The Weight of Legacy

It was quite difficult to pinpoint exactly when things went wrong, because this trial might have been doomed from the start.

Her trial for Kristian was shaping up to have been a fluke as far as Malwine was concerned—it had absolutely ruined her expectations as to what all of these would be like, misleading as it had been.

Malwine continued to fumble with the closet door’s handle. She could barely make anything out through the slates—between the seating figures and the lecturer up front, it might have been a classroom.

Katrina’s also leads me to a school?

Just like Kristian’s.

She was nowhere near ready to unpack that—of course it would make sense for them to have some sort of connection, if they ended up having children together. They had to meet somehow.

All Malwine could hear were shouts—was Hanß of all people in charge of teaching here? By anyone’s educational standards, that’d be a travesty.

No matter how hard she focused, nothing made sense. Oh, she could hear the words themselves, aided if nothing else by the volume, but she couldn’t process them. It was bizarre, and, in no small part, frustrating. Was the trial intentionally preventing her from eavesdropping? How was she supposed to work with this, then?

Suddenly, one of the students slapped her hands against the desk in front of her and pushed herself up with enough force to send her chair skidding to the side.

The girl appeared flushed, her skin so rosy it took Malwine a second to see she wasn’t actually pink. Long chestnut hair swayed around her—it brought back memories of a monster Malwine couldn’t recall the name or origin of, one with prehensile hair. It must have been from a game, she reasoned, but that was as far as her recollection went.

In this case, it appeared to be little else than hair of questionable volume, as the girl had to actually walk to the teacher—Hanß or not—rather than swing her way there. Her finger poked at his chest, and only then did it strike Malwine that either this girl was tall, or everyone in this place was shorter than average.

Come to think of it, I’ve never really paid attention to that… Malwine couldn’t help but snicker, the thought having lit up another memory. I did always wonder how witnesses in crime shows always know how tall the perp they saw was. At best I could tell you Hanß was shorter than a tree but taller than a child.

Refocusing on the argument, something became immediately clear to Malwine—the teacher was taking steps back. Neither party ceased their yapping, but it didn’t take great observational skills to notice Hanß—and it was definitely Hanß, if the glasses were anything to go by—appeared apprehensive.

The headmaster, so eager to lay a hand on Kristian, was afraid of an angry teenager.

Malwine smiled. If only this stupid door would open…

Then what?, a more reasonable part of her pushed through. Am I just going to barge into the room?

With a wince, she walked back, dodging the sparse clothes in the closet. She didn’t want to miss the potential fight, but while the trial had placed her in the perfect spot for watching this… argument, it struck her that she probably wasn’t meant to get involved in it.

There was no back wall. Oh. Dark as the inside of the closet was, it didn’t take long for her to find a dim light, next to a wooden mop and various buckets. That’s… who arranges rooms like this? Is someone putting their clothes in the maintenance closet or is someone bringing their soggy mop to the world’s emptiest closet?

Do I even want to know?

Malwine grumbled—this was a trial, it wasn’t real. By now, she might as well use them as a recreational activity, an opportunity to walk about when her current real self could not—she sure as fuck wasn’t going to pass any of the trials if things kept going as they had, anyway.

I wonder if I could make something like this in the real world. It was a dangerous thought, but one that had been budding for a while now. Between the scenes [Imitation Beyond Filiality] could make, and the usefulness of her widow avatar for [Meditation], Malwine had a great idea as to what she wanted for her next Skill.

This is fantasyland, please… Something like astral projection might exist—and why would I have to be myself if it does?

All she had to do was figure out how to actually force such a Skill to become reality. She hadn’t been offered any since [The Plurilingual Psyche]. It would have been worrying, if she’d actually been trying.

Her inaction was a great tool for avoiding panic—you didn’t fail anything you didn’t try, after all. Unlike these trials…!

At last, Malwine’s angry yanks got the possible maintenance closet’s door open. It didn’t feel locked, instead almost rusted shut despite the lack of visual signs for such a thing. She couldn’t place the scent of metal, uncertain it was even there with how superficial her senses were in this place, but she pushed forward.

The same halls. If she’d had any doubts about her current location even after seeing Hanß, this would have sealed it.

Malwine flinched at the sight of her hands. They were the same, formless things they had been on the table holding her index cards, on the place where she chose to enter the trial. She didn’t have a form at all on this trial.

She looked over her shoulder just in time to see a woman about to run into her, but before she could react, the woman went right through her without batting an eye.

Malwine took the time to blink her currently intangible eyes. Well. I guess that’s convenient.

Still. I’m not Katrina?

That would be troublesome. For Older-Beryl’s trial—the urge to start thinking of her ancestor as OBeryl for brevity’s sake was strong, if only because it reminded her of the many creative spellings for Oberon. It would be fitting—to Malwine, at least—given the apparent nature of her curse. She’d have fun with what she could.

Besides, I’m pretty sure Oberyl’s a valid name. Somewhere. Wasn’t it a surname?

Being unable to corroborate her questionable thoughts with easily accessible databases was a pain—life just wasn’t the same without being able to look up the bare bones of a name with the usage of wildcards, just to witness how far human creativity could take its spelling.

As she wandered the halls, seeking the classroom where the argument was taking place, an unbidden thought practically slapped its way into her head.

Do I like my name? Malwine almost struggled to keep walking.

Yet she reached the same conclusion she somehow knew she had in her first life, towards the name she’d had back then. No. But it’s the name I was given.

It had been a glimpse into the mindset of people she never met, if crumbs at that. She’d never really gotten to know her parents then—they’d been alive when she was a baby, but not for much longer. That did not truly qualify as meeting someone.

They might have chosen her name for a trivial reason, but she also had ancestors that had shared it, for all she could no longer recall it. She’d never know the meaning behind it.

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A name could have a literal meaning, like how it was said Eva meant something along the lines of ‘living one’—that she remembered that would irk her to no end—but maybe a girl was named Eva because her mother had a late best friend by that name, and had chosen to honor her by naming that daughter as such.

That was the sort of meaning that mattered—at least the one Malwine cared for. The meaning it had for the one who chose it.

In most cases, the true‘why’ to a name wasn’t something you’d learn—the people involved would be long dead, forever beyond your search for answers. You could guess, sure—if they’re named Eva, and their godmother is Eva, well—but it just didn’t hold the same weight.

Beryl still lived somewhere—Malwine could meet her. Would meet her, if things went her way. Both Malwine and her plans were still in infancy, but she wouldn’t allow herself to doubt she’d succeed.

Her focus lapsed again—what about the subject of this trial? What about Katrina?

Resurrection was possible, but were it easy, wouldn’t someone have already done it?

Malwine shook her head and resumed her earlier pace just in time to hear a door slamming, followed by a figure with a sufficiently similar mane to cross the part of the wall visible at the end of this hall.

She sped up, hoping she could still follow the girl—if she hadn’t been distracted by her own thoughts, she’d probably have been closer just in time to see her run out of the classroom.

Malwine barely managed to turn the corner, for once glad at her intangible form’s inability to slam headfirst into the wall. A single door remained slightly ajar in that direction. This place is definitely larger than it looked like on my trial for Kristian.

The door didn’t budge when she pushed it—instead, she went through it.

The girl was there, her hair tied back now. Something told Malwine more time had passed than it should have, as her outfit was different now, a dark sleeveless tank top taking the place of that white bishop-sleeve turtleneck. She was moving things around the room—a workshop filled with plates and sheets of metal.

A panel popped up before Malwine, startling her.