The Diary of Blood, Origins of Remilia Scarlet.

Please, read and enjoy without prejudice.


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Chapter 1: The Beginning/ Touhou Origins: Diary of Blood, Remilia Scarlet



“I didn’t come here for you to pity me in my journeys, Monsieur, you know that better than anyone else your stature…now…please…end this suffering and grant me life…” The girl, with blue velvet hair that hung lifelessly on her head like seaweed would to shore rocks pleaded. Her eyes are gray, with tears flowing down from either side, and sadness dominated her natural spirit.

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How can one not be? After so many hardships, one after the other, each one without the faith of God in her would have driven her insane. Faith so much as rescued her, and yet as it would be, destroyed her very soul.


How do you plead guilty to life? Life is sad, it is as torturous as a bleeding pain across the face slashed, and gash left open upon the wrist and let blood flow from it as one sinks deeper to the edges of death’s embrace.


Yet, as it is, priests preach and monks can teach… none can be practiced from what they preach upon this girl thrust into fate’s doorway, trampled upon by many others whom crossed her destined path, only survived by souls kind and wise. Not many came of course, along the way, she could only remember a few.


Like the nameless beggar whom shared his bread with his dog and herself; or the shamble dwelling man whom opened his doors to her and her sister.


Innocence fled early in their lives, and discarded as they are, the verge of breaking from reality, yet taking steps to walk near and crumble beneath its pressuring grasp. Each breath quickened now, as memories flashes before her eyes, painful ones.


“This curse has no means to be lifted; those whom accept the darkness into their souls and being are forever sealed away from God’s eyes…still you choose to defy his wisdom?” The man asked. A gentlemanly refined voice from his throat, deep and sexy and resonating in his form that towers above the girl in tattered clothes hugging close to his body.


“God has not blessed me with kindness and my sister her bearing of innocence…though I am strong… I am tired first of this life…and its pain.” The girl answered, hugging closer, placing her head upon the abs of the darkly dressed gentlemen in velvet and wool. His warmth was not there, so cold, so dark his essence it seemed she was hugging to a cold dark mirror.


“Bless ye, child for revenge bore you like worms would to wood…your soul is holed by desire to control destiny…yet unrewarded…be at ease now…for this will hurt.” The man replied, tears too down from his cheek as emotions from the girl’s tears flowed into his like a spiritual memory.


“The last sunrise…can we…?” The girl asked quite suddenly, and indeed, the dawn began to rise.


Stray rays of light penetrated the upper clouds above; the cold light of the distant night began to slowly fade. Immortal souls like the dark mirror like gentleman can wait…and wait he did as the girl turned her head to see the sun coming in from this dark alley.


“With this last look, your body, cursed by my blood…will restore what you wished for most…and grant you…what will be your last gift from God, the blood of God himself…are you ready?” The gentleman patiently patted her head as he said this, softly gazing a short distance away at the slowly brightening sky above. A horizon of orange and dark clouds mixed wondrously in the distant English skies of early winter, so beautiful it was to behold; it would have pained every human soul to never see it again.


“I am.” The girl turned her head, and instantly she could feel the most sensuous pain flowing into her body, her soul, her mind, and memories flashed by every bit of her mind.


“Ahhhh….nnnnhhh” She arched her back, allowing her body to fall as the gentleman held closely to her waist, sliding over and leaning just as close as he could to sink his fangs into her artery.


“Accept…the blood of Jesus.” He whispered, while still injecting his own blood as he bit into his lip to feed it back to her in a hot wet kiss to the lips. Grasping her ever tightly, he placed his right hand onto the girl’s left chest, feeling as the heartbeat slowed, and slowed still…until all that remains is an untimely bump, lifeless, limp.


The girl gasped one last time as life left her body forever, the cold began to set and even this sun that now rose over the hilly horizons failed to warm her body. “You were the most beautiful thing…but it is my curse that you share…” The gentleman laid her down, in this alley, she will soon be collected by the morgue and all will be as if it never happened.


‘Just another death, a person pretending to be a vampire…’ End of story.




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(1431 Romania, the Siege of Castle Dracul)



“Siege, we are almost there men!” The Ottoman Empire Army was at its very front gate, the last of his men now clamored inside, completely vulnerable to the trampling force of thousands strong outside.


The King has long fled, perhaps died as he attempted his escape from such wide opened grounds. Enemies circled from all sides, and Vlad Tepes’s army, Dracula’s army, Vlad the Impaler’s army has lost. No amount of fear mongering will rescue them now, the end has come and it will claim their beings.


The walls cracked sideways, the battering ram banged the gates and the fire inside the walls bow spread wildly as the men struggled to come to terms with it all. “Aratsha! Aratsha!” Someone cried out victoriously, in old tongue meaning “Victory! Victory!”


“Bless thee, great prince, for you have stood on our side this night…but you must flee…for one day, the Kingdom of Justice and Heaven united that be, will see thy rose from the ashes of the dragon, and slay all those who dare obstruct your greatness!” A great general said to a tall man in black robes beside him. This is Vlad Tepes, substitute king, prince of Transylvania. Vlad the Impaler, the man with no soul for kindness now basks in the heat he has helped build.


Years of war, one conquering after the other has brought upon his fall. The regents rebelled, the soldiers betrayed, the villagers gave up and resources dried up. His rule was absolute, and those who do not conform, died terrible deaths or disappeared into one of the many dungeons under his control, accessed only by those he trusted dearly in his conquest. King Mehmed the Second, his greatest enemy, has finally won, and now there is nothing left to be salvaged.


His kingdom has fallen, and Vlad Tepes has only two choices, to flee or to die.


“I have cursed you all in my pain…in return one day, the dragon will come back…and the Order will revive.” Vlad said under his breath, and disappeared among the host of panicking men.


“Live, Great Dragon.” The general said one last time, before charging into the direction of the gate. With one loud swing and wooden shafts breaking, the gate opened.


Hundreds of soldiers charged in, spears ready and stabbing into defenseless men of the Dragon, none were given any mercy. “The Order of the Dragon…forever!” The general shouted, before dying as his head severed under a large sword swinging by his neck.



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The various tunnels below cannot be found, none of the soldiers, even his own can find them. Vlad has trained his advisors well, and certainly those of his retainers are most loyal to him and never spoke a word. These dungeons are the greatest secrets of Vlad’s trusted subjects, they are absolute.


His quick footsteps tapped the dry dirt and blood caked floor, where there should be stone is now covered in webs of dirt and dust, bones littered here and there in a grotesque atmosphere. The smell of rust and dried blood wafted by his nose, and he gave no thought of it.


This is his kingdom, where the disappeared people are, is in here, forever submitted to torturous means for his ‘justice’. You do not speak ill of the Dragon, for his will is absolute. Should you, a peasant of soldier or even a great general by rank speak ill of him, death awaits you in the most horrendous forms.


Prisoners left here to rot clamored, their legs still tied to steel chains as they knocked them against the walls and the iron bars that kept them inside the narrow prisons. “Vlad! YOUR TIME HAS COME!” Some cheered gleefully as their torturous king finally met his fate.


“Today…but tomorrow…the Dragon shall rise again…” Vlad whispered, to no one in particular as he made his way deeper into the labyrinth of his own designs. The Underground Church, hidden deep beneath the catacombs, is his final resort.



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“Father, it is I…” The Underground Church, nearly 30 feet below the ground, after a grand series of catacomb turns and twists, doorways of which only he could identify, Vlad has arrived to its doorstep.


“Father…open the door…” There was no reply, only silent murmurs behind the grand oak door.


“OPEN THE DOOR! I COMMAND YOU!” Vlad knocked harder, shouting above his lung.


Still, only small scamper and whispers were heard, he has had enough, and with one bold kick, he kicked the door open from his side. The swinging movement sent the doors banging to either side of the catacomb entry.


This place is the safest place in his kingdom, and of course, where best but to keep his fiancée (second wife) here, and his son, soon to become prince from his first wife whom has already deceased. It would take the Ottoman Empire a decade to find them, and by then, they probably would have fled the place through another of the total 40 different exists below this labyrinthine maze.


“Why have you not answered the door…f…a…” Vlad’s voice trailed off, as the sight before his sight brought him instantly to his knees. There was nothing left to say, and from his eyes, he cried for his own fate and cursed from his tongue, God that he has served.



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(Gensokyo Calendar Yr. 127 _ The Meiji Era's End)


Greetings, if you read this, then it is clear you have searched far and long. This book of a diary, written when no one is supposed to have any language, no culture is left unconsumed, and when no woman is left pure a virgin on the streets before becoming whores to the public…will be your greatest account of a time of tyranny and ruthlessness.


I understand that you must have your questions. For example, why are you reading words no better than child scribbling? You see, I am a princess, and I have engaged a foreign scribe to write this as I am illiterate at the time this is to be written. I have engaged the best scribe to write this, and he is from a faraway land.


I have yet to go the distance of my life, but when you read this, I am probably dead. If I wasn’t raped until my mouth no longer resembles a communication outlet than a vagina below a whore’s body, or if I wasn’t already a silenced swine without a tongue to spare; I would have spared you some tales of old but then again, I am not here for that.


This is not a biography or an attempt at one. What you will read is a sample and a taste of my life in such dark times. You will see, and hear, what I have to tell, but most of all; you will be tragically involved into my depressing past.


Now, if I may…I shall begin.


My name is Remilia Scarlet, I am a vampire, and I am at current, 480 years old.



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(Late night, 1492, Slums of des Marseilles, France)



“Thus, with time, ‘The Maiden of Orleans’ became a name to every household; every child that borne the fate of the nation and stepped up to serve the king would utter her name… ‘Jeanne d’Arc’ before they stepped up to the fields of battle, for good luck they say…” The woman’s voice trailed off. She slowly closed the book, and letting the light dim further as she turned the lantern down.


She looked at the pale haired one and then to the one whom is blond, before kissing them on their foreheads. Their sleeping and angel-like faces that reminded her, even in these times of hardship, there are still miracles worth living for. The miracles are those that are her own flesh and blood, Remilia and Flandre.


‘The Maiden of Orleans’ their favorite story, a truth to detail recap of the life of the epic that is Jeanne d'Arc, she would read this story for them every night before they sleep, and they would happily drift to bed knowing the Joan* in this book, victoriously walked back to her home of Orleans, where she was crowned ‘The Maiden’ by the Dauphin of France.


They don’t know the whole story though, because she never told it to them. They didn’t have an education, so that makes things easier in hiding certain details from them. They couldn’t of course, otherwise it would have been perfect. Smart children don’t need to have things hidden from them, they will understand all things will eventually be.


But then again, a mother’s love will never permit her to tell tales of brutality. Especially the cruel fate that is dictated in the end for Joan of Arc, where she was burned while crucified, called names as ‘witch of Orleans’, ‘Liar of Satan’, ‘Whore of France’. The vileness of her callings followed her to her grave, and still, such pain is only most experienced when one is directly inherited of her blood.



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Joan of Arc, was by far, and certainly so, one of the royal court’s trusted ‘mothers’. Yes, she was pregnant, and she delivered the child during her disappearance between the war after reclaiming La-Charité-sur-Loire in November and December in the year of 1429.


After years of one humiliating defeat after another, both the military and civil leadership of France were demoralized and discredited. When the Dauphin Charles VII granted Joan’s urgent request to be equipped for war and placed at the head of his army, his decision must have been based in large part on the knowledge that every orthodox, every rational, option had been tried and had failed. Only a regime in the final straits of desperation would pay any heed to an illiterate farm girl who claimed that the voice of God was instructing her to take charge of her country’s army and lead it to victory.**

However, it was not at all dumb luck, Joan of Arc was a missionary of Christ, and she was…by far, a viewer of Destiny. Her powers were not godly, but that of which designed by something far greater than even God, it was that of the powers of nature. A strange hack of unequaled equations, piled together with indiscernible numbers of complex calculations by an unknown hand, paired with an unexpected plunge of fate, that she has such powers born into her. She is a Fate-Seer.


Not a magician, not a witch, a mere human, with powers to see beyond today, tomorrow, a great future ahead. A Fate-Seer is the grandest of all things that the Church of Reims feared, the greatest courts feared her, for she could see beyond today, when even their greatest priests struggled to explain natural happenings as rain would to the southern landscapes of greenery, or the goats not giving milk when collection time comes in the mornings.


During her rise of fame then, after a slew of victorious deeds in the front of battle, her friend, Duke John II of Alençon finally admitted her greatness. It was this however, that finally, after that fateful battle in Compiegne that eventually led to her being captured exactly one year later in 1430 by the English, it was Duke John whom ran and hidden her child to her father and mother in the village from which she was born in Domrémy-la-Pucelle in Lorraine.


His motive was simple, Joan could die, in the English’s hands or the treacherous queen whom see her as a threat once her son in law, the Dauphin is crowned in Reims. Duke John did what was rightfully demanded of him as the servant of God, an act of kindness, albeit unasked.


The child, born under the secret watch of two other persons, one being the trustworthy Jean d'Orléans whose life was rescued by Joan in the siege of Jargeau and a mysterious figure that Joan has never brought to attention to Charles VII even in her will to serve him as the Dauphin of France and later the King of France.


This man’s name, is known only as Duke of Loire, even though there is no such named duke. The Duke John of Alençon however, knows him by his other name, Duke Noir de Scarlette. The Black of Scarlet, his name directly represents witnessed the birth of the child of Joan.


Who is the father? No one ever knew, but then, there is really no such need is there? For up till the time she was once again reexamined before the court that once granted her the power to lead the army in Charles VII pardon, declared her still a virgin. It is the miracle, or so did Duke John thought, that counts.


The second Virgin Birth since Maiden Mary the Holy Mother, Joan of Arc certainly deserved such a reputation. The child was secretly taken by the mother, whom understands more so than the father, into further hiding, and under the secret help of the non-existent Duke Noir, she disappeared as the night sunk in.


Soon, it was up till the time of the execution, and Joan of Arc was trialed on 9 January 1431 beginning, the pope then, Pope Callixtus the Third tried to defend her innocence. Her final moments were painful, and it began the day she entered prison. Stories told by the Scarlette today in this small village, would forever hold close to the questions she was asked brutally. Oh, how she was treated, the Cardinal of Winchester then, of the English whom purchased her from the French interrogated with such questions that no matter what she answered, would have been considered unholy or of heresy.


In the end, the politically motivated charge of heresy finally brought her death, in which she was burned a total of three times until none of her body remained. Until no evidence, no relics, left to mark her existence were left behind. She was casted, ashes to ashes, dust to dust into the Seine. All was her being was as though never existed. The great Fate-Seer is condemned by the hands of man, mere men whom feared their fate and the unknown.


The death and execution was no justice, and from it, the Fate-Seer, who was rightfully above all man, all animals above all… a servant whom used the fate she saw for the sake of her country, her righteous justice condemned by those she sought to save.


Had she seen this destiny before her death?


“She certainly did.” The child of hers, a female, 15 years later was quoted as saying. Her name was Isobel Scarlette. Named after Joan’s mother, and just before she died, she prophesized the end of the Dauphin’s rule when she was 25th of her years, married to none other the Duke Noir of Scarlette.


What she said was this… “The war I know, will continue for another 8 years, and King Henry VI shall rule the land of England and France shall fall with the Dauphin’s cowardice.”



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“Remilia, you have that gift in you…” The mother said, as she left the room quietly.

That's quite a long story, but somewhat it's a great fiction :)

This is only part 1 though.

Here is Part 2

Chapter 2 of The Blood Diary by Remilia.

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In this chapter, Remilia Narrates what is in fact the hard times, and the good times. How she came to be of "royal descent" and a prologue to what will be in the next chapter.

(hmm...what part does Flandre play? Well, she will have her own chapter so no worries.)


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(Slums of Marseilles, France)


The place here is decrepit, not just houses, but shops, street corners, road conditions etc. France is poor still, with useless self important loathsome sludge-like aristocrats running the country to the ground, some are better off dead. Like the Scarlette family for example, scavenging through life as worse as it would be stood on two feet.


There was no house by the way, in case I have to tell you. Look around you, see what I see, smell what I smell? What does that tell you?


France has failed that’s what, useless worthless scum that runs the country into the ground yet again, I must assert. However, what is pure bliss is that even now, with the footsteps of those aristocrats, remnants of a failed kingdom rescued by our ancestor Jeanne d’Arc has furthered its own demise from a slur of political blunders and failed treaties.


It doesn’t take a smart person to know our days as ‘Frenchmen’ may as well be numbered. But then again, who am I to lie to? You know what you are reading is coming from a 10 year old child, barely enough to walk the streets safely than one could understand a single word from a storybook. I learned the story of my ancestors from my mother, whom is always keen to tell it.


Every night, for the past 4 years, she has told me the tale of our ancestor’s great adventures, often giving it her personal additions here and there to decorate the tale with more flair. I admired her for that, she twisted the truth, and yet she thinks I am innocent.


Did she not know I wonder? Or did she knew and purposely pretended to be innocent towards me and my sister? There are many sources of information, and last but not least, let me tell you, that I once did have an affair with the boy prince of the court.


You didn’t know? Well, what luck; it looks like we have a story to tell after all. I, Remilia Scarlet, will tell you about that one time, how I plotted to kill the prince of the throne, and have his corpse hung from the castle walls for his own father to shiver and tremble in his spineless self. I wanted to make sure I get the message across.


“Did you think you can silence the Scarlette?” Well, little king of France, murderer of destined men and women, survivor of the Dauphin swine, I doth indeed idolatrize your ignorance, for without it…I would never have come to be born.



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(A secret hideout, far away from the slums of Marseilles, outskirts of Lorraine)


“So, Remi, what are we going to play today?” The young prince, second in line to his father Henry Vi, also Henry in name, asked the girl with hair the color of the skies above. They just ran all the way out here, so the adults would not be so quick as to get to them.


“I don’t know, Henry, where are we to go now that we are out here?” Remilia asked back, she smiled innocently at Henry, and sure enough his heart was swoon with emotions of affection.


Normally, boys and girls of this age hated each other, maybe it is a gender thing, but since meeting on the street by a random chance, Remilia’s beauty has caught Henry’s heart by chance, and there was no real development in her beauty, she is just a mere child at this time.


Yet, there is something special about those gray watery eyes, that azure blue hair and the red little scarf she salvaged from the slums. Strangely, unlike the whole of Marseilles, where the slums are, she has no such odor of a person from the slums.


She smells of not perfume, but nature, of lavender, and of the grass, sand, and even sometimes, the natural scent of pears and apples. It was as if the whole of Marseilles did not touch her but avoided her instead. Marseilles is filled with fish markets, of slaughtered swine and dirt, of mud and of the rain covered mold that grew between the walls of bricks in decrepit shop lots. Yet, as it seems, she seemed like a royal court girl, never before once absorbed by the scent of the street.


They are playmates for the longest time, and this will go on for years.


Remilia is not just a mere girl though, unlike others of the children of her age, her interest lies not in poetry reading, or simply swinging on the gardens, or joining a host of the poverty ridden slumdogs to sell fish and poultry to ugly looking traders with bushy beards and an odor that travel miles within the city walls.


No, this girl, Remilia Scarlette, is a noble girl. Of course, she is not noble like the ‘nobles’ that live the life of a hob snobbish high class fine dining Scandinavian buffet for breakfast types, she is a noble at heart.


Even a family robbed of their fortunes, she never fail to stand tall. With a set of eyes that shone brightly and without fear, she was a maiden in form, and materially, she wants none that is only useful in beautifying her outside image. She is a scarcity of jewels or rings, she does not have curly perfumed hair like the court nobles do, and some of the street children tried desperately to pretend having with twigs between their hair and dirt on their faces a contrasted image presented.


She does not idolatrize the nobles, she does not mingle with the other children, she speaks not of the boys, and yet in every sense, she is not exactly a snob either. There is something about her, something sacred, and like a moth drawn to fire, Prince Henry of the royal throne is drawn to her special beauty. What is best to describe her? Like a rose hidden in a pack of thorns, wondrous to look, deadly to touch.


The King has mentioned before, several times even.


On any particular night when the nobles are not having a dance ball with the royal knights or the courtly ladies of the pays the King would chide little Henry’s disappearances from the grounds of the palatial gardens. Often enough, he would somehow sneak out and play with Remilia out in the castle walls, a dangerous place to be thanks to the poverty ridden sorrow that drowns these lands in a shadow that covers in a smothering air of agony and suffering.


King Henry tried to reform the country once or twice, an effort is probably better than nothing but his actions had only led to the downfall of the country. It won’t be until the Great French Revolution that will change the face and the fate of France will things become better. King Henry’s first move was a tax rate change, which instead of helping the people, only made them suffer more.


The details are recorded nicely in fact throughout the pages of history as well. This financial issue rose from the very touchy tax on foods, raising one but lowering the higher ones made bread so expensive the people of France starved due to the lack of staples, while nobles saved more for their wines and dines. A second move that followed to impose spending on military downsize in move to dedicate funds for farmers to grow crops ended even worse.


Thanks to mismanagement, the funds were siphoned by the royal court, using it to build ever grander gardens and palace specialties than none other than the King enjoys himself. Of course, the Queen had a hand in this, she was too stingy to give money to dirty looking farmers now, jewelry on her neck was a better choice than having to part with cash rightfully taxed from the people whom worked hard for it. “It is a national pride to serve your queen…”


Lo, and how Remilia Scarlette despises the royal family, for this despise perhaps, that fate will draw a different conclusion in her honor…a few years later.



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(Some 7 years later, Lorraine)


(Remilia narrating)


Did you think I liked that boy? Dear pervert whom flips the pages of my diary? No, I didn’t, not one bit. In fact like the entire royal family of the land of France, the swine of the Dauphin that killed my ancestor in cowardice and dishonor, I hated them, down to each and every drop of their blood.


Had I the chance I would have ripped out the boy’s throat, cast his entire heart into the Seine, but not before trampling on it or having the hungry canines sink their tooth into it. I would have had him raped by the fishermen whom crave for the delicate skin of a girly boy, I would have then impaled him over a stake and have him fed to the swine gathered in the sty across France.


How I despise him, how I despise he could so with such a carefree attitude waltz to the front of my face and profess his love for me. How I so sickly wish the day would pass as quickly before I have to suffocate from breathing the air as he. I wish I had the courage, but my mother is alive, and no one would want her dead. Killing a noble or a royal is a crime, not so the same with us peasants however.


So, I bide my time, slowly but surely I chewed my way into his heart, I stayed there and rot it from the inner core. Until one day…it was 7 years later, and I was the tender age of 17.


Girls this age are normally married off, but for a peasant girl like me, I am doomed to spend my day loitering in the stinky fishmarket, married to some stinky fisherman and having to spend my life behind a stall selling and slicing up fish parts for sale. Oh, I do loathe that, but not as much as I loathe him now as the years went by.


I don’t even know what fuelled my hate anymore, was it just ancestral feud? No, it was more than that, what it is, is pure hate. Pure vengeance coursed through my blood, nightly visions fuelled them more and more until I could hear nothing but white noise and screaming into my ears and cry out in silent sobs.


Flandre was so lucky I always thought…and another thing that followed this was another thought that is secret only to me.


“I must have been born to see that Flandre will be safe, away from the hands of the cruelty that is associated with France and our miserable lives…” It is my destiny, I believed it through and through.


Now however, let us briefly go back to historic ties, and how I do now…indeed carry royal blood in my veins.


“A blood pact…that is the only way.” Prince Henry said, seriously now, his voice was trembling.


There is no other way a child of peasant can marry one of royal descent, this is the only way, we must drink each others' blood, and contaminate the other so that we both carry royal blood. Yes, he was serious, so serious he was he intended to waltz back in his arrogance and convince his father the king to take me into the family of the royals.


I had no qualm about being a royal, but certainly not one from of the country I hate. The vileness of it all, the poison I planted, has come true. The fruit will rot its way through and through. I can’t tell if I was smiling sinisterly or just snickering to myself, but oh did Prince Henry the suave decide to kiss me.


He pulled me close, gathering all his courage and slipped his tongue into mine lips, before prying it open skillfully and played about the saliva of us both. It was the rudest shock I have had in all my life up till then, and I swear it was no experience that is worth having the memory to haunt you. There is no love in this kiss, it is all one sided.


Have I played my cards so well he actually thought it was mutual? I quickly pushed him away, citing ‘chastity’ as my guard and motive. He agreed, and he apologized. Had the chance I saw and then seized right there, I would have buried an entire axe right into his spine and crack every orifice with a sharpened rock there and then for the disgust he caused me.


So he did, and went back to the castle later he had. With mine hands in his grasp, he pulled me with two guards trailing close behind us to the center of the royal court, where as usual today, a bunch of sickeningly perfumed royals stood and lightly tipped their goblets of wine and chewed foie-gras in their mouths.


With one loud announcement, he called for his father.


The King turned his head, and in his eyes, I could see a flicker of disgust he had for me.


My hair was ruffled in the wind, tussled beyond repairable combing. We did rushed up here after all. My eyes were of a slight red due to the putrid air filled with perfume of unrefined nature. (Back in the days, it was popular to wear goat musk, and that smelled horrible). My clothes were tattered, even worse were they if I spend the day chopping off fish heads and selling them, but now, after tumbling along the rolling hills of the north, they looked they are better off used to wipe the floor. I had a bony skeletal frame, almost, save for my quite nicely grown set of breasts wrapped in soft cloth to prevent them getting in the way. (most girls don’t do that, they have other priorities and men liked it that way when they bent down, they could see what is inside.)


“What in God’s name did you drag into the royal house, Henry? What is that thing you are dragging behind you?!” King Henry demanded, branding me with equality as a broken chair, or a trashed violin or a rotten fish unsightly before the royal court and its guests.


I was ashamed, but then I realized there is nothing to be. Nobles are only nobles because they too know no shame. Slavery, cheating, hording when people are starving and needy, what shame do they have in those empty brains? I stood up high, holding my spine upright and standing as valiantly as I could.


I should have bowed before the King, but no, not today. I am just a peasant, it should be fine I know not such customs of the royal court.


“This is Remilia of the Scarlette, she is a daughter of a Duke, she may not look much like it now, but I…Prince Henry, son of my father the King, wishes to inform you all of the royal court, I wish to marry her!” The shock was profounding, even my face turned beet red as he said this.


There was a momentary feeling of a fluttering heart, I shoved it off as soon as it penetrated my mind. I guess it is all the same when a girl hears that she will be getting married, a sense of elation, but just one moment too long and one is shoved to the pits of agony and suffering.


“Henry, have you no shame? You drag this unsightly whore from the streets and you call her a daughter of a Duke? Is this some sick joke you are playing to your father? It is not funny…and you should stop!” Oh, now I am a whore, and I am still a virgin too…talk about insults.


“Please…father, have the court officials check her, she is of a noble descent, our grandfather may even know her or her family! I won’t leave until I see her through this process.” By that, Henry probably meant he will be with me through and through. I wish he didn’t say that, cause that made me worry, what if I could not break his grasp? What if I am only one of his many playthings?


“NO!” King Henry shouted, slamming his goblet and sending the liquid within outwards to the royal carpet.


He took furious steps, towards me before Prince Henry could stop him. With one fearsome grasp he clasped down onto my hair, and oh he pulled and the sharp pain did in fact bore through even down to my skull.


“Ah…let go, dear King…I am of no harm to you!” I pleaded, anything is better than having your sweet locks pulled, try that, I dare you.


“You told little Henry here you are of a Duke’s child? What proof do you have? Where forth from which village did you emerge from your little sty and spread lies into innocent Henry’s head?” Henry came forth and swiped the hands of his father, prompting what is in fact a shocked response.


I swear the King was ready to give a slap to the face on Henry’s defiance, but he swallowed hard, and allowed the embarrassment with the anger to pass. Good thing that he did however, that freed my hair from his barbaric grasp.


“Father, if you don’t believe me, then do so your checking, this is my one condition to succeed your throne, and if you want that, you had better do it.


Prince Henry was not stupid either, knowing he is the only son, he could pretty much demand that the king send for him every single demand, from Arabic incense to the myrrh of Egypt, he could have it all at the whim of his beg and cries to his father. The King knew that of course, but he had to play along doesn’t he, there is no reward in defiance.


Not an end that will see his kingdom being siphoned off by an uncle or a cousin, that is not what he wanted, his son must have it all.


So…the story goes, and I was treated to what could possibly be the most torturous short term exam I could ever be in.


National scribes would come bearing the scrolls of family trees, and so on…


But then, naturally, because the child of Joan of Arc, or virgin birth unrecorded, Isobel does not exist; I don’t exist either. I am just a shadow of an unwritten history, an unheard voice in an unrecorded time. My existence thus far, could have explained it. There is no Duke Noir de Scarlette. There is certainly no child that the Duke John of Alencon helped delivered, no childbirth to witness by Jean the brave…


Of course, an answer is best given when a King pardons his subjects. So I was, and pardoned in the royal court, I was fast on my way to the throne doors. My mother was even happy, probably because she thinks me and Flandre doesn’t know a thing about our ancestors.


“Cast of the devil” “Whore of France” “Satan’s Daughter” I won’t ever forget my dreams, I could see it, like memory passed down from one generation to another.


“Remilia, I am happy for you…” She said, I want to see her smile, and she did.


I was happy, whatever hate in my veins for that short time seems to be vaulted in a chest kept hidden in a dark corner, and it felt good to be this way.


It felt right.


Then…we were married, nobody did bless us though, except for the priest whom is just doing his job.



+++++

Chapter 3: The Blood Diary, Remilia's Struggle.

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This chapter promises to bring some view to where the story is heading in direction.


(Church of Reims, France, 14th February)


The event was grand, but nobody is smiling. It felt like a funeral with colorful dresses and grand gowns served with wine finest in quality free flowing into the goblets of nobles. Some peasants were given special pardon to attend this ceremony, mainly some of the fishermen and traders, spice traders mostly are much better respected for their goods.


Again, let me remind you, that I don’t know them any better than I know a cat or dog strayed in the streets, but they cheered, so I guess I would not mind.


The ceremony offered free bread and wine, so of course, by the end of the cheering part, the hording of food begins, which is the main actual event. The people rushed to the counter, gathering as much food as they can possibly stick into their gunny sacks. The nobles know well enough to avoid that row, sticking instead to their wines and such.


I however, moved closer to Henry, the King of course, not my husband. I said to him, “Father, King of France, do you really accept me as your daughter?” I asked, it was an honest question, best as I could possibly sum up with a sentence or a word of truth in my soul asking a dishonest man.


To my surprise, he did respond.


“Remilia, you are officially married to my son, even if I am to tear you two apart, my family, my heart won’t allow me. You are family now, just as your mother is, and your sister is. No matter your background, or where you have lived all these years, it has changed. I want you to be happy, and most of all, I want my son to be happy.” The King, in all his grand kindness, a smile lying just below his bushy mustache said to me. For a while, I felt like the happiest person on earth, I took it all in. Absorbing each word, each sentence as I would to inhale deeply fresh mountain breeze before an unpolluted stretch of mountains and pastures green and beyond.


Of course, like all girls of that age, I didn’t really fall in love. What was I to know about love? Did I fantasize about love when I chop the head off a fish? Did I fantasize about love and poetry associated with love when I offered to cart boxes of fresh traded goods to the market? No, I didn’t.


I never did have the chance, or rather, perhaps it is my nature that prevents me from doing so. I come to think of myself as a pessimistic person, and I don’t like it, but one cannot deny the nature of oneself. Best not to do so anyway, for once crossed, a person is better off dead.


I choose to believe however, that things could change.


“Maybe his ancestors are cruel, but the King however snobbish he is does not follow the footsteps of his advisors and ancestors.”


“Maybe Prince Henry can save me and my family from this certainty as sure as death in life of poverty.”


“Maybe they have changed, maybe they aren’t that cruel anymore, maybe they can vouch for their kindness…”


Trust me, I wanted to believe.


I wanted to believe things can change for the better, so I did. I prayed, to whomever a God there can be in church hearing the Sunday mass of prayers, to whomever a God that lays beyond the definition of the Christian faith…I prayed hard.


“Aid me, Lord, for I ask humbly of Thee, bless this life’s journey so that I and my family is spared from the burden of a caste that is none better than slaves and beggars.” I asked the Lord. I wonder if he did heard me and decided to tune up the difficulty.


I said so, because what happened will inevitably scar my life forever.



+++++++++



(Late night, some 1 year later of a pretentious marriage affair)


I was happy. I really am very happy. For a while, the illusion of this happiness blinded me.


It was not everyday I can be happy, I don’t. Was it because I was a conflicted individual, burdened to know things I should not have to know? Was it because that such knowledge plagued me with hate that I condemn myself to this torturous existence? Was it just angst over nothing?


I am not God, I didn’t judge. I wanted to become some missionary girl, carefree, promoting free love as God would to his disciples.


Little did I know how the story will turn for me in this life.


They razed the house, it was a small cottage of sorts, grandly built with furnishes from the King for my mother. My sister lived with me within the palace walls, and that guaranteed her safety.


My mother had no chance to escape, the arsonists were quick, much too quick for her to sense the uneasy shuffling of feet that is unnatural at that time of the night. They disappeared much too quickly before the guards made it there, obviously they were stationed nearby to guard the ‘princess’s’ mother.


When I received the news, somehow, I wasn’t just angered, I was bitter not for my mother, by myself.


In my dreams as I drifted into the slumber of a princess, floating in her own euphoric wonderland of no care and worries, I saw fire. Fire raged from the walls to the ceilings. Seas of flame engulfed all the air around the cottage walls as a nameless, featureless figure in her nightgown screamed for help to deaf ears or none at all. The fire was loud, the crackle of wood splintering from the heat of the flame and the nails bending out of the wooden structure covered all the noise from within. Her skin was visibly charred, and it became even more so until the last breath turned to pure carbon in her lungs and her body dead in flames burning brightly.


I woke up in cold sweat, but the image was vivid and only did this fear came realize…when I recalled, that this ‘marriage’ was all…a show. I didn’t know why at the time I thought that way, it just came up like an idea and it stiffened itself in my thoughts, refusing to go even in my strongest willing.


I didn’t know how long I laid there on the bed, my sister sleeping soundly in another room I presumed. Then, a vision flashed by me, and I saw burly men, heading down the hallway to where my sister is sleeping in her room, bolted by heavy locks. She was a tender 18 this year, good and ripe for the taking and open to accusations of everything a woman of France should fear.


I held on to my Christian locket, where a cross was embed into the surface of the cover in gold on my neck. It was a gift from my mother of course, said to be passed down from ancestor to each generation’s child.


I ran, with every breath I could summon, regardless of my poor choice of revealing wear in nightgown and stockings, I ran hard. I ran to my sister’s room, and Flandre was there, sleeping still. I snapped her awake, forcing her to her feet in a slumbering mood. She gave me a pout, but her questions were tipped aside when she saw my flushed face.


I only need to reconfirm the vision after several hours from here as I raced our way to outside of the castle. The guards were already there, waiting, weapons ready and my prince charming was nowhere to be found.


My sister and I, was caught.


“Damn it all to hell…how did I not see this coming?” I cursed in my mind.



++++++



“How did you know when to run? Remilia? Did you know I was going to burn your mother alive?” The words resounded in my head like a flaming curse, and I hissed through my tongue at the King that I called ‘father’. The King of this country, this disgusting, betraying country that surged its hate towards my person, my family…


“I didn’t, I just felt it was necessary…” I answered as calmly as I could, fighting my best to keep it there so he wouldn’t see the hate inside me that just came overflowing from that chest I kept locked inside my heart since a year ago.


“You…a witch…I never thought I would see that in the Kingdom of France.” The King answered, it was around this time when the Witch Hunts of Salem began, naturally, the fanatical inquisition was free to spread its vileness and cruelty constructed cunningly against the rights and wills of women across the whole of Europa.

“I am not what you think I am…and for burning an innocent woman alive, is it not you whom is a warlock without the heart of a man but that of a beast?!” I asked, defiantly I tried stepping two steps to the throne, before spears are aimed at my neck from a distance in a bid for the guards to protect our sacred distance.


“SILENCE, REMILIA THE VILE, YOU CAME AND TOOK MY SON…YOU THEN TOOK LIBERTY OF MY WEALTH AND THIS COUNTRY’S PROSPERITY, HOW DARE YOU CLAMOR AGAINST THE LOST OF ONE OF OWN WHEN FRANCE IS IN A STATE OF CORRUPTION AND RUIN?” The King spoke loudly, silencing my own tiny voice with his own.


“Took…Henry? Where…what?” I asked, it wasn’t that I cared right now with all my mind focused in finding a weapon I can use to hurl onto his ugly face, but that question bit me in the face.


“He is dead…today! At the council of England, when the assembly of the Noble Court gathered, he was assassinated by a woman claimed to be from the halls of Salem’s Court!” He took a few steps up and walked down the throne, before standing at eye level with me.


“Henry…is dead?”


“YES, and you…your brethren…I should have the thought to spare you but no…that woman claims to be from where you are from! THAT STINKING VILLAGE FROM WHICH THE WHORE GAVE YOU YOUR BIRTH!” He was referring none other than Loire, and that village from which our ancestor, the Duke of Scarlette, is from.


Is that all it takes to be evidence against me and my family? A mere madwoman whom claims her heritage from the same village as I, to scorn me as he would now?


What has this country fell to? A host of such thought to rule a country without its own direction, easily misled by common misconception, misguided morals along with fake honorable thoughts, plagued by greed and corruption, fear and fear mongering equal to that of a bane howling a seaside town!


“My King, I am innocent…just cause I come from the same village…it doesn’t…” I trailed off, one look at his face I know he wasn’t going to listen.


“I should have known to have you killed when I had a chance…” By then, all hope was lost.


We are sentenced to a life not in prison, which in a case…was a boon I suppose if it was.


++++



(Six days later, the streets of Orleans)


Yes, back here again, it felt like I am visiting another country. After one year, the fame, the luxury, the easiness of life grew onto me. To be so suddenly thrown out here, I was at a distraught, but before all that, I know I have to guarantee my sister’s safety.


The streets are cold, as winter has finally set in. We did not have enough to wear, and men were working extra hard so that their homes can be warm. I worked hard, just for daily grains, not even bread because the King has fixated ugly taxes on them.


The streets are cold as icy winds blew onto our frail feminine bodies. It wasn’t long until however, I found a shelter just below the frozen river, where an arch of a bridge covered on one side gave a good shelter from the storm for us. Flandre helped by making sure she gathered wood, leaves and such to burn.


I however…chose to protect my sister, dear little Flandre from the ill effects of my pathetic mistake. With my burning mother’s image, the vision from that dream as my fuel, I began my work.


What did I do? You asked me…


What is the best a girl could do? I had the body frame of a young nubile female, men would pay good money to have their ways with me. Only it is harder these days to do that, as men would cower in their homes and alleyways for such businesses are closed.


A ‘happy house’ welcomed me, thinking I was the best asset they could ever procure, and I worked there for a period of six months.


I would skip the lucid details, simply because I don’t want to remind myself of them.


During however that time, now easily a flick of a second in my mental clock, the agony was non-stop.


I went stall to stall, during nights when the air was so cold I had to wear 3 pairs of dirty sacks on my body formerly used to wrap potatoes and venture out. Once I met a man, I would have to temporarily ‘show my ware’, lifting my sack to reveal a part of navel. Or I bent down and opened my neckline, to reveal my still lovely bosom within.


I clamored against fate, but fate can do little when you are homeless, and without a single thing to cling to as your own. I sold my body, night after night, hungry men who are tired of their uneager wives and ugly mates came to me. Wives would clamor at my doorstep cursing I am a witch but my pimp would drive them off with his haughty attitude.


In a sense, if he wasn’t such a calculative man, I would have thanked him for my shelter and the food I can grab for my sister, whom he doesn’t know about.


The first time was the hardest, Henry never did touched me anyway, he doesn’t have the courage to. So I was a virgin up till then.


The burly man whom was my first ever customer looked nothing short of a primate that stood upright, with hairy arms and legs that looks like they are sawn from a trunk of an old tree, thick and even hairier than his back. He had the breath that stank of a millennia of unwashed fungus, his eyes yellow and thick, probably from alcohol poisoning. His hair scarce where they should be on his noggin, and teeth missing where they should be. He is the vilest thing the land of France could possibly call a human, if he were an ogre, I am sure they would have welcomed him to their ranks with open arms. He grunts his replies too, it is a good thing my only words was ‘how much can you afford?’, and ‘how long’ and ‘where?’ Thank God.


Wait, scratch that last bit, there is nothing to thank for when obviously that is what He did to me before all this had to happen.


His thing pierced me like a harpoon would to whale skin, and he drove it far harder, with my virgin blood pleasuring him so much it felt like a pig was mounting to my back on the haystack. My nipples rubbed against the hay and it hurt like hell. He spread me like a dog over the sides; my arms grasped tightly on the wrists and spread into a crucifix, and pummeled me with his might.


It was the worst thing to happen, it was only so I kept reminding me this is for Flandre’s greater good, so that she may retain her happiness and not having to pay for my ugly mistake that I survived.


The second time, became easier. It was a younger man, recently married to an ugly farmer hag probably 20 years older than him. It felt intimate; I suppose he longed for some smooth skin and not a floppy vaginal orifice. He even said I was the best whore he ever had and if he had the chance, he would runaway with me. I said no, because I will never trust a man again.

The third time was a mere beggar, looking for some quick fuck before he killed himself. His life ‘savings’, around a few francs which are the standard prices for whores around these times, earned him that. I guess I should have took up begging, but I didn’t look the part. He couldn’t even get himself up, I tried to calm him from crying in misery when he broke down, telling me stories on how he was abandoned by his fellow traders in this desolate place. I gave him fellatio, but he never came, the next day, he hung himself. I guess depression would have been my greatest fear. When I did notice it, it fuelled me further not to have myself driven off the ledge.


So…time passed.


I was raped a few times, by people who won’t pay, but yeah, nothing out of the ordinary when you have a body like mine. I had voluptuous breasts, my body was slender, and my legs long and sexy. I was the envy of the whorehouse. Had I been a lesser attractive ware, my pimp then would have had me starve, but I never did. Times are good ahead…until that night, 4 years later.



--------


So, I guess you all hate me now.

Touhou Origins Chp:4 of Beasts and Humans, of Sisters and Fate-Seers

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(4 years later, Paris)


It was a cool night; I had elevated from a certain status and could now afford a home in the outbound. Which is good really, this outbound area is actually today’s France’s capital, Paris or rather near to the old tomb of Chant-Elise, where today stood the yet another high fashion district I don’t care to name.


Back in this time, about 480 years ago, the air can be frigid at night without proper wear. Having spent most of my accumulated money from whoring for over the years, I managed to purchase a shelter that allowed my sister to stay with me. The landlord is a pervert, and tends to spy on us when we change or take our baths; my sister is protected from him, though I could not care less.


Humans are creatures of habit, I too, being human, decided to cast my moral guidelines aside, and live for the best of what I can do. I am not proud to be a whore of course, even though my body says otherwise. I am not a person who likes doing what I do out of necessity, in fact, I longed for the end of such painful existence.


Alas, I cannot abandon this curse, not when I have a life under my wings. You see, I cannot let Flandre come to harm, for her, she still has a future untainted by the ugly mistakes of her sister. She has no need to be a part of what I do. So best as I can, childish whenever needed, I would hide from her my true nature as a whore. I always told her that there is someone bearing the cost of feeding us.


She is not stupid of course, I am sure she knows when I come back tired, that it was not the work of a mere market lady, or a nurse that can earn that sort of tired expression drawn across my face. At times, when I cry in anguish from the pain of reality and this life, she would comfort me, and it would bring back a smile to my face whenever I see her smile to me in such a fashion. It dawned the me, Remilia Scarlette is the only hope of survival, more so than ever, Flandre is my light. A moment’s flicker could douse that light, and life would become pathless, meaningless in its meager drudging pace. I would fade into nonexistence and all that I ever did, all that I ever was, would be an image I carry to my grave, without God’s love and grace to vouch for the purity I have inside me.


Then, it was 4 years, it flashed by as my days are filled with men having their ways with me. Sometimes, they don’t do anything, but sometimes they do something awful. I am not in a position to judge, but if I say I am not affected by their harsh and often barbaric ways, I would be wrong. Yet, as it is, in this world, women have a voice much lesser than even that of mice’s squeak. We are not to be heard, only to obey. We are not the flowers, but the fruits ripe for picking along a disheveled orchard. Men have their ways with us because it would be centuries from now that I will ever see the dawn of laws that protect the rights of humans as a whole.


On this 4th year of my life since exiled by the royal court for accusations on royal murder, I was told that someone on the street, a knight it seems, is seeking my service after having heard of the greatest woman you can ever have in France. I was around my 20s this year, and I am free to decide on which client I can see since I bring much profit to my pimp.


At some eventual point, I began to look for distinct customers, they are often more polite and well-educated, making the process a smooth one. (As it is, the aristocrats seemed less likely to be long lasting, and they pay more without asking)


This knight, whose name I found to be Sir Jones of Orleans hail from the old ancestral village of Joan of Arc herself. I, upon hearing such news, wore a smile on my face, it felt like something clicked, could this be? My big break, one of which I am hoping would be that a knight would use their court powers given to them to free me from the laborious task as a whore and officially give me a home away from this place? Maybe if I played my card well, I could cheat his fortune and run off with Flandre to England!


They say the grass is always greener on the other side, more so than not, I believed it thoroughly after hearing journeys of traders who brought tales of better built castles, men with fine taste, and even of women treated as equal in the streets of England that brought me a dash of hope. Of course, I cannot disregard the news that they too, are in the process of the witch hunt, which by now, has slowed down.


In the years the Inquisition has operated, the witch hunt never did spread too far and wide into the land of France, and I was lucky because I served a public purpose. Soon, I was well on my way to meet this gentleman.




+++++

(Night, somewhere in Paris)



The gardens here looked strange, the green would become dark green, and the dark would become hues of blue on the top of leaves reflecting the fluorescence of the moon above. I longed to see such tranquil views and sit here with nothing on my mind except to gaze at the moon and reminisce about the days as a pure and innocent child.


In a way, it was my biggest dream. I believed deeply that at the age of 10, many moons ago, I was at my happiest. I was a mere child, with my mother to care for my needs and wants, and the days I would spend carefree and roaming into the countryside of green and lush hills and grass. I would sometimes talk to cattle, hoping they will listen to my wild dreams as a princess, but reply with grunts and noises indecipherable.


I often talked with Flandre in these days; she would tag along with me as well. She often is the weaker one, so she makes it back before the midday sun would spread across. Often enough, I would let her rest on my lap as we looked at the endless horizon of mild grass in the summer light and breeze that blows through them as we lightly drifted into a slumber of the afternoon. It felt like heaven back then, and so I wished for it.


I know it won’t ever come through though, but it never hurts to keep your options open.


“Are you Remilia?” A man, casted in shadow suddenly spoke from a corner, jostling me awake from my half dazed state as he put a hand on my shoulder.


“Ah…yes, indeed I am…are you the one whom requested that I meet you here?” I asked, using whatever left of a vocabulary not too influenced by street language I can to sound elaborate. I obviously wasn’t very impressing with his snicker of sorts behind a smile under the pale moon.


“I indeed am, my lady…now…shall we go back to my private abode?” The man gave me his hand, gentlemen tend to do that in these days, just not many do so with a whore.


I was delighted, I admit, he spoke with a tone unlike all my other customers. Of course, lest I remind you I no longer do trust men, if at the moment he makes a funny move, I would turn back and run. I wore a specific shorter skirt this evening, which would have been considered too revealing and no high heeled footwear as well. I sort of make sure of that, I wondered why; it wasn’t too late to find out though.


It turns out as I did venture with him a few ten steps ahead, into an even darker corner of the gardens, he reached to grab my wrists. Sensing something is wrong, I immediately turned away to run, but it was too late as I was grabbed on my throat by his strong hands.


“Now…now…don’t run…you little swine…I will end your misery for you.” The ‘knight’ said. What sort of royal consort of a knight would be so horrible? I cannot bear to fathom what he would have done with me at this point that I struggled as a captive would, kicking and screaming but to no one near or far.


He licked my neck, travelling with his saliva hanging by his lips and over the tip of his tongue onto my face. This man is a haunting image, he wasn’t like any rapist, he was a beast.


With one slam of his fist towards the back of my head, I began to lose consciousness. He brandished a knife, sharper than any I dared say I have seen, and with my eyes still half opened, completely dazed within, and cut me.


Oh, the searing pain as the blade dug sharply into my smooth flesh, oozing out blood as he pressed against it. He licked at the wound, his saliva infecting my being as I continued my struggle best as I can with a half-wake status. I felt warm liquid sliding down my hair and forehead; it didn’t take long for me to realize the pain I felt on my head was because of his hammering on my noggin. I did not have much to say, this was my first ever sadist encounter. I have heard of prostitutes encountering murderous madmen such as these. Men like these hunt vulnerable woman, or make them vulnerable to sate their desires for superiority. He must have hunted across the land, using his remarkable untainted reputation as a royal consort, he must have terrified whores, broke women, sometimes probably murdering them and throwing their corpses by the rivers or forests to prevent discovery. Men like these are born beast, they enjoy hurting, causing pain and most of all, they quench their thirst with their desires.


I prayed hard, hoping he would at least let me free after he sated whatever carnal desires he have and not kill me. Anything is better than death, I wanted to live but I cannot fight for it if I am vulnerable as this!


I could feel his erection; I was still fully dressed so no way at least I know, he is aroused by my body. He was aroused by his acts. Every time he dug that blade to a different part of my body, from my shoulders to the sides of my thighs, I grit my teeth at him with his face smiling. He would not undress himself, but he soon did only to reveal a grotesque sight.


If I was to be humbled at things I consider ugly thus far I have seen, that thing beneath him was a sight from hell. It appears he is a self-mutilation fanatic as well, what I saw was a member cut in various places, small wounds no doubt, but enough to need repairs of stitches and such. It looked pale purple, evidence of something must be tying it to restrict blood flow. He proceeded to grab it, but his face twisted in pain as he did. He then lifted his fist, and punched me in the face, before pushing me onto the ground again as he groped my body in every single way. Did I insult him in some way that made him want to punish me? I was sure I didn’t.


Yet, as it is, men like these are beyond reason; they don’t see things that way. They just enjoy hurting their victims, and themselves. I wonder was he now pairing the two to get his ecstasy?


Just then however, I heard a ruffled noise…it came from the sides.


A girl jumped out, and it was to my surprise, with that familiar blond hair and the shape of a womanly body almost equal to mine in beauty…Flandre, my sister.


Flandre had in her hands a steel rod, probably one of the many in the house I use to poke at the furnace over wood fire during the cold nights. With all her might, she slammed down as hard as she could onto the back of the head of my assaulter. With a grunt and a moan, the assaulter must have been shocked, before looking up and finally passing out, blood flowing down the garden grounds from his forehead.


“Flan! How…? Why…?” I didn’t know what I was asking in my semi-dazed state, did I ask her why did she rescue me? Was the answer not obvious enough as it is?


“I knew all along…sis…I just…” Flandre didn’t say much, but with her grip firmly on my hand, she pulled me away from my assaulter, leaving him lying in a heap in a corner of the park.


“You knew…that what I do…? All these years?” I of course, know as well or at least remotely so understood the predicament.


It isn’t usual; you should feel suspicious if your elder sister spends nights outside than the day, when it could be safer. You should feel strange if your sister comes back crying in your arms at times…it all matches up. I really wondered how naïve I could have been to think she was the same 10 year old back then I sought to care, with her head under the clouds, resting on my lap as we drifted to slumber-land. One thing however, I always thought she bought my lies when I say I worked at the morgue. Many people die in nameless graves in France in these days, disease and what’s not, it was depressing enough to be my alibi then.


We didn’t stop running, and before we knew it, we were panting so hard and tired. We were at the river, where not far away is my house, within the city districts. The night is still young, there would be time to rest, but for now, I calmly recollected myself, while catching my breath.


“How long…?” I asked silently to Flandre.


“I don’t know, at some point, I started following one night, I just sort of did…when I saw you with the men, I sometimes cry in horror, that you would allow your body violated by the vile and the wicked to earn money so that I can have my bread…” Flandre sighed, she was ashamed, the bread that kept her alive all the winters that passed was there because someone had to sacrifice for it.


It wasn’t her fault she followed, she cared, but she could do nothing. “I tried asking myself why I didn’t stop you…but you…you sis…you did the unthinkable.” She said, tears in her eyes as I reached quickly to wipe them away for her.


“Me?” I asked, my heart was pounding, emotions raged in my head.


“You are destined to meet this…beast…I have been anticipating it so long as I saw…there is…something else. A dark shadow will approach…he will rescue us.” Flandre sprouted out, the words made no sense.


“What…what are you talking about?” I asked, I wasn’t sure…did she know but didn’t tell because she could not risk her comfort? Did she didn’t tell because she doesn’t want me to feel shame? What is it?


“I could see it…the moment our mother died…I awakened that night…I didn’t know for how long, but that cursed vision followed me. I could see…years, sometimes ages ahead, and I saw…where we will be one day.” A premonition? A vision? Like mine, back in the days when our mother was seen burning inside that building by the King’s cohorts?


“You mean…you are seeing fate…you have awakened as a Fate-Seer?” I didn’t know what to say, mother never told me, but I realized I have that power and I kept it a secret from both her and Flandre. I never used it, and it wasn’t useful anyway, I just could see a few moments ahead, sometimes by hours… and one other thing, my fate cannot be seen, it was why I could not see the events that transpired moments before in the park.


However, Flandre could, she is better at this than I could ever be. Her strength as a Fate-Seer transpired dimensions of time, even years ahead. If what she said was true, she knew all along of my trade. In her empty mind, when she is alone, she must have been witnessing all that I am doing. Her dreams must have forecasted entire wars, their endings, their beginnings, the coming and going of certain names, the events that will transpire in moments.


Her will did not break. Not even in such pressure, that she should have been kneeling down, with her hands buried in her face in an attempt to block out all of the visions…instead, she embraced it well. She harnessed the power I tried to deny, she did it well, and with that…it grew. It became a part of her being…as she would later tell me.


In moonlit nights, she would gaze at the moon, she would see things hundreds of years ahead, she sometimes say she can see people being happy, of heroes, and heroines, of wars and famine, of rise and falls of empires…


In her narration, it all came to one point on this night as we gazed at the flowing river. I clasped tight at my wounds, they are small, nothing a few washes of water and saliva won’t fix. I am used to getting hurt; it is just a part of life you have to go through.


That one point that she finally came to…is the recurring image…a man whose face she could not see. This is the one part she said, the very reason why she did not warn me of my future encounter with that beastly rapist-cum-sadist person, it was because…without this event, nothing that follow will happen. Alas, this made me understand, you can only follow fate, but to change it will require powers greater than she or I combined.


“A man whom disappeared from Fate.” Returning to the topic however, I gave her an expression, it remarked ‘huh?’


Of course, it was no ordinary expression; it was one she understood well. We forgave each other for all the sorry things we done thus far easily, but there is a bond there, it is what soothed us.


“What do you mean?” I asked, who is this man ‘who disappeared from Fate?’


“His name…is Vlad…we will meet him in England…and with effect, we must run. Tonight!” Her tone marked urgency, and being that we see things so in the future, that urgency could mean something as linear as ‘we will get there faster’ or ‘if we don’t we die immediately’ as choices.


I listened, my heart heavy. I didn’t know what to think. The shaking in my arms began to slow; the trauma of the man whom tried to kill me in pleasure is gone. I realized yet again, perhaps I was right all along to never trust a man again.


That night, we went back to our place and packed up, with whatever we could take in a gunny sack. I am not in the mood for nostalgia either, so I quickly sanitized my wound with alcohol and wrapped it up, making haste to the forest area as fast as we can and using the path to reach the top of the mountain. It is dangerous since hunters tend to set traps for beasts near here, but we couldn’t care less.



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