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chapter 27
Morning had broken.
Belita stirred and woke up.
“Ugh…”
Maybe they really had drunk a lot last night; her stomach didn’t feel great. She propped herself up and rubbed her stiff eyes.
Sylvester was still sound asleep next to her. Belita glanced at him. It was rare for him to wake up later than her.
“…Hm?”
But as she looked closer, she noticed something strange. Sylvester’s eyelids were swollen.
Belita blinked wide and stared at his puffy eyelids. What happened to him?
‘At the Roman estate… his eyes never swelled like this.’
Back there, they had clinked glasses almost every night, but Sylvester’s eyes had never puffed up because of drink.
Belita awkwardly brushed a finger over his eyelid. Her fingertip skimmed the swollen skin.
‘Weird.’
Even as she touched his face, Sylvester didn’t react—he was still deep in dreamland.
Belita lightly pinched his eyelid, then drew back and stared at him. Now she noticed the corners of his eyes were red, too.
Her gaze grew unsettled at the subtle difference.
‘This isn’t just from drinking…’
Belita’s eyes carefully swept over Sylvester’s sleeping face, which even now looked like it was on the verge of tears.
‘He looks like he’s been crying.’
She was startled and tried to retrace what had happened last night.
Normally, she’d tease a grown man for crying. But this was Sylvester.
With his personality, shedding tears seemed rare.
‘So… what exactly did we talk about yesterday?’
But when she tried to recall their conversation, a dull pain throbbed in her head, disrupting the memory.
Belita frowned, straining to recall her own words.
Soon, Sylvester’s tense voice echoed in her mind:
“Who are you?”
…Yes. That question. She remembered that much.
“…You’re asking… who I am?”
“Yes. I think that’ll answer the things I’ve been wondering.”
Even the part where he explained why he asked that question.
“All I know about you is that you’re a demon.”
And then… what had she said?
She’d promised him: once the painting was complete, she’d tell him her past. She must have confessed something to him then.
Belita pressed her fingers hard into her temples, the hangover pounding.
“I definitely said more…”
Did she drink a lot after that? Sylvester hadn’t bought anything particularly strong. And it wasn’t as though there had been dozens of bottles.
“Haa…”
Belita leaned back limply against the bed. Tilting her head back, she saw the traces of last night’s drinking at the foot of the bed.
Then a hazy scene flickered over those traces.
“What’s that?”
“Alcohol.”
“Why do you have more?”
“I hid it.”
“Didn’t you say you only hid three bottles earlier…?”
“How many bottles do you think I bought?”
That unsteady silhouette… those endless bottles appearing from his hands.
Belita clenched her fist and rubbed her forehead. We really did drink more.
“Still…”
‘I was once a great drinker, and now my tolerance is gone…’
She massaged her temples, frustrated, and swept her hair back.
Looking at the scattered bottles and cups, she felt like some other memory was lurking nearby, but it was blurry.
It was as if someone had sliced chunks out of her time and hidden them somewhere. Her mind was pitch black.
Her stomach churned with the lingering effects of the alcohol.
Still in that posture, Belita tried to summon up last night, but finally buried her face in one hand.
Beyond this, her memory was blank.
“Never thought a Great Demon would have a day like this…”
She gave up trying to think and decided she’d better start by tidying the mess.
Belita rose and headed toward the door, looking back at the messy drinking scene.
Despite the worn-out furniture, Sylvester had always kept things neat. Yet last night, even he had gone to bed without cleaning up.
Not only had her own memories evaporated, but clearly they’d had such a wild night Sylvester couldn’t even tidy up.
‘He’s out cold too.’
She left him to sleep and gathered up the dishes, carrying them to the kitchen.
As she cleaned the traces of food and drink, she hoped to stumble upon some clue about last night.
If she’d said anything foolish under the influence, it could spell trouble later. Few things were more pathetic than drunken antics.
Belita turned on the water and began washing the dishes. As the water ran, an image overlapped with the scene of Sylvester pouring wine.
“…Belita.”
“…Pour me more.”
His golden eyes glancing up beneath dark hair, the slow stream of wine, her own hand clasping his…
And the glass, filled to overflowing—
“Belita!”
“Ah…”
Her hands froze mid-wash. She remembered Sylvester’s worried voice:
“No one’s forcing you. If it’s hard to say, you don’t have to. You don’t need alcohol to talk.”
And her automatic reply echoed in her ears:
“No. I’ll tell you.”
After that, her mind was blank again. She grumbled at the lingering heaviness in her chest and finished the dishes, cleaning the table.
When she returned to the bedroom, Sylvester was still asleep. His eyelids were still swollen.
Belita sat on a stool and quietly gazed at his face.
At first, he’d worried and tried to stop her from drinking more. Yet once she opened up, he’d brought out bottle after bottle—what a sly guy.
‘He must’ve been very curious about my story.’
How long had she been staring at him?
Maybe sensing her eyes, Sylvester stirred.
“Mm…”
His groggy voice came. Belita stayed by him until he woke up.
Soon he rustled and opened his eyes.
“…Ah.”
He sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed, avoiding her gaze and scratching his nape.
“You were up first…”
His voice carried a faint sadness.
In that instant, Belita remembered a fragment of her own voice she’d never consciously said:
“I… don’t know… you…”
Her brow furrowed.
Her throat felt dry, her mouth sticky. She pulled up a low, hoarse voice to match his:
“…I woke up early.”
“After all that drinking. You woke earlier than usual.”
Ha-ha… Sylvester’s awkward laugh floated in the air.
Belita narrowed her eyes. Hearing his voice, another phrase she’d uttered surfaced faintly:
“…Sylvester. Are you… happy?”
She fell silent. She couldn’t recall the context.
Worse, she couldn’t remember his answer either.
“…”
Dry air passed between them.
The atmosphere around Sylvester was dark. Belita inwardly scolded her brain to remember more.
But there was no further progress.
“…Hey.”
At last, she broke the silence and asked the awkward Sylvester:
“Did I… do something wrong last night?”
His eyes turned to her.
When their gazes met, he flinched away, embarrassed at his own avoidance.
He ruffled his hair aimlessly.
“….”
Then he moved his lips, as though choosing his words carefully.
What on earth did I say to make him like this… Belita sighed and sat on the bed beside him.
As the distance closed, Sylvester gave a bitter smile.
Belita had meant to gently pat his shoulder, but that expression froze her hand midair.
Her hand lost its target and just fiddled with the blanket.
Her mouth opened on its own. By asking if she’d done something wrong, she’d basically confessed she didn’t remember.
“…This doesn’t usually happen. I guess my tolerance’s gone down. I blacked out.”
At Barcen’s estate, she’d never drunk like that. She added softly.
Tilting her head as if seeking an answer, she met Sylvester’s gaze as it slowly lifted to hers.
But the moment she saw his eyes, she clamped her mouth shut, unable to make excuses.
His already-reddened eyes were unfocused. He exhaled a soft, wind-like laugh.
It was clearly not a happy laugh.
Belita, seeing the wet corners of his eyes, lost her words again.
At last, Sylvester spoke in a cracked voice:
“…Do you really want to know that badly?”
A faint smile. An atmosphere of words left unsaid.
It’s nothing. You just told me some old stories.
Murmuring this, Sylvester pulled Belita into his arms as if collapsing.
She found herself helplessly embraced. She felt his slight trembling.
“…Sylvester.”
She called his name, but he didn’t answer. Feeling awkward, she placed her hand on his shoulder.
The hand that had hovered near the blanket finally gripped him.
Belita stroked his back without even knowing why he was crying.
The black gaps of last night’s memories now seemed to fade to pure white.
She awkwardly held him, trying to soothe.
She felt his heartbeat—fast and unstable, like when they first met.
“…”
As she patted his back, she realized:
Sylvester didn’t want to show her his face right now.
Resting his face on her shoulder to hold back tears, afraid seeing her face would make them spill.
So Belita asked nothing. She didn’t know the reason, but she knew it was somehow her fault.
“…”
Thanks to her silence, Sylvester barely managed to keep his tears from falling.
He held her small body tight, suppressing the rising tears, burying his nose in her shoulder and breathing in her scent.
In his ears, Belita’s answer from last night still lingered:
“…Sylvester. Are you… happy?”
Sylvester remembered her expression.
“…As for me…”
A face that had carried wounds for countless years, far beyond his comprehension.
He had listened to Belita’s story without missing a word:
How he once had a lover.
How that lover betrayed him and trapped him in a portrait.
How, stripped of his power, he came to be as he was now.
In Belita’s few calm sentences, Sylvester could see thousands of years compressed.
Those short lines, less than a fraction of a day, contained a lifetime far older than his own.
Belita had said he’d been happy once.
But now, he no longer knew what happiness was. Upon waking from his long seal, everything had vanished:
His power, his acquaintances, his love, even himself—nothing remained.
He’d told Sylvester:
That though he had promised to find Sylvester happiness, he couldn’t even protect his own.
That though he’d seen Sylvester smile, he wasn’t sure if it was truly happiness.
That their contract was still ongoing, with nothing yet achieved.
That not knowing his own happiness, he’d chosen Sylvester just to survive.
That he didn’t want to die, didn’t want to be forgotten, wanted to be remembered by him. He had used him.
As long as someone remembered him, he could at least live as long as that person’s lifespan.
…
Belita now wished to escape the past, to live simply, like a human, for a human span of time.
Even if he forgot everything, lost all his power, didn’t know who he was…
He just wanted to live that way.
“Belita.”
Hearing his confession, Sylvester’s chest ached with a tearing pain, as if he, too, knew those years.
“I… was wrong.”
While Belita didn’t cry, Sylvester did. He simply cried, unlike his usual self. A tear fell.
“I think I’ve been stubborn for nothing.”
The tears came for no reason, as if his tear ducts were broken.
He had known Belita was a demon with a story, but he hadn’t realized he was someone living with a grave in his heart.
Inside Belita’s heart lay many graves:
Graves of the past he couldn’t forget,
Graves of the dead who had kept him alive until now,
The grave of the lover he once loved.
And his own grave.
Sylvester rubbed his face against Belita’s shoulder, holding him tighter.
If you promised to give me happiness, then I promise to give you happiness too.
With nothing to his name, remembered only by him…
…to the one who only wished for a life equal to his remaining years.
He hoped he could give his entire life in return.
The pale blue sky reflected on the carriage window.
Rastavan looked through the glass at the devout, silent silhouettes inside the carriage.
So many years had passed since he first traveled this land.
The few believers had become many, had become priests, had become citizens of the Empire. They had formed a nation and spread across the world.
Yet he felt empty.
So many followed him, yet no one stayed by his side. No one knew who he truly was, no one knew him as himself…
“…”
His gaze drifted from the silhouettes to the scenery outside.
“…No.”
He fixed his eyes on the roadside trees flowing past the window. Deep green sparkled.
Enthralled by the beauty, he murmured. No, that’s not true…
I have you.
He savored the name he longed for:
‘Belita.’
Just then, the procession stopped.
Outside, the street trees had given way to a solid fortress wall. Rastavan looked up.
Above the wall, at the top of the royal castle, a huge flag fluttered. The crest on the flag rippled in the wind.
‘…You know me well.’
It was Orhen.
