in person.
It was then that my mother nudged me forward, my legs mindlessly beginning to walk in lockstep as I neared this woman I had been thinking of for weeks. And, pray let me tell you, she was so much more than I ever could have imagined.
Her name was Clarith, she had whispered to me, her voice soft and fragile, gentle in a way I had never heard before. She had knelt down to my level; spoken to me on my level. It was different—so different, in fact, that it was and still is difficult to express through just the written word. The best way to describe myself back then was as enchanted.
I was such a puppy dog for that woman, following her everywhere she went, chattering away as she did my laundry or any other meandering chore. My mother had once asked me offhandedly the reason for my devotion, and I told her simply:
Clarith was pretty. Clarith was kind. Clarith could read and write.
Clarith was probably the only staff member in that mansion who was consistently literate, even though she hailed from some rural town on Elphegort’s fringes, originally a farmer who had no business being so proficient in the skills she miraculously possessed. It only made me more attached.
We shared almost every day together—Clarith was my personal caretaker, in a way. It was in her job description to have me as the center of her universe, more so than any of the other staff. Back then, I was one of the most important people in her day-to-day routine; though I was not the most important. I was constantly playing second fiddle to that other maid, Michaela.
Michaela was an Elphe with that signature emerald hair and eyes that made their race so obvious. My mother had hired her reluctantly as a condition of Clarith’s employment, as a second thought. She, for one, stuck out like a sore thumb among the servants.
It was not that she was unkind or unpleasant, it was that she was different. The other staff were awkward around her—Michaela was the only working Elphe in the household, after all. She was chipper, kind, beautiful, quite the pleasant woman. But she was an Elphe, and those around me always seemed to hold it against her in at least some fashion. The only person who seemed blind to those differences was Clarith.
They were close with one another—more so than the usual pairs of friends in the stories Clarith would sometimes read to me, more so than the usual pairs of siblings I would sometimes see playing in the Aceid streets from outside my window, more so than the couples I would see develop from inside the mansion. They would have these exchanges, looks, that seemed odd and gauche, out of place for girls like them. Being only around nine or so, I did not understand it. Not them or their relationship.
But I did understand one thing—that I was only second best, and that it did not sit well with me. My whole childhood, I had been working to be number one—for my parents, for the staff, for Clarith—and I was failing. Clarith was like the gentle mother I had missed out on, the protective older sister I never had the chance to have, the amalgamation of all those I had ever wanted to notice me, and I was already losing her to someone else.
So, I acted out. I reverted to behaviors reminiscent of my earlier years, pulling pranks and whatnot, making everyone’s day just a little harder each time. And, when it came to Michaela, I was especially difficult—pouring all my pent-up anger and hate into the way I treated her. Yet despite my efforts, looking back now, I realize I failed to do much harm to her. Really, what much could I have done back then other than come off as some obnoxious brat? The only person I ended up hurting was Clarith.
I stressed her, made her strain between me and Michaela, and constantly put her through my various tantrums. After only a week or two of my antics, I could tell her patience with me was waning, which was an accomplishment. That woman’s patience, back then, had been unshakable—she would have put up with just about anything, all to keep the peace.
But I had made it my mission to break her nearly unbreakable patience and do that I did. It got to the point where she pulled me aside one day, right after a particularly egregious prank I still can not fully recall the details of, though I remember the consequences of which well enough.
Clarith had been silent as she led me by the hand to my bedroom. Her silence was not odd in its own right, but it was the kind of silence that was. It was stiff, thick, and suffocating—not like how Clarith usually was—polite, kind, and cordial. Something had been off.
As we had entered my room, she had pushed the wooden doors closed, having not uttered a single word yet. I stood in the center of the room, some stray light from my window shining down on my face while Clarith stood behind me in the shadows. From there, I could feel her crimson eyes digging into my back.
There had been a momentary stillness for a second, though it soon passed as purposeful footsteps approached me, a hand falling to my small shoulder and squeezing it.
It was only then that I found the courage to glance up at her, to take in her expression and emotions, but what awaited me was not what I expected.
I expected her to look disappointed, like how my mother sometimes looked when I threw a fit or did something wrong. For her to look frustrated, like how some of our housekeepers looked when I tracked mud inside carelessly. But those things were not what she looked like, nor did they match the emotions I found in her face. Not entirely.
What I found in reality was coldness, anger, and tears. She had her watery eyes narrowed and her silver brows knitted together, her face creased with pure emotion—emotion I hypothesize was once buried deep within her, hidden away from the world, birthed from the hate and torture that same world had once inflicted upon her.
My eyes had widened in that moment, my own tears beginning to swirl my vision. I could feel the sheer intensity of Clarith’s emotions pressing against me, pushing me down—a deep, deep guilt permeating my entire form as I finally felt the effects of what I had done.
But as quickly as that expression of hers lasted, it disappeared in a flash, Clarith’s face falling into a great regret coloring her now fully creased expression. She had dropped to her knees and thrown herself at me, her arms curling around my small shoulders and back, holding me close almost to the point of suffocation.
“Miss…” she had managed out, her voice hoarse and drenched in despair, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Clarith always had a habit of that—apologizing, even for the smallest of things. This was a prime example, with her begging me for forgiveness when I had been nothing but a burden to her.
In the years following those of my childhood, all I could ever think about her was that she was far too pleased to be a part of the world that, for all her life, had chewed her up and spat her out without a second thought or hesitation, the world that did nothing but take and take from her until she had nothing left to spare or hold close to her chest.
Though, even back then, I think that—intuitively, at least—I knew there was a darkness brewing within her. That look she had given me had been neither a mistake nor a fluke. All that anger, sadness, and coldness in her expression had been real, every little bit of it having been hidden away, waiting for the proper excuse to be set free. If only I had done something sooner.
Nevertheless, I find it hard to be so tough on my younger self for her inaction; I had no way of knowing the extent of her pain or the lengths she would take to express it. I had no reason to know as, even with those emotional hiccups, things only seemed to get brighter back then.
I was still just a girl, and my phases waned and waxed turbulently. Since our little incident, Clarith did her best to give me special attention whenever she had the free time, and I slowly began to forget my envy. My pranks lessened and my antics stabilized, though I never truly gave up that nagging feeling of jealousy. Every time I saw Michaela, I would feel it, hearing a slight whisper in the back of my head, telling me that I was secondary to her, that I was not enough.
But this time around, I failed to take it out on those around me. Instead, I retreated into myself, being uncharacteristically, and concerningly, quiet and reserved. I could tell, in those times, that those around me grew worried; Clarith, my father, and my mother continuously attempting to reach out to me, though I always just waved them off or pushed them away. The only person to get through to me then, oddly enough, was Michaela.
I had been sitting at my stained wood desk, fumbling around with one of my prized Rollam pens when she skipped her way into my room. Just from her footsteps, I could tell it was her; Michaela had never been one to disguise herself or be subtle, always having this slight misunderstanding of boundaries. Her barging in was par for the course.
“Yukina!” she had called out to me with a hint of amusement in her voice. Michaela had always called me by just my first name, never using miss, madam, or whatever else. She had always been quite informal, at least in comparison to Clarith and the other staff.
Michaela had muttered to herself something akin to, “oh, there you are,” as she walked right up to my side, pausing there.
A second of stillness passed between us, though it was quickly cut off by the sound of porcelain scratching against wood to my left. Glancing over, I saw a small silver plate sat beside me with some fluffy, golden-brown brioche sat atop, having been slid over to me by Michaela, who still had her hand glued to the platter.
Despite the offer, I merely pouted, even as Michaela flashed that signature smile of hers. I had shoved that plate back with a huff, groaning as I buried my face in my arms in a way unlike the lady I had been groomed to be should have.
Michaela, despite my poor attitude, just chuckled, giving me a little pat on the shoulder. “Lighten up,” she had told me, her voice somehow still pouring with chipper, “Clarith made this for you, so you gotta eat it!”
Well, that had grabbed my attention.
Clarith had always been quite the impressive chef and baker. She would, on occasion, cook for me, make me all sorts of meals and little treats, never failing to raise my mood. So, anything made from her was something special.
Peering up from my little hiding spot against my sleeves, I glared at that beautiful, probably delicious, brioche, thinking Michaela’s words over for a moment or two. Tentatively, then, I had reached out, my shaky little hand grazing the loaf’s crust. It only took me a split second to grab that bread, pull it to me, and then stuff it into my mouth.
Michaela watched me as I did so, and as I licked at my fingers afterward like some cat preening its paws. I could hear her giggle, one of her hands ruffling my hair, her laughter quite joyous and beautiful.
She had always been a pretty bird with a heart of gold—anyone who had ever even crossed paths with her could have told you so—a talented woman with the voice of an angel and the determination of a mule. One who, despite some of her surrounding circumstances, you knew just from a glance, was destined for something greater.
It was only too bad, then. Each time I reflect on her, the greater the shame becomes—her fate. It was her brightness that did her in, in the end.
If you have ever read some of my other novels—specifically The Daughter of Evil—then you know what happened to Michaela, a helpless girl murdered by a tyrant, the villainized Riliane Lucifen d'Autriche, a young girl in her own right, whose pride and envy consumed her. She fell with her fellow Elphes, massacred in mass by that tyrant. I have popularized her image through the years as this “Daughter of Green,” a woman crushed by a situation far outside her control, but she was a lot more than that, to me and others.
When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to be like her, motives aside. I looked up to her in a way, even through my cloud of envy. She was special to me in the end.
But, even with that, my attachment to her was nothing when compared to Clarith’s—absolutely nothing.
After her passing, when I had asked Clarith why she had cared for Michaela so much, she told me this with a deep sigh and a strangled tone:
“Michaela… Michaela was everything to me.
“We had been through so much together—the only reason I’m here today is because of her. She’s done so much it’s hard to describe… but if that’s what you’re looking for, Miss, then… then so be it. You deserve to know.
“I met her around the little farming village I was raised in while I still lived there, having found her in the nearby forest, passed out on the ground. Despite the road back to my town being a long and hard one, I had carried her on my back for what felt like hours before bringing her to my home and slowly nursing her back to health.
“Despite saving her, I was wary of Michaela at first. I pushed her away and tried to hide, though she didn’t let me. Michaela practically attached herself to my hip, just so I wouldn’t be so… alone anymore.
“My old town hadn’t been the nicest. Not for someone like me. Everyone there was an Elphe and was a part of the Held sect of the church, just like you, Mistress Freezis, and Lord Keel. But they were different, persecuting me in God’s name as a heretic, as some kind of witch, since I was just a little girl, around your age, Miss.”
I remember Clarith giving me an attempt at a smile, brushing some of my loose hair out of my face. She had then continued:
“But Michaela, she... she didn’t treat me that way—the thought of doing so never even crossed her mind. When they turned on me, she brought me to Aceid, brought me to you and your family. For that, I’m… so grateful.”
By then, Clarith’s voice had started to crack, sobs punctuating her sentences, and water beginning to roll down her doll-like cheeks, her red eyes only becoming redder. I could do nothing but watch as she drowned in her own sorrow, her very body wrenching with the pain and heartbreak she was battling and slowly succumbing to.
Clarith died with Michaela. That gentle and patient woman I loved like an elder sister cracking and dissolving before me, ceasing to even be, in a way. She left our household, resigning instead to a small ocean town and staying at a monastery there. I failed to see her for years. When I saw her again, well... she was not the woman I once knew—something had changed her at that monastery.
What happened there, though, I can not tell you now, not with just my summarizing words. This has only been the background, a preface of those in this memoir that has been decades in the making, a collection of quotes and rumors spun together into one narrative, a retelling of a fairytale that occurred in only the shadows of the fallen and despised, a cry for help of a girl that had been nothing but hated by life itself. I have conducted countless interviews, investigations, and given so many bribes, the value of which rivals even my father’s extensive fortune.
Each and every one of the novels I have written, every book, children's and adult alike, I have published, has all been a portion of this larger story. With every sentence I wrote, Clarith had been on my mind. With every word I wrote, I worried for her, even as she became someone I could barely even recognize, a monster that was once the lovely, timid, patient woman who cared for me in my childhood and discriminated against no one, who would bake for me, read for me, and be there for me.
To tell her story as I can make of it is the most significant thing I can do for her now.
And Clarith, if you somehow find this, even though you are not no longer around to read this:
I’m sorry.