OF A PERFECT PREPERATION (2)
Seven years.
That was how long ago the engagement had been arranged.
Rika couldn't say what her father had been thinking when he agreed to the entire endeavor. Though perhaps "thinking" was giving him too much credit. She understood why leaders made such arrangements—political alliances, territorial security, the endless chess game of international relations. But her father had never shown interest in ruling beyond their borders. No grand ambitions. No desire to expand.
To a younger Rika, it had always felt like he was trying to get rid of her. Like he couldn't bear to look in her direction anymore.
To have the power to conquer an entire nation—what does it benefit a man to save everyone except the one person he loves most?
'I think he just... lost purpose when mother died.' The thought surfaced unbidden, old and worn as a favorite coat. 'And it came at the worst possible time—when his prized student had just left, gone rogue again, right when he was about to retire.'
What made it worse—what had to make it worse—was how preventable it had been. Her death. If only he'd known. If only she'd let him.
But her mother had always been stubborn. An old geezer, through and through. She hadn't wanted him to see her in that state. Had hidden herself away until the end.
He was the only one she'd shut out.
And in the aftermath, he'd turned all that guilt inward. Weaponized it against himself until there was nothing left but a shell going through the motions.
Killing people—regardless of the cause—was never a good thing. Rika believed that with absolute certainty. No one in their right mind could think taking a life was good. It was vile. Awful. Disgusting. Like a stench you could never wash out, a musk that clung to you like grime to your heels.
Even for the Five Swords—especially for the Five Swords—killing was the job. It had always been the job. It would continue to be the job.
But she could only imagine how hard it must have been for him. To kill so many and have his entire legacy framed as heroic. It must have made him sick to his stomach.
TO LIVE BY THE SWORD IS TO DIE BY IT.
'But even so,' she thought, 'we carry on. We cut down more. We build bridges toward salvation, one body at a time.'
She remembered his voice, years ago, speaking to a young recruit who'd asked about his legendary status:
"That would probably be true during my younger days," he'd explained, a sad smile tugging at weathered features. "But I've barely used anything other than a bamboo sword in the last three decades. Since I became Sword Master."
The recruit had looked confused. Disappointed, even.
"The title is no more than that—a title. Although..." A pause. "With that title, I am second in command to the Emperor of this entire country. I make decisions on his behalf. Sometimes I attend meetings when the Emperor himself doesn't feel like it." A weary chuckle. "It's so exhausting, I sometimes think all this responsibility might kill me before a sword does."
He'd told it as a joke—to that recruit, to others, to anyone who asked. About how if he was destined to die by the sword, he should at least be marching proudly onto a battlefield, cutting enemies down in glorious combat.
But anyone paying attention could tell it was just that—a joke. A deflection.
He genuinely believed he'd been doing the right thing in his younger years. Truly believed there was something worth fighting for.
Then her mother died.
And Rika thought—hoped—he'd realized a certain truth:
IT'S ALL A BATTLE FOR NOTHING.
Because the one thing he'd been fighting to protect wasn't protected anymore. And in the end, he saw no point in moving forward.
The joke about dying by the sword became less funny—if it had ever been funny at all—and more... sad. Depressing. He'd accepted that fate, waited for it patiently.
But the sword eluded him. Times changed. Death became less common. Sword fighting grew rare. Diplomacy became the new battlefield.
So now what?
What he was willing to fight for—what he had actually fought for—had slipped through his hands like sand.
NOW HE COULD NEVER TRULY DIE BY THE SWORD HE ONCE HELD IN HIGH REGARD.
'There was nothing more he could protect,' Rika realized. 'Nothing.'
This was her hypothesis—her explanation for why he'd married her off to the House of Scarlet. He simply hadn't wanted her there anymore. Looking at him. Perhaps judging him. An old fossil who couldn't even protect his own wife.
He must have truly believed she hated him.
She never had.
Not until that point.
In a way, all the Five Swords were like that. On their shoulders rested countless bodies—souls that had to be carried somewhere, anywhere. Perhaps that was why Rika avoided fighting in general. She simply didn't want that weight to tire her out the way it had tired that old geezer.
But even so... there was a larger conspiracy afoot. Something that might well lead to the end of this peaceful era.
And at the very least, as a member of the Five Swords—an institution that had served her home for generations—she wanted to prevent more death before she started causing it.
Yes. That was it. That had to be it.
'But I've gotten off track.' She refocused. 'Concerning my engagement to Germain... I don't think my father cares whether I actually marry him or not. He hasn't followed up on it in years.'
And neither had Germain, apparently. He'd kept pushing the wedding back, again and again. At some point, Rika had stopped caring too. She couldn't take it anymore—the weight of those golden eyes looking down at her with contempt. With subtle hatred.
'Well.' A cold smile touched her lips. 'I suppose that's a good thing. I'll be able to crush him. Figure out the truth behind the Vatican's desire for Akame's assassination.'
But the more she told herself that—
The more she wondered:
HAVE I BECOME THE OPPOSITE OF MY FATHER?
TO BE CONTINUED!