Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 1)
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Ansopia's funeral was small and private, with very few attendees. Bishop Domenico cancelled a day of pilgrimage and visits to St. George's Church and chose a quiet evening to hold Mass for the poor girl.
“My Lord, Son of the eternal God, embrace her in the arms of your mercy.” His eulogy was also short and concise: “May Almighty God have mercy on Mother, and may she be freed from the tears of sacrifice.”
Yubi's eyes moved numbly, his gaze shifting from the small coffin to Ambicia: his sister had finally shed her heavy, jewel-encrusted, cage-like attire, donning a Latin dress with light, flowing sleeves and hem; her red hair, no longer tightly bound by gold ornaments, protruded wildly from beneath her veil and headscarf, resembling burning flames—frankly, Yubi felt this casual attire suited Ambicia far better than the stiff Byzantine robes. She seemed more free.
The mother, who had "lost her daughter," strangely wore a resolute and disdainful expression. Not a single tear streamed down her cheeks, as if she were born with dry eyes and had no need for comfort at the funeral.
After the bishop finished reciting the prayer, he swept the incense burner around the coffin. In the rising white mist, the monks sang hymns, carried the coffin, and walked out of the church. Yubi pulled up his mourning robes, wanting to follow them, but Ambicea stopped him.
“There’s no need to go to the graveyard with them.” She smiled strangely. “Come with me.”
The siblings joined hands and walked coldly down into the crypt of St. George's Church. Yubi noticed that the narrow crypt, originally the saint's tomb, had been filled with other things, now gleaming eerily—"I'm moving to Nablus, leaving Mother with you." Ambicia led him past St. George's tomb to the silver statue beside the altar. "This may not compare to the Basilica Cistern of Hagia Sophia, but it's still your territory. She won't feel condescended."
Yubi's hand was guided to the face of the silver bust. The sight of that familiar yet strange, mirror-like, cruel face filled him with a pang of sorrow. Something painful was about to burst from his throat, ready to burst forth.
“My poor little brother…” Ambikia hugged him before he could cry out, “You’re still too young to get used to this. But everyone grows up like this, and you’ve taken the first step.”
"If only Mother were still here!" Yubi cried, her face flushed red, her knees slumped at her sister's feet. "But she's gone!"
Ambikia bent down, gently stroking his hair and whispering in his ear as he cried out. They huddled together against the old stone wall for a while until Yubi finally wiped away his tears, calmed down, and stared at his blood-stained hands.
“Today, you are no different in ability from me and Inard, Yubi. You are an adult now and should take responsibility for yourself.” Anbichia’s voice rang out above him, and he couldn’t tell if it was a kind comfort or a stern admonition. “We have all learned it. Unfortunately, the difference between people lies not in ability, but in thought. I understand, but Inard does not, and I only hope that you can understand. May you be as free as I am, doing as you please in this world, unburdened by anyone or anything.”
“I only feel that the more freedom I have, the further happiness drifts away from me.” Yubi buried her face in her silk dress. “Is this really the right path?”
“If this isn’t the right path, then there is no true right path in the world.” Anbichia smiled again. “You must face all your desires; they are part of reality. Otherwise, you are closing your eyes and ears and deceiving yourself.”
Do you think Inard is blind and deaf, and is deceiving himself?
“The more someone enjoys daydreaming, the more they torment themselves, creating their own prison.” His strong sister held his hand. “But we are the freest people.”
It was as if a force was seeping into Yubi's body from those slender fingers and solemn words, making him feel strong and rekindling his joy; but then he suddenly remembered Yakov's face and Yakov's former teachings—everything the Blood Slave had given him now felt like a sharp blade stabbing him, leaving his heart scarred.
“…I think of Yakov,” Yubi said weakly. “I can no longer be free.”
Upon hearing the name, Ambikia gave a dismissive yet enlightened "Oh." "I told you before, you can't put all your eggs in one basket," she said, lightly pinching Yubi's cheek with her nails. "However, there are ways to remedy this."
"What method?"
“Now that you have learned how to remove the seal, remove your mother’s and give him a new one yourself.” Anbichia’s voice echoed deep in the tomb. “If someone like Seleman had lived too long, he might not have been able to withstand this method; but your pet is not old. Removing it will only make him ten years older, so there is still time.”
Her ethereal voice sounded like an alarm bell, startling Yubi who scrambled off her lap in shock. "...How could that be?" the young vampire blurted out. "If I did that, he would never forgive me, never trust me again!"
"Why don't you just order him to forgive you and trust you?"
"That's different!"
“How will you know if it’s the same if you don’t try?” Anbichia pulled him back onto her lap. “Some lowly mortals even need to do this to truly forgive you, trust you, and regard you as a treasure.”
Yubi reluctantly lay back in that cold embrace, his hands tightly wrapped around his sister's waist. He thought of the faces of one blood slave after another, marveling at their resilience and pitying their fragility.
“…I have a question for you,” he said softly. “Aren’t you lonely?”
Anbichia's smile finally vanished—but it quickly turned into a deep-seated worry.
“This is the most dangerous question,” she murmured. “It would be best not to think about it, but once you get caught up in it, happiness will fly away.”
"Why?" Yubi stubbornly turned her face towards him. "Since you say that, you must have thought the same thing. Aren't you happy?"
“Why don’t you listen to my question?” Anbikia’s eyes gleamed. “Why do you think mothers created us? Or rather, what is the purpose of any great mother in the world to endure such terrible suffering as torture to create new life? If everyone else is hell, wouldn’t it be the right path to remain virtuous and prevent anyone else from being born into this world to suffer? If the world is a divine kingdom, wouldn’t it be the case that only those who hold absolute power can stand atop the mountain, and not even their own offspring are allowed to challenge their ultimate authority? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be best to give up creation and procreation?”
“Because…” Yubi frowned in confusion, “Because of loneliness?”
But Anbichia smiled and remained silent, only gazing at his face.
“The answer is hidden in your name.” She sighed in a way that betrayed no emotion. “It is also a mysterious desire that is extremely selfish, and we have to face it and explore it.”
Yubi only half understood, and rose absently. He watched as Anbichya also rose and walked to the back of his mother's silver statue. Her small, delicate hands took out two heavy objects: one was a bundle wrapped in fine red cotton cloth, very similar to the jar containing his mother's head that he had brought from Transylvania; the other was a longsword, exactly like Yakov's, with carved flowers and inscriptions on the hilt and a small, translucent ruby at the tip. This must have been taken from Yesau.
“If you were a woman,” Ambicia said, one hand on the heavy sword and the other supporting the bundle, as if a goddess of justice were judging his crimes, “would you also want to have a child?”
Yubi hesitated, unable to speak. "...I don't know." He lowered his head in shame. "I'm not a woman."
"Be thankful you're not a woman," Ambikia breathed a sigh of relief. "Come and meet your niece."
Before Yubi could even comprehend the meaning of those words, the red-cloth-covered package was opened like a gift box—the last time he saw it, it contained his mother's decaying face. He instinctively clenched his fists, wanting to close his eyes in fear; but a stubborn resolve compelled him to look directly at everything. Ambikia deftly flicked the cloth with his sword, lifting it like a circus curtain: a shriveled, emaciated, dead infant lay motionless and lifeless in a glass jar in the center of the red cloth. A small, withered red umbilical cord coiled around it, from which hung a tangled, twisted placenta.
Yubi felt a lump in her throat. "...Is she dead?"
"She is like a mother. If you say she is dead, she can still be resurrected; if you say she is alive, she has never lived. Without that ring, a vampire child has no will to live and is not much different from being dead."
Yubi gazed at her former self, then looked away to look at her mother's divine, silver face beside her.
"...Whether a child lives or dies depends entirely on the mother's choice." He seemed to be praying fervently, "Every mother is both a creator and an executioner."
Ambikia handed the jar to Yubi, gesturing for him to open it. Yubi reached in, lifting the silent infant from his grasp. It felt as if a wad of dry tinder, a roll of withered leaves, had been placed in his hand—as insignificant as a feather, yet as precious as a gold ingot. When Ambikia took the profane yet sacred ruby ring from his sleeve, he was overcome with unbearable sorrow and turned his head away.
“From today onwards, will she suffer the same pain as me?” Yubi asked.
“My dear brother, she is a girl,” Ambikia replied coldly. “She will suffer not only your suffering, but also my suffering and our mother’s suffering. I cannot bear it, nor do I want it to.”
Yubi turned back in surprise. He saw his sister fiddling with the longsword. “The Sword of Zashchtytnikov, be careful of this thing.” Those crimson lips uttered more chilling words, “I heard that Inard forged this sword by fusing his own flesh and blood into the iron.”
Her fingers lingered on the hilt of the sword, caressing every detail of the intricate patterns. As she stroked the last rivet, it spun and clicked open—the ruby at the tip shattered and fell to the ground.
Yubi discovered that the object on the ground was shaped like a ring. The hairs on his body stood on end, and he felt as if the baby in his hands was burning hot, almost burning through his palm.
“Ha! Look at this fake, it’s just as good as mine!” Anbikia’s contorted expression was a mix of crying and laughing. She fitted the genuine article into the groove of the hilt; the two fit together perfectly, as if they were originally one, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. “Let’s try it out, Yubi. What kind of terrifying weapon has your brother devised? He’s making all his blood slaves carry this thing, is he waiting to slaughter us, to slaughter his own closest relatives?”
The poor, shriveled baby was immediately held tightly in Yubi's arms.
"You can't!" he cried out in anguish and confusion. "How could you bear to kill your own child?"
“Because I am her mother, because I love her!” Anbikia glared like a sword-wielding goddess, her two blood-red eyes flashing coldly in the darkness. “If this sword were useless, she might have been able to live a smooth and free life, unburdened by external affairs, and grow up; but if this sword were useful, if she were born to be drawn into endless wars and become like you and me, I would rather she had never been born!”
"You can't make this decision on your own!"
"How do you know you can't? How do you know what she's thinking? How dare you be more confident than a mother in guessing what your child is thinking?"
Yubi trembled. At that moment, he desperately wished that tiny, fragile infant could be hatched, releasing a warm body temperature and a vibrant heartbeat; he desperately wished that withered, stiff arm could tug at his clothes for help. But it remained silent, cold and unresponsive; all his prayers were in vain—Yubi was shocked to discover that he couldn't even convince himself to stop his sister from doing this: if everyone could return to their mother's womb, what decisions would they make between life and death?
He was shocked by his own hesitation. He tried to recall what pain should feel like—Yubi had almost forgotten, only remembering a numbness. He imagined blood flowing down his arm like baptismal water, as if he were the invincible Achilles, about to be lifted by the ankle and immersed in the River Styx of war and death.
But he still held the baby tightly, without moving an inch.
Ambikia, carrying the dreadful sword, walked slowly around him. "How cruel!" She threw the sword away, staring in astonishment at his resolute expression. "Well, perhaps I can come up with a better idea."
Yubi finally dared to raise his head. He noticed a faint trace of blood seeping from the corner of his sister's eye—no mother could bear such unavoidable grief. He thought it was the first time he had ever seen Ambikia weep. Was she saying she was cruel, or was she saying Inart was cruel? It was as if the three siblings were engaged in a contest of cruelty.
What had become of her? Yubi placed the motionless baby on her lap.
"How cruel," he couldn't help but lament.
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