The Weight of Legacy

Never in a million cycles would Anselm have believed it, had someone warned him he would someday find himself having to play mediator between his father and Bernadette—it wasn’t that their irritability surprised him, not in the slightest. He had known both for most of his life, if for different reasons, and he knew better than to expect them to keep their emotions in check for any period of time.

No, the root of his disbelief was how, against all odds, they were somehow behaving unreasonably by his standards. Even at their worst, either had the sense to at least somewhat consider what the consequences of their actions might be—the same could admittedly not be said about Anselm, especially prior to the arrival of Beryl’s child.

Which was to say—having to act like the wise person in the room had Anselm questioning whether he had accidentally overslept and been pulled into a dream playing out the day of Thekla’s wedding. It would certainly have been possible, even before he had found himself dreaming of other times and other worlds.

“Otto is just being as he always is,” Anselm noted, his attempt at diplomacy quite thin. He wasn’t about to defend his younger brother from Bernadette—that was a fight Otto had picked on his own, and the consequences were his to manage. However, letting the two of them reignite their feud in public would likely bring trouble for all of them—not to mention, Thekla was about to get married. To allow such a day to be marred by this kind of squabbling without trying to stop it would have left an ill taste in his mouth. “You know as well as I that Thekla can put him in his place, if it comes to that. Today, we compose ourselves for her sake—all of us.”

He kept his gaze leveled on his father—to think he would have found the man’s very presence intimidating, once. Kristian was to blame for people keeping their distance from all of them while they grew up, regardless of whether he thought he was in the right. Being more than a mere mortal, messy as his circumstances had become, certainly put everything into perspective.

They should have been above this kind of pettiness.

“She should not have to trouble herself with that,” Kristian noted, shaking his head. It wasn’t that he and his wife disagreed on the matter of Otto’s presence being a problem—they simply had different ideas on how to handle him. “I will see to it that he leaves, immediately.”

“Now is not the time to be a brute,” Bernadette scoffed, her expression impassive. While her hair had been returned to a more dignified state, there was still a puffiness to her cheeks and eyes, following her outburst. “We have many an honorable guest here—if we are seen resorting to violence to resolve a family matter, people would talk. It might yet worsen our standing, and I will not have you squandering this chance for our reputation to improve.”

Anselm had to keep himself from groaning as he listened to them. As much as he wanted to deny there was likely a measure of hypocrisy to it, he would have preferred to think even the worst of his own approaches to managing problems only ever ended badly for him—his father and friend-turned-stepmother seemed intent on giving everyone a headache.

“As I said—” for all he tried, he couldn’t keep his annoyance from seeping into his tone, not with this being close to the tenth attempt at getting them to drop this “—you are, if nothing else, disrespecting my sister, really. Or do you really think Thekla cannot manage him? Otto is here because she wanted him to be here—not even he would be foolish enough to actually come here and try to get on her bad side. She has always found him amusing, and for today, at least, we simply need to deal with it. If he overstays, after the rest of the guests are gone, then by all means, chase him out of the property.”

I must admit, it would be quite the sight. Had he not found himself having to wrangle those who should have been the wise patriarch and matriarch of their house, Anselm might have joined Thekla in her amusement. Otto was fun to see around, so long as he was entertaining himself at other people’s expense. He had always been the kind of boy to seek challenges, and in absence of it, he had always excelled at creating some.

“I appreciate your input, but you would be wise to remember I am the father here,” Kristian said through narrowed eyes, and Anselm had to stiffen to suppress an uncharacteristic urge to cackle. It probably came off as fear—which suited him just fine—but he would rather remain a third party to this discussion than express how he truly felt.

His father was small. There was no other way to describe it. Even as he kept climbing through the levels, something about him remained miniscule—his mortality remained at the core of everything he was, and for all Anselm lacked the context to understand his newly developed senses, the ones that mingled with his Perception, he understood that physical power was all Kristian had.

It was difficult to fear him, nowadays. Perhaps I should just encourage him to confront Otto after the event—that might actually open his eyes. Anselm wasn’t sure why Otto had changed. Something seemed to cling to the air around his little brother, a buzzing power that while external, bent to him. He only resisted the urge to speak to Otto himself out of distant concern that his brother might similarly detect he had also changed.

Perhaps, like Beryl, Otto had beat him to it, and learned of their mother’s betrayal much sooner. “Yes, father. But, with no offense meant, I would like to remind you that you are not the most subtle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He isn’t wrong,” Bernadette took the chance to pile on against her husband with a sigh. “I understand your point—as much as I hate it, I can defer to her for the time being. But the moment she and her husband retreat for the day, I will finish having words with your errant brother. Am I clear?”

“Of course,” Anselm nodded. He supposed there was a reason for their attitudes today—they were clinging to what little authority they could muster after finding themselves challenged by Otto, probably. Even if that meant trying to order around a grown man who wasn’t theirs to command anymore. “You are the one who knows the most about how to handle these kinds of matters, after all.”

He did not mean that as a compliment.

“Speaking of your wayward children…” Bernadette addressed her husband, shifting her hands to her hips. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where young Alaric is?”

“You are the lady of the house, not me,” Kristian shook his head. “And you know full well they would rather do anything else, other than keep me informed on what they are up to.”

“As Thekla took the liberty to invite people outside your list, so too has Alaric decided to bring someone,” Anselm interjected—though they’d clearly known each other for far longer than either would admit, Theo had expressed a surprisingly strong interest in getting to know the remaining members of the Rīsan family, and Alaric had been a bit too eager to encourage him to do just that. “He made a friend while searching for Matilda in Beuzaheim, and I told him he should fetch him,” he eyed his former friend. “I know you did always encourage us to make connections.”

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If the world’s most unsubtle high noble in hiding wasn’t good enough for Bernadette, then nothing would be. Besides, the boy did help Matilda—that, Anselm could attest to. He deserved at least this much leeway.

“Are you sure he was actually searching for Matilda?” Bernadette scoffed. “It surprises me that now, of all times, he claims to have met a friend there, when his focus should have been on searching for my poor daughter.” She winced, her pain looking quite genuine. “She must be so afraid.”

Anselm couldn’t help but flinch at that. On one hand, winning any argument with Bernadette had always felt impossible, when the woman felt herself perpetually in the right. However… her daughter was missing, as far as she was concerned. It stood to reason she would worry, for all that was not a courtesy she had ever extended to Adelheid. After days of speaking to her and Matilda within Alaric’s chambers, Anselm had learned just how much the little girl resented her mother—it was almost disturbing.

“Of course he was searching,” Anselm snapped after a moment. He would not stand for her implying negligence on Alaric’s part. “If nothing else, he has done more than all of us combined.”

Kristian’s retort was swift. “I have my men looking for her.”

“—I hired only the best investigators.” Bernadette had spoken at practically the same time.

“I do not doubt you did,” Anselm conceded, even knowing they would fail. “What of Kristoffer?”

“He is a grown man,” Kristian shook his head. “If he wishes to starve on the streets for the sake of dragging his tantrum on, he can do so.”

Anselm was starting to suspect no one would have cared if he had died at that inn, what felt like an eternity ago. Perhaps they would have mourned in public, had they found his obit. If I had even left an obit. Bernadette might have paid the late Gertraud to watch him, but he struggled to believe the truth behind her concern at times. She might actually have cared more about the old woman, really. Naming her youngest after her—and admitting it had indeed been after her, specifically—had all but confirmed his suspicions.

“Well, I for one hope he is doing well,” Anselm mused, unwilling to back down from that particular matter. That said, a sense of unease crept up on him, as if something were looking over his shoulder. He turned briefly—predictably, nothing greeted him. Only the room’s wall stood behind him, bare of decorations for the time being.

He had to ensure they stayed outside once the reception was over. Preferably even after Thekla and Abelard were wed—Anselm refused to miss his sister’s wedding, but he couldn’t deny the opportunity this presented him, for all he tried to keep his plans confined to the back of his mind.

It wasn’t that he’d been putting it off so much as he kept finding obstacles in his way. He had promised his niece he would seek out Benedikt—properly, this time—and what better opportunity to do so, than when everyone was occupied beyond the estate’s walls?

To voice her discomfort would be to admit the words of a child had rattled her, and Munnehilde was beyond such things. Within, she remained self-aware—she understood why the girl’s words had bothered her. Her frustration ran so deep that she even avoided questioning why someone that age had a [Mental Defense] Skill, when it would otherwise had confused her.

Now is not the time.

Of course even someone so young would be taking Grēdôcavan customs into account… Munnehilde saw no value in marriage, though she respected her would-be sister-in-law’s choices. No, that was precisely the problem.

Until now, until she had come face to face with the members of this family—this family she had grown to think of as her family—Munnehilde had not considered how they might not see her the same way. Of course they would not. They were… of a different nature.

That girl could not possibly know the storm she had had kicked off on Munnehilde’s mind. She was beyond troubled, now.

While her mind remained resolute, she could not deny this would have seemed odd to someone in their position. She need not justify herself, not truly… but did she need to justify herself to them? Otto had wandered off, but even if he had not, it struck her that this might not be the kind of thing he would understand.

Munnehilde had always been clear on that boundary, that they were incredibly unlikely to be together permanently—yet his family had become hers. It was inevitable.

When one wandered through a mind so often, relived those precious—if imperfect—childhood memories, it was only to be expected that bonds formed, even if they were one-sided. She had grown attached.

In truth, she might as well have been an only child. Any siblings she might have had, born to either of her parents, were individuals she never met—if they even Existed—and would probably never learn of. ‘Family’ was conceptual to her, beyond the parent that raised her.

Perhaps that was why she had latched on to Otto’s, even if meeting them now was turning out to be quite the experience. They… they were flawed people. But she saw them as her family, that much was true.

What if she broke things off with Otto sooner than later? For now, they were together, but that would not last forever. What excuse would she have to care for them, then? Even the missing sister was of interest to her, in a sense. She’d lived through those years within the confines of her mind, felt the warmth of that oldest sibling who could outdo their mother and father alike.

She had no intention of simply shedding these thoughts if she stopped being in a relationship with Otto—but how was she going to explain that?

“Whatever they said, they’re wrong,” a voice she had heard recently tore through her rumination, making Munnehilde jump in place.

The woman’s hand was reaching out, gingerly touching her hat. “Waste no time listening to them, this is most sublime. You’ve deviated from the norm so much that you’ve made me approve of a style I would normally hate.”

Munnehilde met her gaze, gathering her bearings. This was the same woman who had spoken to them not so long ago, someone who was clearly familiar with this event’s officiant. Her skin was a darker shade of olive than Kristian Rīsan’s, her hair a voluminous black. Dark makeup framed her eyes, giving her a quality Munnehilde couldn’t quite name. “I thank you for the kind words, miss…?”

“‘Miss’? None of that,” the woman smiled. “Ximena. Madam Ximena if you will, but only because I think it’s funny.”

Keeping her exploration light, Munnehilde leaned towards Ximena, bowing her head. Human. Three Affinities, and similar ones, at that—she almost mistook them for just the one. “Munnehilde. I fear any honorifics I prefer would be most unsuited for our environment, however.”

“My, my, you have my interest,” Ximena’s smile widened into a grin, her hands wandering towards the hat’s hanging decorations. “I must ask—are you intentionally referencing the 5700s trend, or did you craft this as a statement?”

…I should have been more diligent in dating those pamphlets. “I confess my impression of the lady of the house was wrong, and my research left much to be desired. I… mistakenly believed this would be the type of style I would be expected to wear, and so I sought to give it my own twist.”

“Admirable,” Ximena nodded, while Munnehilde felt anything but. She had not been aware she was capable of feeling this much shame, as if she were a fledgling little human unable to handle the barest tinge of embarrassment. “I did always find the trend silly, myself, but it makes a resurgence every now and then, in a limited capacity. High nobles love to make these from sunlit flowers and birds, as if to boast of their access to the surface. Beyond that, I fear it has lost its purpose.”

Munnehilde found herself growing admittedly curious. She embraced the feeling, if only to push away her own discomfort. “How so?”

At that, Ximena let out a sound of disdain. “Fashion exists to change. I understand the value to drawing from tradition—everything must be built upon something—but this type of thing tends to become a competition. Every time a famous noble came forth with some exceptional design, it was taken as a guide instead of a simple example. Headdresses are a prime opportunity for self expression, something that can evolve with ease and be displayed! Instead, they make hats with inaccessible resources, and rarely display them because they oh, oh, so, so valuable. And they’re always the same, the ‘right’ styles.”

“True, true,” Munnehilde mimicked the woman’s mannerisms. “I too happen to have some strong opinions on the hoarding of materials that would look much better on a hat…”