a/n; it's been a while </3 things have been crazy busy and will continue to be, so please have mercy. also, some parts of this chapter was written months back while the other parts of this chapter was written yesterday and today, so things might be weird!

that said, do vote and comment as it would greatly motivate me!

—

People forget things easily. Or perhaps it would be better to say that people who do not care forget things easily.

Just like how things settled down a few weeks after your mother's funeral, similarly, people started to forget that she had even died — that you had lost a mother. Grief wounded people irreversibly, and yet from the way they chatted with you — from the way they spoke with you — it seemed that they had completely forgotten that just a month ago, you had been inconsolable and grieving.

Not that you really cared anymore, of course. Over time, you realised that the feelings within you — some others didn't have much of it. You envied them, because you wondered what it was like to cruise through life not caring about a single thing — about how others perceived you, about the plight of others, about every little action you took.

You were well aware that you first started as an extrovert. You, from young, had always liked speaking to different people, starting conversations — being surrounded by a crowd. But as time went on, you grew more anxious: you avoided conversations, knowing that you would only overthink them later — you kept your distance from people, wishing that you would be able to talk to them like you did as a child — but it never happened. Instead, you kept to yourself, only occasionally popping out to the kitchen to prepare tea for Silas or to talk with Kate and Raye.

You spent your days drowning in work, drowning in Silas. His touch was your anchor, your addiction, your desire: you clung onto him, you humored him, and you tried desperately to banish all thoughts of the curse. Silas and you had survived this rocky moment — your love would prevail, the curse wouldn't happen, and your father —

Oh.

Right.

Your father.

The word father was something too kind for him. He didn't deserve that title, nor after he ruthlessly left your crumpled form after departing the news of your mother's death. He deserved very little, you thought, but truthfully, he also didn't deserve being treated so badly by the Emperor. Their dynamic — their relationship — was still a mystery that you would not be able to solve.

The Emperor hated your mother, that much was clear. And he loved your father. That was an odd thing to realize, and you occasionally wondered just what had happened between those three that led to such a messy end. They were all majorly imperfect, you knew: your mother had her moments, and so did your father, and especially the Emperor. You weren't perfect, either — you would beg to differ: and Silas himself was flawed in many ways.

In the end, you always thought that loving wasn't about thinking that someone was perfect — it was about knowing those flaws — seeing them — acknowledging them — and loving them all the same. You could do that with Silas, but honestly you somehow suspected Silas thought you were perfect. And that's fine too, but..

You wondered what it was like with the Emperor and your father. Did your father know of the Emperor's flaws, and did he choose to tolerate them? Or was he forced into tolerating them, the way a fearsome tiger would be tamed — coaxed — beaten — into meekness? What about the Emperor? He was less forgiving, more harsh towards your father's attitude. But was it really your father's fault? What had happened, anyway? Had your mother done something?

And then at the thought of your mother, you flushed. There were the unsaid words that dead people were often seen as saints — in this case, it felt almost rebellious to think of your mother in a negative way, to attach her to deplorable acts. But what if she had truly done something wrong? What if she had gone between your father and the Emperor? That would have meant that she had been selfish in her act of loving, that she had —

Dead people are seen as saints.

Dead people — whether they were horrible or wonderful...in the end, they were cold corpses, rotting six feet under. It didn't matter whether their tombstone was well kept or covered in shrubs, it didn't matter whether their names were encased in gold or silver or plain copper — they were dead, and that was that. They were gone from the world, and they would no longer repent for their sins or feel the reward for their goodwill.

Where did your mother stand? Was she good, evil, morally gray? It was hard, you found, to look at things from an objective viewpoint. If you were to base everything from your own emotions, you would have said that your father was a cruel, callous man, and that your mother was an angel who had snapped under pressure a few times. But what was the truth? Did you want to know the truth?

You mulled this over for a whole, the quill slipping in between your fingers— you had been writing a letter to John. Silas was asleep next to you — his cheek planted against the table; unaware of your emotions coursing through you. You softened as you looked at him.

(Silas would always, always — be a good person to you. Objectively he wasn't, and he never would be one — but still. He was so precious to you.)

You sighed, closed your eyes, and dismissed away your brooding thoughts.

—

"You're thinking too much," Silas insisted. "You've always been thinking too much."

You looked helplessly at him, wringing your hands. You knew he was right. You knew that your mind was destructive: you knew that it often eviscerated you. And yet you continued to think and think, until the thoughts consumed you entirely. You would never escape them.

"Ever since —" you paused, "ever since I thought about my father and the Emperor...I can't help but wonder what happened to my birth. My existence," you said.

"You were born," Silas murmured. "And I'm glad for that."

"Silas," you said with good exasperation, "I'm wondering; if your father and my father were in love...ugh, that's weird to even think of, considering now we're lovers."

"Then don't think about it," Silas said simply.

"I can't. I keep wondering what happened," your voice hitched. "And just what conspired between them. I can't help but wonder if my mother...I mean, how did she even marry my father?" You muttered. "They were never loving, so was it an arranged marriage? I don't think so."

"My father must have done something," Silas concluded.

"You hate your father; that's why you're saying that."

"Do you not remember how he rudely interrupted your mother's funeral?"

"I do, matter of fact," you shifted. "I'm angry at him for that. But..."

"I really don't know why you choose to dwell on the past," Silas said softly. "You're here, Y/n. You're here, in the present — loving, breathing, loving...and you're with me, and that's all that matters. Ignorance is bliss. Do not torment your head with information you do not want."

You looked at Silas's golden hair, the way it shone — then you saw your reflection in his purple eyes, desperate and almost afraid. Smile, you told yourself, smile, and be your cheerful eight year old self. Stop burdening Silas with your problems, work your incessant thoughts, with your worries, with —

A kiss against your temple allowed a shaky breath to expel from your lips, and you shook your head.

"Yeah," you swallowed, "that's all that matters."

I can't help but wonder what had happened for everything to happen.

Little did you know, you would get your answer swiftly.

—

Conversations with your father were never pleasant. Unlike the past times where he had knocked on the door to speak with you, this time, you caught your father in the kitchen, his dark circles visible. He was sipping a cup of tea, and he looked drunk.

"Have you been drinking?" You asked warily, stepping to the side.

You didn't even know why you were speaking to him.

Your father didn't reply, and he instead looked at you tiredly.

"Is that you, Y/n?" He asked.

"Would it make a difference if I told you no? We were always strangers," you said gingerly, finding yourself seated next to him, studying him. Your father looked worse for wear, exhausted and upset. His eyes were puffy, and you couldn't tell if it was because he had drunk too much or if he had cried.

"Y/n," he said suddenly, "your mother loved you very much."

You winced. "I know."

(He liked to speak about your mother to you. It was the only topic you two had in common. But Joe she was dead, so all that was left was a growing, hollow chasm.)

"She loved you very, very much," your father continued, "I was happy that she started to love you more than she loved me, because it meant that she could finally move on from me."

You blinked, unable to believe what you were hearing. The audacity of your father — how could he speak such stupid words? How could he —

"Move on from you?" You asked coldly, "who do you think you are? You married her, for god's sake."

"I shouldn't have," he mumbled. "She never should have loved me."

It was getting too much for you. You knew that now was a perfect opportunity for you to dig into the details; to finally know what had happened and to actively avoid it so the curse couldn't affect you — but you couldn't help it. You glared hard at your father.

"You think you're so entitled to love, don't you," you snarled, "you think everyone loves you. But how can you expect love from others when you yourself aren't ready to give love? That's now how it works, Father."

Your father was startled. You saw a bit of clarity enter his eyes.

"You always said you didn't know what was wrong with me," you continued angrily, in a rant, "but I know. The thing that was wrong with me was the fact that I had you as a father. You always knew how to push my buttons because you sewed them onto me, Father. You made me like this. Happy now?"

Silence.

You caught your breath, realising that you had screamed at your father — that you had stood up, slamming your hands on the table. The tea had split, but it had not burned your father. He didn't move. The emotions that you had unknowingly bottled up all came spilling messily — that spill — did it burn him, in the ways that the tea hadn't? Your vision swam. You sunk to your seat.

"Y/n," he whispered.

Your father looked at you with his voice hoarse. It was the first time you had seen so much emotion bleeding from his face.

"It was your fault," he finally said, "Your birth destroyed — no, that's not true. I loved you very much when you were born. Your birth destroyed my relationship with the Emperor...or perhaps it was my foolishness along with your mother's selfishness that led us to this point. But still, your birth..."

"Your loyalty killed my mother," you whispered.

"Your mother was still my wife —"

"You divorced her." You said coldly.

Your father buried his head in his hands. After a while, he lifted his head tiredly. "I have to be the one who tells you," your father murmured, "now that your mother is dead. Do you remember the time I told you news of our divorce?"

"Yes," you said quietly. "How could I ever hope to forget?"

Your father closed his eyes painfully. "I told you that I had something to tell you in the future. I hoped to tell you this later with your mother present, but...circumstances would not allow it."

Your throat became dry. You felt like you were spiraling down.

"What is it?" The words barely left your mouth.

"I was never meant to marry your mother," your father started slowly, achingly, "she loved me. I loved her, yes, but not in the way I would love a marriage partner. I said yes to her because I didn't want to see her disappointed. I thought I could force myself to love her over time, but..."

You listened to all of this with bated breath. "But you couldn't."

"No, I couldn't," your father swallowed, "and she knew I loved the Emperor, Y/n. But she was too afraid of letting go of me. The minute I said yes, she overlooked the aspect that my heart belonged to another and started dating me," your father rubbed his forehead, "and after a few months, our wedding night came. The Emperor did not attend the wedding."

You narrowed your eyes. "You're awfully specific. Is there a point to all of this?"

"On the wedding night," your father said softly, "the two of us were heavily drunk. I was drunk because I knew that — I knew that I wasn't marrying the love of my life. Your mother was drunk because she knew that she had stolen me from someone else who deserved me. We could not remember anything when we woke up. I didn't know what happened. I did not know if we consummated the marriage."

"But I was born! Surely —"

"You are not my biological child." Your father cut in harshly, shaking his head. "You are the product of a swift night of passion between your mother and someone else."

Your world tilted off axis. You laughed, at first, thinking he had made some foolish joke. But then you caught the emptiness of your father's smile as well as the pity on his eyes.

No. He wasn't even your father. You would have to amend that sentence: you caught pity in Ralph's eyes.

Ralph continued on in a pained, low voice. "Your mother became pregnant a while later, so I assumed that we did sleep with one another. But I was guilty; Y/n; since I was drunk that night, I did not know if I forced myself onto her. But a child. I had secretly always yearned for a child, and...I, briefly, believed I had one. It was you. You had always looked like your mother, Y/n," Ralph said softly, "and never me."

"You don't know that," you said, trembling, "you raised me, father. You —" Your voice cracked. "Can I even call you Father now, when you are just a stranger who happened to live with me and train me? Is that why you never —"

You remembered the night you learnt of your parent's divorce, your father had said that the role of the butler no longer applied to you, and that you had the choice to leave. You had been confused then, for was it not your birthright? The child of a butler would always continue to serve the Imperial Family. You had always thought that you were destined to serve Silas, but it turned out that it wasn't the truth. It had been an utter shame. An utter fluke.

And now it made sense. You had asked him then: why, Father? Is that your way of saying you do not acknowledge me as your son? You do not acknowledge me as your flesh and blood?

And it turned out that it was true.

You were not Ralph's flesh and blood. You remembered John's words back on your eighteenth birthday: your mother visited here. This happened a month before her wedding, and nine months before you were born. That night, as your mother visited the local winery with grief and sorrow — had she slept with someone, out of her loneliness and drunkenness?

One of the men in the winery had told you that a sip would not do you any harm: but yes, it had.

Your mother had taken a sip of a drink and now all of a sudden, you weren't your father's son.

You gritted your teeth, but Ralph continued.

"I found out a few years before we divorced. There were suspicions brewing for a while — since you were eight, really, but it was only confirmed when you were twelve. It wasn't your mother's fault — she did not know, either. But over the years, your mother started to realize things that were amiss. There had been no ache on our wedding night, and your birth came much too early."

You held your breath. Twelve. It had only been confirmed when you were twelve. Was that why your mother had waltzed in so drunk and had declared you a mistake? Because you truly were one.  You were born from some stupid, useless fling. You had been unwanted.

"We had assumed that it was a premature birth, but as it turned out, you were born nine months after your mother slept with someone else. Do you know how she discovered that? Ironic, really — it was through an old journal entry she wrote. She always liked writing in journals — just like you — and it turned out that on the day she wrote it down in her journal, she was drunk, too."

"Drunk again," you repeated, in disbelief, "how amazing. How wonderful — my dear mother was drunk, and now she's dead."

"Sarah had a reason to be drunk," Ralph averted his gaze, "we were engaged then, and yet she witnessed me kissing another. Granted, I did not want the kiss, but in the eyes of her, it must have looked terrible. I was her fiancé, and yet I was seen to be fooling around."

You didn't even know what to say at this point. Your family was filled with messed-up people — broken, damaged people with a chip in their shoulder. Had you inherited that trait from your mother? Were you born wrong? No — you couldn't even call them your family. Your parents were divorced, your mother was dead, and you weren't even related to the man standing before you. The man whom you had once called Father.

The man whom you had once chased after, desperate for his affection.

You thought of all the times he had praised you.

The time he had ruffled your hair, praising your mana-casting. Ralph, at that time, had truly thought you were his biological child.

It was like there was a rock lodged in your throat. You wanted to choke. You wanted to suffocate.

You wanted to die.

"So naturally," Ralph continued, "your mother had forgotten that the journal entry existed. If she knew earlier, it..."

You were starting to wobble. You could taste harsh copper on your tongue as you bit it, tears starting to well up in your eyes.

Your father was not your flesh and blood.

This duty was not yours to claim.

Now that your mother was gone, you had no blood relations. You were truly well and alone in the world. Perhaps now your mother's spiral over the years as well as your father's coldness made sense — it was because you were not your father's child. Your mother's guilt had plagued her so much that she had resorted to alcohol. She had made your father raise a child that had not been his. That explained all the fights they had. That...

"Why did you not tell me?" You asked hoarsely, "do you have any idea how much I blamed myself for being unloved by you? And as it turns out, you aren't even related to me."

"You had already entered the palace. You were finally free and happy. You had your own life; you had the prince. I saw no need in telling you that early."

"Really?" you whispered. "Then — does the Emperor know? Does the Emperor know that you did not sleep with my mother?"

"No," Ralph said softly, "I never told him. I wanted to punish him for what he did to me. For truly having a child." He choked. "I don't know. I don't know anymore."

"Fuck," you said venomously, tears falling down your cheeks. "You — did you see me as your son? Just once?"

Ralph paused. "I did, Y/n. I had still been the one to see you grow up. When you fell sick on your fifteenth's birthday, I was the one who sent you medicine. In front of other people, I called you my son. The Emperor even called me a doting father," he said bitterly, "but yes, Y/n. I regarded you as my son, even after I knew you truly weren't."

I regarded you as my son, even after I knew you truly weren't. Had his actions ever shown that?

You thought of the curse. The generational curse by blood. Unknowingly, your father and the Emperor had broken it, and yet you assumed that they did not know that. Did they even know of the existence of the curse? You presumed they did. And yet, even when they had broken it, your father and the Emperor still lived the curse, for they had broken their relationship beyond repair.

In a terrifying, warped way, perhaps this was why the curse didn't apply to you. Aster hadn't known it then, but it was because you weren't related to your father.

Should I be happy? You thought bitterly, should I be...

You would have been relieved, but now it was overshadowed by a multitude of emotions. Receiving this news — it was beyond unexpected. Receiving this news...

"The curse is gone," Ralph said quietly, "but the cycle continues, Y/n. Silas is very much like his father. He is very much —"

"Silas won't end up like the Emperor." You interrupted stiffly.

"Why not?" Ralph said. "He is his son."

"Because I sure didn't end up as cold and unfeeling as you...." You smiled bitterly. "Oh, right. I am not your biological son, am I?"

"Y/n—"

"Oh, fuck off," you gritted your teeth, "at least the only good thing you did was breaking the curse. At least —"

You had gotten all your answers to what happened back then, before you were gone. Now you knew of the seeds of resentment sowed between your father and mother, now you knew that your whole family was shitty, and that included you — now you knew...

The dead are seen as saints. Those words haunted you again, because now as you knew what your mother had done — the countless times she had gotten drunk — you couldn't love her. You could, but now...

Silas was right.

Ignorance was bliss.

—

this was foreshadowed numerous times, one notable time being the chapter where john (the bartender) told MC that his mother had visited the bar about nine months before he was born + got heavily drunk

To sum it up in a nutshell:

1) Sarah witnessed Ralph cheating on her with the emperor (though, unfortunately, Casper was forcibly kissing Ralph) a month or so before the wedding (when they were engaged).

2)As a result, Sarah got distraught + visited the bar and got heavily drunk, which resulted in her having a night of passion with another inebriated stranger.

3) Fast forward to the wedding night where Sarah and Ralph don't consummate the marriage. Both don't know the details due to them being heavily drunk. Eight months later, MC is born. Ralph assumes that it's a premature birth and that MC is his.

4) And then years later, Sarah finds an old journal entry of hers written nine months before MC was born, detailing her feelings of loneliness about Casper and Ralph + what she did at the bar.

So basically everyone's messy asf..but whatever lol.

hope everyone enjoyed! do add to your library to receive updates and vote if you haven't!! (And 40 chapters!! amazing)

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