Act Three: The Laws of Engaging with the World (Part 11)

eleven

It was hardly a pleasant night. The three men had to squeeze into one bed—a perfectly normal occurrence. You see, ordinary citizens and servants slept on straw communal beds by the fireplace, and even in some good monasteries only the abbot and bishop were entitled to a private room—a situation that Ubi complained bitterly about.

It wasn't because of the harsh conditions or his delicate constitution. Yubi thought it was far better than sleeping fully clothed under tree roots with his luggage as a mat while camping. He now had pajamas to change into, had applied perfume he'd been too lazy to use for days, the mattress beneath him was soft, the stove beside him was warm, and Yakov and Shumel had taken a bath and weren't smelling like livestock. But he felt utterly bored. In just a few days, it seemed as if everyone in the world had torn off their masks of hypocrisy, revealing their vicious and ugly sides. It was as if something was gone forever.

"What are you reading?" Schumeer asked with a smile after tidying up his papyrus drawings, as if the previous conflict had melted away like snowflakes. "Where did this book come from?"

Yubi rolled his eyes at him. In his hand was a thin, handwritten copy of poetry bound in gold-leaf leather, its pages carefully strung together with hemp rope. It wasn't particularly luxurious, but it was enough to show the bookbinder's care. "...I borrowed it from Conrad," he answered reluctantly. "It tells the story of a father who returned home after thirty years away on a campaign and met his son whom he had never seen before. The father tried to recognize him and gave his son a gold ring. But the son thought his father was a foreigner trying to deceive him. In the end, they fought, and the father killed his son."

“It’s a sad story,” Schumacher said, squinting as he leaned closer. In the dim light, the pages were covered in dense Latin letters, which he couldn’t understand—the book was written in German. Feeling awkward, he went to do his evening prayers. Yubi stopped speaking, remaining silent. The ring on his finger was twirled again, sometimes clenched, sometimes relaxed. His face was buried in the pages.

Yakov lay beside him, touching his neck. He'd taken a bath today and could finally take off his heavy, filthy chainmail for a while. Yubi refused to drink the blood stale in his water sac anymore, and instead begged and pleaded to bite him directly—he agreed, and now two small scabs remained on his neck. The bed wasn't big, and Yubi was pressed against him, his body warm. Yakov pondered: it seemed that when Yubi wore that ruby ​​ring, his body temperature was warm and normal, like a human; but without the ring, he was as cold as a dead man, or a monster.

He had been thinking about this for days, but had no way of verifying it. Just as Yakov was about to ask, he noticed that the small shoulders were twitching, as if trembling.

A surge of bitterness erupted from the inscription, engulfing him even before his thoughts could process. Yakov sat up as if pricked by needles.

Yubi sniffed discreetly—he was crying, but not wanting his tears to stain the pages or be seen, he lowered his head, hiding his face with the back of the book. Yakov felt no sympathy, only bewilderment. He raised his hand, unsure where to put it, then withdrew it. The etched pain intensified, becoming even more vexing, and instead fueled his anger. Yakov thought, why bother comforting him? Was someone this old still at the age to cry? What good did crying do? What could it solve? He froze, the scene like the sight of Medusa's snake-haired eyes, rendered immobile by a spell.

Schumer noticed something was wrong and immediately rushed to the bedside, soothing Yubi's hair. "Shh, shh, don't cry." His two little braids were hanging down and swaying. "Did Yakov and I upset you?"

Yubi refused to lift his face from the book, his sobs trembling and broken. He shook his head violently, saying nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Schumer said. “Don’t worry, even if the ambergris deal falls apart, it won’t matter to us.”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Yubi pushed Schumacher’s hand away. “Get away!”

Schumer had no choice but to withdraw his hand. He gave Yakov a sharp look, as if complaining about his inaction and shifting blame onto others. But Yakov felt a strange sense of schadenfreude, as if he had just proven that comforting someone was a useless act.

“My God!” Schumacher couldn’t help but say, “You should at least give him a hug!”

"Go away!" Yubi sullenly shouted, "I don't want to!"

“He said no,” Yakov replied coldly.

"When did you become such an obedient person?" Schumeer said sarcastically. "He told you not to steal my gold coins, why didn't you listen?"

Yakov didn't know what to do. The engraving was getting more and more painful, and he glared at Schumeer—seeking his help. Schumeer was unmoved, just watching with his arms crossed, as if waiting to see him make a fool of himself, his mustache swaying angrily.

Yakov raised his hand, grasped the book Yubi was clutching, and carefully moved it away. A pair of red, moist eyes appeared, tears streaming down her face. As soon as she was seen, Yubi lowered her head and hid under the pillow again. Yakov held his breath, put down the book, hesitated, then pulled Yubi from the pillow and held her in his arms. How could this possibly work? Yakov thought. His muscles were stiff and uncomfortable, unable to relax. He wasn't some soft, warm saint; how could he possibly offer comfort and solace? The young vampire struggled twice, then nestled against the mark on Yakov's chest and sobbed, crying like a feverish, feverish little animal. Yakov thought he must have messed up. He glanced at Schumeer reproachfully. "Look," he said, "he's crying even harder."

"Does Mother... not want me anymore?" Yubi suddenly said in a very soft, halting voice, "I'll never have a mother to tell me bedtime stories again..."

Yakov was speechless. He tasted a strange yet real bitterness, unsure if it was merely the mark on his chest causing him pain. Days passed, and he had assumed vampires were inherently cold-blooded, indifferent to the deaths of their loved ones, unwilling to mourn for even a second. But now, this grief, like water dammed from a blocked well, finally burst forth. Yubi finally seemed like a normal child who had lost his mother. But Yakov's thoughts suddenly shifted. How many people had never experienced a mother's love, and how many suffered far more than Yubi? As soon as he thought this, the mark continued its torment, determined to calm him down.

“If your mother really doesn’t want you, then I don’t need to be here anymore,” Yakov said in a low voice after thinking for a long time.

Whether it was a complaint or a consolation was unclear, but Yubi's sobs finally subsided, bringing some relief to Yakov's pain. Yubi placed his hand on Yakov's mark, reaching beneath the pale golden hair to stroke the intricate scar repeatedly. He glanced at Yakov's chest rising and falling with his breath, then at the ruby ​​ring on his left hand, then buried his face in Yakov's arm to wipe his tears. After a while, Yubi finally stopped sobbing.

"I'm so sorry." He covered his eyes, his eyes and face reddening, and pushed Yakov away. "I won't do it again."