The Weight of Legacy

“Did you hear the part about governesses?” a stranger asked another. Just guests talking over each other, among the countless people here. That was the problem with big events such as this one—people blended into one another, nameless and impossible to truly tell apart. Crowds were entities of their own, really. There was nothing welcoming about them.

Whoever the first person had been talking to answered quickly. “Oh, yes. And to truly mean to raise children without hiring anyone? That is quite the… quaint approach, if I do say so myself.”

“At least they were wise enough to leave that door open—Devils know they will see reason sooner or later.”

Ximena sipped on the glass of wine she had been nursing for quite the while now, keeping her gaze level. She was no stranger to receiving invitations to weddings—people did seem to feel obliged to give her one when they made commissions for the event—but this was not the type of thing she would ever get used to. She went to them for the same reason people went on walks—it helped to stretch the legs, to warm the mind. If there was anything Devils truly knew, it would have been that she was tired.

Oh, so tired. The mere act of living drained her little by little, and were it not for the fact that she did not feel this way always, the seamstress might have done something about that.

Alone, she wandered the grounds, remaining close to the makeshift venue. Ximena wasn’t even sure as to why she stayed—she held no candle at this wake, so to speak. That did not stop her from occasionally craving that sweet, sweet nectar of human interaction. By now, she lived solely for the sake of watching her masterpieces go on to hold meaning for others, yet she clung to the few occasions in which she had enjoyed the company of somebody else.

Little Hildegard was an absolute moron, of course, but she was still fun to talk to. It reminded Ximena a little of what her younger siblings had been like—perpetual teenagers, because she never got to find out what kind of people they would grow up to be. In the butler’s case, at least the matter was not that tragic—despite being relatively mature, compared to the average resident of this world, Hildegard had this way to sneak an utter lack of common sense into even the most competent of her schemes.

Following that girl to her new ‘House’ would be the Werruin’s death, in one way or another. These things never ended well—Ximena knew that all too well, being as versed in the art of watching the downfalls of others as she was.

Rationally, she knew she was biased, and perhaps against the wrong person. She never liked that Bernadette, and liked her less so when she learned she’d wed someone that much older than her. Even the gap between Ximena’s own parents had not been that wide, as normalized as those had been back in that time and place.

Oh, people loved to fall back on the explanation that it was a different time, to justify this or that, but there had always been people who found this type of thing discomfiting even back then, just as there clearly were people who found it acceptable still, now. In the end, she’d settled for disliking the lady of the house and her lord as well, if only for the sake of fairness.

As for their children? Blameless, likely. No one was at fault for being brought into this world, regardless of how questionable their parents might be. Still, it was quite strange to see the ones from that man’s first marriage, seeing as they very much were on the same generation as Hildegard’s girl. Thinking back to what those guests had been discussing, Ximena couldn’t help but wonder—at some point, wouldn’t people like Hildegard just start seeing themselves as the parents of those children they raised? That would certainly explain quite a few things, even if no one voiced it.

As for the woman herself—the butler was nowhere to be seen. Lambrecht—despite her being the one who initially reached out to have him sent here!—was similarly absent, and so Ximena continued to wander, waiting for someone’s guard to slip so she could slide into their conversations for some mild entertainment. It didn’t hurt to play pretend the part of a polite dame, every now and then.

“I tell you, fool, just because no one else came dressed like this, does not mean my judgment was incorrect!”

She recognized that voice—it belonged to that seafarer, Munnehilde. Of course, the lady had not identified herself as such, but some things just went unsaid. She had that air about her, that hesitation to interact with strangers who had not yet introduced themselves, and, most importantly, those pale eyes, devoid of color. Grēdôcavans were far likelier to have blue or green eyes. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have given that all too much weight, but the combination of factors had led her to that conclusion.

What a sight! Her interest was only rekindled as she looked at the woman’s choice of attire once again. Despite their earlier conversation, she had almost forgotten about her—it was like she just slipped everyone’s mind by default whenever she wasn’t within line of sight. And what a shame it was to forget such an eyecatching woman. Certainly, the design of that mushroom outfit could have used some work—where was the contrast? The life?—but it took a great degree of boldness to go out like that. Having learned Munnehilde’s choices had been influenced by misunderstandings did not take away from that.

Distantly, Ximena heard the notification going off in her mind, as that perpetually unused [Mental Defense] managed to get itself the 49 th level for no reason at all. How odd. Curious as that was, it probably wasn’t too relevant. Skills were always slowly accumulating experience in the background, especially at those higher levels, so it was no real wonder.

With a practiced smile, Ximena approached the arguing couple, grinning at the woman. “I see you stuck around as well.”

“It is not as though there were any alternatives, from my point of view,” Munnehilde said, her shoulders moving ever so slightly. It was as if she somehow lacked practice with shrugging. “I would not wish to offend my political sister—on our first meeting, at that.”

“Sister-in-law,” Otto Rīsan said with a sigh as he remained by her side, looking despondent, as if he’d had to issue this correction countless times already.

“Oh, I’m sure your political sister—” Ximena made sure to shook the man a glare—“would understand it if you had any pressing matters to attend to, but I do believe first impressions can work wonders, especially when it comes to long term relationships.”

“Right? That is exactly what my research into human society implies. Yet a certain fool keeps ignoring me.”

Otto shook his head. “Just because research suggests something, doesn’t mean you don’t look utterly out of place trying to put it into practice.”

At that, both women turned to stare at him. The man seemed to sink in on himself, suitably ashamed. “I’ll be perusing the… drinks. if anyone needs me.”

Having wisely chosen to disengage, Otto took a few steps back, finally giving Ximena the chance to approach his companion properly. “Has it truly been that much of a problem?”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“In practice, no. No one has decided it must somehow be their place to criticize me—no strangers, that is. But I am used to that. I am not a liar, and to deny I am prone to misunderstandings, or to misinterpreting limited information. The culture here is… peculiar.”

Ximena found herself nodding along. “I would much rather not speak of it, but I too come from beyond Grēdôcava, and I have a general idea of what that’s like. Living here has been a learning experience, let’s leave it at that.”

“I suppose that would be one way of putting it.”

It was hard to deny that Munnehilde was quite the interesting conversation partner. She wouldn’t have gone as far as to say she’d formed an opinion on her as a person already, not when they had literally just met, but she was relatable to the seamstress in a way few people ever were. Even her stated confusion, when she had found herself following a outdated fashion trend, the woman had wished to learn just how she had been wrong. It was a novel experience, for someone she was pointing things out to to accept her explanations instead of insisting they must have been right.

Granted, she might have had a bit of fun explaining a few things to Munnehilde—like how it really seemed like she had bought those fashion pamphlets off an antiquarian, without actually knowing what an antiquarian was.

Ximena was about to open her mouth and speak of what little she recalled of that old trend, to continue the discussion, when a chill went up her spine. Though muddled, the presence of an approaching aura was undeniable. Ximena’s concern only spiked when she scanned her surroundings, only to find she couldn’t actually figure out where the sensation was coming from. Munnehilde followed her gaze, first seemingly only to match her actions, then in earnest as her gray gaze sharpened slightly. If anyone else noticed, they did not let it show.

An angry individual was headed towards the venue, slowly but steadily.

“Mmm,” Malwine munched on another tiny block of cheese. Some of the staff—or the caterers, who knew?—had gone and added new snacks at some point, leaving her and Adelheid with many new things to try.

I still haven’t seen a single cow in this world. Or heard of them, actually. It was then that she made a willful choice to never ask where milk and cheese came from here. For all she knew, there was some weird cryptid that existed for that sole purpose, and she would be way better off not knowing.

Honestly, the best of those she’d tried so far had been a slice so hard it was impossible to bite into—she hadn’t actually managed to eat it, but it’d sure tasted good before she had to give up and throw it away in shame. Seeing other guests eat the small slices with no trouble had her a tiny bit peeved about her lowered attributes, if only for a moment.

Not all of it was great, though—some of the new snacks looked about as lifeless as the dregs of the charcuterie section at a supermarket back in the widow’s Earth. The hams were particularly sad-looking. On the bright side, the desserts looked quite interesting, even if she hadn’t actually gotten to them yet. They were colorful in a way she hadn’t grown to expect of food in this world—at last, she had proof that edible decorations definitely existed.

Malwine wasn’t sure as to what she would do with that information, but she could probably think of something.

“Should I hide some stuff?” Adelheid asked. It sounded like she was wondering aloud, not actually asking, but Malwine shrugged. “I’m going to hide some stuff.”

Several full plates of sweets disappeared, and Malwine would have regretted not speaking up had the girl not deserved a treat or ten. They weren’t normal human beings anyway—it was probably okay for her little sister to build up her dessert stockpile.

“Was that [Hiddenness] or your inventory?”

“Inventory,” Adelheid said before pulling out a few fruits that resembled strawberries, if obnoxiously purple. “[Hiddenness] makes putting items in easier, though.”

“How does that w—”

The world trembled, except it didn’t. Malwine stilled, and her little sister looked similarly confused. A sense of foreboding moved about like echoes on cave walls, utterly nonsensical, yet there was obviously something going on. Her senses screamed at her, as if trying to warn her of something—she almost expected [Unpacifiable] to start blaring, but it didn’t move. Nothing about what she was sensing actually felt targeted, and a very slightly explanatory detail soon added itself to the pile.

“Lange!”

Several more shouts followed, each the same yet closer than the last. The voice presumably calling out to Abelard wasn’t one Malwine could recognize—all she could tell was that it seemed masculine. Each utterance of the name coming from this mystery person’s mouth felt abrasive by itself, even before he started shouting about other things.

“Come face me, you treacherous scum!”

“After everything I did for you!”

“You deserve to rot!”

The people Malwine caught glimpses of appeared just as confused as she was, with everyone looking around for whoever was responsible for all the shouting.

All of a sudden, a man appeared, shoving random people out of the way and stomping in the direction of the archway. He couldn’t have been any older than forty, had visible age actually meant something—still, he lacked that timelessness Malwine had come to associate with actual older people. His hair, a dark brown with an overt gloss to it, was sleeked back, and emerald green eyes examined the guests with blatant disgust.

A small cauldron rested between his elbow and chest, disappearing a second after. Whatever he’d meant that for presumably was no longer an immediate concern.