GosickS
—monologue 2—
We climbed a forbidding mountain.
The road was steep, and the carriage rocked wildly the whole time. Rain continued falling. Hardly anyone in the carriage spoke. There was only the sound of the wheels.
The little girl opened the window.
Her companion, an asian boy named Kazuya Kujou, regarded her with concern.
It was adorable to watch the boy react to the girl’s every move. They seemed to argue a lot. It was obvious to the adults that they got along well, but maybe these kids didn’t see it that way.
The carriage shook.
Outside the window, dry branches of tangled trees seemed to go on forever.
But we have to push on.
I have to go to that village.
I cast an eye on the girl.
Her green eyes were as vibrant as the tropical seas, a sharp contrast to the dark, weather-beaten forest.
I glanced at the boy.
Jet-black eyes stared straight at the girl. He looked kind-hearted, but he had a stubborn jaw.
They don’t know.
They don’t know about my purpose.
They have no idea!
Chapter 3: Cordelia’s Daughter
It felt as if they had entered a time portal and arrived at a distant medieval village.
The rain created a thick, milky mist that rolled in from the steep mountains surrounding the village to the small valley, blanketing it entirely like a veil.
As though entering a room through cream-colored curtains, the party plodded toward the village through the mist.
The bridge was very old; it squeaked with their every step. A muddy stream rushed far below, crashing onto rocks and churning foams. The wind howled. Their pace quickened.
As soon as they made it across, the drawbridge was raised once more. There was a stone arch inside the gate, with a turret above it. Several men were pulling the drawbridge. Their long, golden hair, tied back, bounced as they moved their arms. Before Kazuya could call to them, a gust blew, and a thicker mist obscured both the men and the horseshoe-shaped arch.
The mist shifted, then cleared up, giving them great visibility. The strong wind was deafening. Everyone except Victorique was covering their ears and watching their surroundings warily.
“Hey, look.” Alan pointed.
The mist was gradually clearing. Kazuya gasped.
A small village of square, stone houses came into view. Mossy, gray stones arranged in geomatric shapes, as though applying some higher form of mathematics, coherent yet somehow disjointed.
Open wooden doors creaked in the wind. In the middle of the small square was a well.
There was no one around.
“Are these ruins?” Raoul mumbled, seemingly overwhelmed.
Derek nodded. “It’s a medieval village!” he exclaimed. “Look at that church…” He pointed to a tower in the distance.
“Those spires and those rose windows!”
“It’s like the medieval churches in old paintings.”
Alan removed his hat. The three young men stayed silent for a while, staring reverently at the place of worship.
Kazuya shot them a quizzical look.
“We’re art students,” Derek explained. “We know this stuff.”
Alan whistled with glee. Mildred was quiet and hanging her head, still feeling sick.
The wind blew again, clearing all the mist this time.
They froze.
Men stood in front of them, spears and swords in hand. They were watching the group with nary an expression on their faces.
Alan played with his beard. “Ghosts?” he murmured in a joking tone.
The men wore woolen shirts with leather vests and pointy hats. The women’s skirts were loose and puffy in the back, and their hair was swept back, tucked in laced, round hats.
Their attire resembled costumes from Shakesperean plays.
And they all looked similar. Both men and women had long, golden hair, tied tight. They had petite statures, with small, refined faces, like dolls sculpted by a craftsman with painstaking precision.
The villagers observed them with dark, green eyes. Despite their clean-cut figures, their still faces and dry skin made them look like ghosts.
A stir ran through the villagers as they regarded Victorique.
“It’s Cordelia’s daughter.”
“Did you say Cordelia?”
“Look at her face. She’s the spitting image of her.”
“She’s bad luck…”
Their voices crackled like dead leaves falling. Clangs of steel sounded as the villagers raised their weapons all at once.
“Stop,” said a raspy voice.
The villagers lowered their weapons. They opened a path, and an old man stepped forward. A man in his sixties, wearing an old frock coat.
He had long, silvery hair—they might as well be white at this point—tied back in a tight knot. His sideburns and beard were long, and his eyes were half-hidden by wrinkles and sagging flesh. He held a glossy ebony cane in his crinkly hand.
The man stood in front of Victorique with his hands clasped together, like a statue of a saint. His still, glassy eyes gleamed coldly.
He stared down at Victorique. “Cordelia’s daughter, huh? What’s your name?” he asked.
“Victorique de Blois,” she answered in a low, husky voice.
The man swallowed a little. “De Blois? So the blood of the kingdom’s nobility runs in your veins…”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. Your mother… Where is she?”
“She disappeared.”
“I see. There is no rest for the wicked.”
Victorique bit her lip. “Cordelia is innocent.” Her eyes burned.
“Talking back to your elders is foolish. Since you did not grow up in this village, you seem to lack the humility expected of a child. Even Cordelia did not disobey me and left in peace. But I digress.” The man cast a sweeping glance at the villagers. “This girl is a descendant who came after reading our message. She’s the daughter of Cordelia. But a child does not bear their parents’ sins. She will not be turned away. Let us celebrate Midsummer together.”
The villagers were silent. Dark eyes flickered around, but no one said a word.
“You will do as I say,” the old man continued. “Fret not. Nothing bad will happen. Even if her mother Cordelia…”
The wind blew, and the man’s silver beard swayed.
“…is a murderer.”
The old man introduced himself as Sergius, the village chief. He said that the village had been here for four hundred years. They severed contact with the outside world and lived as self-sufficiently as possible.
He led them through the village. “During the Midsummer Festival,” he began, “we welcome the spirits of our ancestors who return home in the summer, and pray for a good harvest. It begins tomorrow morning at dawn and ends at nightfall. I would like all of you to stay here until then.”
“Tomorrow evening,” Victorique mumbled.
“Yes. A little over a day to go. At dawn tomorrow, we will bring out the floats in the square and play instruments to announce to the forest that the festival is about to begin. We then take a break until noon, when the festival starts. The girls throw hazelnuts to signal the beginning of the festival. The young men then dress up in costumes and perform a skit in the square. The skit is about a battle between the Summer Army and the Winter Army, ending with the Summer Army’s victory and the Winter Man’s, the leader of the Winter Army, defeat. After celebrating Summer’s victory, we prepare to welcome our ancestors. It is said that they will come to the square through the cathedral, so it has to be empty of people during that time. At night, selected villagers put on masks, play the role of our ancestors, and dance. Then the festival ends, and we will be guaranteed a year of peace and bountiful harvest!” He went on to explain other things.
Kazuya had been feeling restless after hearing the word murderer. Meanwhile, the three young men were ecstatic.
“Look at this well!”
“Stone houses, fireplaces, and chimneys. Ugh. Talk about ancient.”
Alan showed off his state-of-the-art wristwatch to the blonde young man carrying a hunting rifle beside Sergius. He appeared to be the village chief’s assistant. He was taller than most villagers and had remarkably handsome features. He glanced at the watch, then stared at it intently.
“You’ve never seen one of these before?” Alan asked.
“I don’t leave the village.”
“Really? Then what do you do all day?”
Alan continued chatting with the young man. After showing his watch, he bragged about his horn-rimmed glasses, then pulled on Derek’s clothes next.
Sergius frowned, and his long eyebrows twitched.
Chapter 43: Volume 2 - CH 3.1
We climbed a forbidding mountain.
The road was steep, and the carriage rocked wildly the whole time. Rain continued falling. Hardly anyone in the carriage spoke. There was only the sound of the wheels.
The little girl opened the window.
Her companion, an asian boy named Kazuya Kujou, regarded her with concern.
It was adorable to watch the boy react to the girl’s every move. They seemed to argue a lot. It was obvious to the adults that they got along well, but maybe these kids didn’t see it that way.
The carriage shook.
Outside the window, dry branches of tangled trees seemed to go on forever.
But we have to push on.
I have to go to that village.
I cast an eye on the girl.
Her green eyes were as vibrant as the tropical seas, a sharp contrast to the dark, weather-beaten forest.
I glanced at the boy.
Jet-black eyes stared straight at the girl. He looked kind-hearted, but he had a stubborn jaw.
They don’t know.
They don’t know about my purpose.
They have no idea!
Chapter 3: Cordelia’s Daughter
It felt as if they had entered a time portal and arrived at a distant medieval village.
The rain created a thick, milky mist that rolled in from the steep mountains surrounding the village to the small valley, blanketing it entirely like a veil.
The bridge was very old; it squeaked with their every step. A muddy stream rushed far below, crashing onto rocks and churning foams. The wind howled. Their pace quickened.
As soon as they made it across, the drawbridge was raised once more. There was a stone arch inside the gate, with a turret above it. Several men were pulling the drawbridge. Their long, golden hair, tied back, bounced as they moved their arms. Before Kazuya could call to them, a gust blew, and a thicker mist obscured both the men and the horseshoe-shaped arch.
The mist shifted, then cleared up, giving them great visibility. The strong wind was deafening. Everyone except Victorique was covering their ears and watching their surroundings warily.
“Hey, look.” Alan pointed.
The mist was gradually clearing. Kazuya gasped.
A small village of square, stone houses came into view. Mossy, gray stones arranged in geomatric shapes, as though applying some higher form of mathematics, coherent yet somehow disjointed.
Open wooden doors creaked in the wind. In the middle of the small square was a well.
There was no one around.
“Are these ruins?” Raoul mumbled, seemingly overwhelmed.
Derek nodded. “It’s a medieval village!” he exclaimed. “Look at that church…” He pointed to a tower in the distance.
“Those spires and those rose windows!”
“It’s like the medieval churches in old paintings.”
Alan removed his hat. The three young men stayed silent for a while, staring reverently at the place of worship.
Kazuya shot them a quizzical look.
“We’re art students,” Derek explained. “We know this stuff.”
Alan whistled with glee. Mildred was quiet and hanging her head, still feeling sick.
The wind blew again, clearing all the mist this time.
They froze.
Men stood in front of them, spears and swords in hand. They were watching the group with nary an expression on their faces.
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His reaction was understandable. The villagers were all wearing vintage outfits that matched the medieval look of the village.The men wore woolen shirts with leather vests and pointy hats. The women’s skirts were loose and puffy in the back, and their hair was swept back, tucked in laced, round hats.
Their attire resembled costumes from Shakesperean plays.
And they all looked similar. Both men and women had long, golden hair, tied tight. They had petite statures, with small, refined faces, like dolls sculpted by a craftsman with painstaking precision.
The villagers observed them with dark, green eyes. Despite their clean-cut figures, their still faces and dry skin made them look like ghosts.
A stir ran through the villagers as they regarded Victorique.
“It’s Cordelia’s daughter.”
“Did you say Cordelia?”
“Look at her face. She’s the spitting image of her.”
“She’s bad luck…”
Their voices crackled like dead leaves falling. Clangs of steel sounded as the villagers raised their weapons all at once.
“Stop,” said a raspy voice.
The villagers lowered their weapons. They opened a path, and an old man stepped forward. A man in his sixties, wearing an old frock coat.
He had long, silvery hair—they might as well be white at this point—tied back in a tight knot. His sideburns and beard were long, and his eyes were half-hidden by wrinkles and sagging flesh. He held a glossy ebony cane in his crinkly hand.
The man stood in front of Victorique with his hands clasped together, like a statue of a saint. His still, glassy eyes gleamed coldly.
He stared down at Victorique. “Cordelia’s daughter, huh? What’s your name?” he asked.
“Victorique de Blois,” she answered in a low, husky voice.
The man swallowed a little. “De Blois? So the blood of the kingdom’s nobility runs in your veins…”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“She disappeared.”
“I see. There is no rest for the wicked.”
Victorique bit her lip. “Cordelia is innocent.” Her eyes burned.
“Talking back to your elders is foolish. Since you did not grow up in this village, you seem to lack the humility expected of a child. Even Cordelia did not disobey me and left in peace. But I digress.” The man cast a sweeping glance at the villagers. “This girl is a descendant who came after reading our message. She’s the daughter of Cordelia. But a child does not bear their parents’ sins. She will not be turned away. Let us celebrate Midsummer together.”
The villagers were silent. Dark eyes flickered around, but no one said a word.
“You will do as I say,” the old man continued. “Fret not. Nothing bad will happen. Even if her mother Cordelia…”
The wind blew, and the man’s silver beard swayed.
“…is a murderer.”
The old man introduced himself as Sergius, the village chief. He said that the village had been here for four hundred years. They severed contact with the outside world and lived as self-sufficiently as possible.
He led them through the village. “During the Midsummer Festival,” he began, “we welcome the spirits of our ancestors who return home in the summer, and pray for a good harvest. It begins tomorrow morning at dawn and ends at nightfall. I would like all of you to stay here until then.”
“Tomorrow evening,” Victorique mumbled.
“Yes. A little over a day to go. At dawn tomorrow, we will bring out the floats in the square and play instruments to announce to the forest that the festival is about to begin. We then take a break until noon, when the festival starts. The girls throw hazelnuts to signal the beginning of the festival. The young men then dress up in costumes and perform a skit in the square. The skit is about a battle between the Summer Army and the Winter Army, ending with the Summer Army’s victory and the Winter Man’s, the leader of the Winter Army, defeat. After celebrating Summer’s victory, we prepare to welcome our ancestors. It is said that they will come to the square through the cathedral, so it has to be empty of people during that time. At night, selected villagers put on masks, play the role of our ancestors, and dance. Then the festival ends, and we will be guaranteed a year of peace and bountiful harvest!” He went on to explain other things.
Kazuya had been feeling restless after hearing the word murderer. Meanwhile, the three young men were ecstatic.
“Look at this well!”
“Stone houses, fireplaces, and chimneys. Ugh. Talk about ancient.”
Alan showed off his state-of-the-art wristwatch to the blonde young man carrying a hunting rifle beside Sergius. He appeared to be the village chief’s assistant. He was taller than most villagers and had remarkably handsome features. He glanced at the watch, then stared at it intently.
“You’ve never seen one of these before?” Alan asked.
“I don’t leave the village.”
“Really? Then what do you do all day?”
Sergius frowned, and his long eyebrows twitched.
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