I am Riliane Lucifen D'Autriche, and my story has already been told.
I've heard it in whispers on the street as I walk to the market, in the words written down on yellowed pages, even in song, the notes a jaunty tune as they invite listeners to come one, come all, come hear the tale of the malice-born girl who filled the streets with blood.
Evil flowers, steadily blooming...
It took a long time for me to stop my head from turning to the sound of my own name. It took me a long time to learn many things. How to stop the words "We" and "Us" and "Our" from forming in my mouth and leaving my lips, for I am now truly alone. How to sweep the floors and wipe the windows. How to tend to the fields without throwing myself down with all the tools, stubbornly refusing to move like a child.
A child... hah, has it really been that long?
I learned all these things, and the world somehow kept turning. The events of that fateful year were not forgotten, and while my hair was cut short the endless litany of my mistakes only grew longer. I saw the facts twist and turn until they became just as unrecognizable as I was. But always, besides me, there were the cast, the characters, the larger-than-life figures who stayed the same all throughout: the king of blue, the knight of red, the maiden of green...
And yet...
I almost never heard about you.
Allen, you became nothing more than a footnote in our own story. They never sang of how you made me brioche every afternoon at the ringing of the bells, with just the right amount of sugar. They never whispered to each other about how you chased my bratty self across a forest, finding me at the seashore when no one else would. They never told their children about how you gave up everything for me, your morals, your love, and eventually, your life.
You were nothing to them but a lowly, cowardly servant with the same face as mine.
And the worst part was that I used to think the same way, until I could do nothing but scream helplessly, banging my fists helplessly against a locked door.
Allen, it just wasn't fair. I heard iteration after iteration of our tale, and every time I did I grew sicker and sicker just knowing everything they left out, the words of stories untold. It eventually got to the point where I told Clarith that I couldn't go to the market anymore, because if I heard those first few notes again I would throw a fit in the middle of town square.
If I had my way, Allen, if music could flow from my soul just as easily as the great bards, if I could sing as brilliantly as Clarith's beloved used to do, I would compose a song, several songs, just for you: the story of how you saved my life and soul, even if I really didn't deserve a thing.
And I would tell it right. I would leave nothing out.
No maidens of green setting political traps for unwary princesses. I would sing of how a maiden of white found friendship and love with the kindest person she had ever met. I would sing of their tragedy, of how they were torn apart from simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I would sing of the puppet king of blue, my first love, and how he was manipulated by the one he trusted the most. I would sing of the knight of red and her own sacrifices, her own self-destruction, and how she was separated from everything she knew and cared about. And I would sing of how, despite everything, our stories were not yet over.
I would sing of redemption.
I would take all those songs, Allen, and I would sing them over and over again until they would resonate throughout the land forever, like the Eternal Lullaby that plays between the ticks and tocks of every single clock, in the space between life and death, between sleep and dreams.
But I couldn't. I still can't.
Time passed and I lived and died and lived again, and yet, nothing changed. Whether I walked the streets of Jakoku or Levianta, whether I wore a kimono or an oversized coat, you were still a footnote, and I was still a despot. The world fell apart, and honestly, I saw no difference between the Elphegort of just before the end and the Lucifenia of our time. Such is the nature of evil.
But now, Allen, now we can change all that. We can cross it out and start all over, live and laugh with everyone we ever loved.
I'm so glad you came to see me.
My mind creaks as I force myself to think of words written on a yellowed page, rolled into a glass bottle that feels familiar in my hands. It manifests into existence just before my will sinks once more into hers.
Allen, Alexiel. My best servant, my little brother, my other half.
My story may have been told, but I don't want it to end here, not now. Not with what's at stake.
I trusted you to always protect me, and I still trust you now.
Please, save me.