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Your life began with the sound of crying, a piercing wail that bounded through the room and across those blurry, distant faces looking down at you before returning to your ears. That noise—it was not yours, for you were quiet in your regard of these strangers who posed as kin. Even from that first moment, they meant nothing to you. You turned to look to your side and found another, a sobbing infant identical to yourself. Such a wretched look on a face just like yours—that must be why you called forth a torrent of wind to make it stop, to end the weeping by cutting out the source. Not to attack the one crying, not to assault the visage of yourself marred with tears, but to defend against the elder with a weapon in hand ready to slaughter you both. You could have returned his intentions to him, killed him on a whim as your first act in life, but because that murderous notion in your mind that stemmed from your horn was the second noise you ever heard, behind that of crying, you opted for mercy.
As you grew, you found her to be your mirror. You saw in her all the glory you yourself held. She was the only thing worth loving in that miserable village. Her food was the only kind worth eating. Time spent with her were the only bits of that place that remained in your memory for me to see, because all else—the droning talking of elders bickering, the expectations of parents you’ve cast aside the faces of, the instinct to slaughter that you felt from your first moment—none of it mattered next to her smile. Her smile, which was your smile. She was beautiful, like you were beautiful. And that is why, despite the endless voice chirping in your ears commanding you to conquer, that bloodthirsty urge you felt in every part of your mind that caused you to hate yourself just as you despised your kin, you loved yourself. Because you were her mirror just as she was yours. She had value, so you did too. And when that horn finally broke, and your kinsmen all died, and the lies were washed away in a baptism of fire, you were both finally free of the few things holding you back.
At least—this is what I have surmised, from what everyone else thought about what He thought about her. Because in your memory, none of this is here. Rem never existed for you. There has only ever been you.
And one day, there was a scoundrel and a schemer who roped you into his life by preying on desperation you didn’t know the source of. Without Rem, in retrospect, your reliance on him is overinflated, beyond your control, because to your memory he was the first person in the world that you met who was worth understanding. A man who can’t look in the mirror with honesty, because he covers up his features with the makeup that you put on him daily—the appearance of a clown that you swore to yourself you’d one day tear off his face to show not only the world but to demonstrate to Roswaal himself who he really is.
There were others you knew too: Frederica and Clind, the many maids who came in and out of Roswaal’s service to be educated, the people of Arlam, the denizens of Sanctuary, Garfiel. You cared for them all, saw more in them than they saw in themselves, but your way of showing it was always harsh, because the world was harsh on you. Because to have the freedom of knowing them meant ceaseless torment.
In exchange for losing that horn and its burden of divinity, your flesh grew to reject you. Your mind was at last yours: your sharp intellect that could see any action once and copy it flawlessly, and your will strong enough to challenge not only your fate but also dared to break Roswaal from his. Yet, your body refused you in every waking moment. To move was painful, to stand still was to ache, to exist in this reality as the shameful remains of a hornless demon was an affront to nature that seeped needles into your nerves and rotted out your bones until a breeze felt like the worst winter chill and merely walking about the mansion to do basic chores required an effort so great that it took every bit of your focus to stop from collapsing. You bore this tiresome life you stole from the demon god, with pride and with joy. You would not have wanted to live in any other way.
You watched to see what scheme Roswaal had committed his soul to and remained prepared to counter it all while relying on him to sustain your ever-decaying form, but you did not just wait in this status quo. You relished this life, no matter how pathetic it was. Those quiet nights alone with Roswaal, those tea breaks with Frederica, those brawls against Garfiel who could never match you in either strength or wit—you loved all of these. Yet, why did you always look to your side where no one stood, why did you always feel for sensations that weren’t there, why did you wake up on cold mornings warm if you were by yourself? Surely, this also must have been because of Rem, but I’m too foolish to know.
I’m too focused on what comes next. Another entered your life, someone wonderful, someone stupid, someone kind, someone with a nasty undignified appearance, someone with boundless naivete but impeccable timing to make up for it.
You met Him, the hero everyone loves so much, the one man besides Roswaal and Garfiel who you consider to be something like family, the person who carved Himself into your heart so quickly that it was incomprehensible. He saved… who did He save, this time? There was a crisis, Arlam was in danger, the mabeasts invaded, and you weren’t there until the end. You and Him marched into that forest together, but for what reason? Ah, it must be because of Rem, yet again. There can’t be any other explanation. How vexing, for her to be so eternally absent. If only the pages of her book weren’t all blank, I could know how to patch the pieces together. But it doesn’t matter.
It’ll sound awful, because I am awful, and what I’ve done is awful, but I don’t care about you. Even as a year of bright and happy moments flood my mind with a camp that became a family, with siblings reunited, with a liege you can trust in and respect, with Roswaal’s tome burnt and cast aside… I don’t lose myself in being you, reliving you, experiencing the essence of you. There’s too much blood on my hands for yours to change the color of my reddened skin. Your crimson eyes that you see in every reflection match what I’ve become, and yet you’re an existence that is beyond my grasp. Because as I see all that you are, all that I care for in you is Him: the hero.
The hero who tried to tease you with a language you didn’t know. The hero who called you Elder Sister when no one else did. The hero who remembered Rem, visited Rem every night, did everything for Rem. I know that’s all He is to you, because that’s what you expected from me when I stole His place. His worth to you is in remembering her and doing right by her. I’m nothing next to Him, though. I can’t do what He can. Yet, to honor your grief, to stand by my haphazard apology to you, I’ll do anything to bring Him back.
That’s why I’ve done all this. For you. For them. For everyone who relies on Him. I’ll patch and patch and patch together until the tapestry of His name is restored, and then all of what I’ve done to sully Him will be washed away. You’ll be back, and you’ll have someone who you can count on to get a bucket of water without spilling it, someone who won’t order your death, someone who remembers what needs to be done for Rem.
Thank you, for this strand you’ve provided. The pain you’ve endured that I’ve relived to obtain it is singularly intense. I won’t forget it for the rest of my few remaining days. I have not released you from it, merely placed it on pause, took it for myself and left your soulless body to rot on the floor. I stole its nerves; what’s left of you that can still feel is in me now. So, from this moment on, until I become Him, I will share the aching of your bones. It is no penance of mine, because not even the consolation of your tough love is something I deserve.
Putting down the book, I look ahead and say, “I’m sorry, Ram. I—”
“Stupid Barusu,” you tell me. Your perseverance is wasted on me. “Save your pathetic waffling for after the work is done.”
And so I do. I take a forbidden joy in you watching me, and in our conversations as we strategize while I pretend to be Him. Because just like back in the mansion, there’s another incompetent fool for you to cross your arms and look down upon until I pick up my own slack. Except, I know your kindness is for naught. It won’t be me who does right by you; all I was capable of was killing you; it will be the next you whose expectations are met.
As I am not Him, I must complete my labor within the confines of this single attempt. I’ve squandered too many as-is, each breath I take an insult to Him. Only one chance to prove that it’s not for nothing—that is all I am afforded. I wish I was merely an echo of greatness, a shadow cast by His legacy, rather than a stain upon the perfection of His life and the people that hold Him dear. A hero is what He is. A pathetic excuse is what I am. In my hands, I grasp at straws and tug until they become threads and patch them into something beyond myself. My crusade is a righteous one, to restore something holy that I have blasphemed against.
The hero you’ve been expecting—I drown the world with your help to restore Him. And bubbling up to the surface of all these efforts of mine will be two results. First, I shall be erased, and the crime I’ve committed by my existence will be reduced to an intermission—the briefest of pauses before He takes the stage once more and wows the world—and I will be swept away by the same waves I’ve unleashed. It will be the only mercy granted to me. But what comes next is all that matters: upon rectifying the mistake that was my blundering into His story, He will return, and all will be well.
For my crimes, I do not consider begging for forgiveness. He will save them all, and the only price to pay will have been being me for so agonizingly long. I think you would understand that sentiment, Ram. You know what it’s like to be the only person to see the appearance of someone so amazing where your helpless self can’t manage to stand, a twisted perception of yourself manifested through another that takes your vile essence and makes it perfection incarnate. But we’ve forgotten, you and I. Just as I’ve lost the memories of Natsuki Subaru, you don’t know who Rem is. For that, we’re both failures.
I’m just a worthless imposter, standing where you see a brother, but because of our shared shame—the taint of inadequacy that I’ve ripped from your soul to add to mine—I see us as siblings anyway. I don’t care about you, but I understand you. I can do nothing more than slaughter you, too powerless to save you. I am the prelude of the hero yet to return, and there are no mirrors that can reflect what I am that I won’t break. Just as I’ve broken your trust, your family, the world. Because what use is a false reflection of what once was, when I need to become so much more?