Even if the Dawn Abandons You - Chapter 40

Gasp. Gasp.

Andrew Layton, who had hurriedly left the eastern tower with quick steps despite knowing there was no risk of being discovered, clutched his knee with one hand and exhaled heavily, not lifting the camera with his other hand.

As he descended the stairs, he involuntarily stumbled and faltered. His legs gave way, possibly due to the tension dissipating or the gruesome sight he had witnessed, or maybe because of his white pallor and the chill that had crept in, his hand trembled as if shivering. Amidst this, he found a sense of pride in himself for resolutely holding the camera.

In that moment, the protective spell that had surrounded him shattered like glass, emitting a sharp sound.

He was taken aback and crouched down. The shattered pieces of the spell brushed against his skin, yet he felt no injury or pain. He had been briefed about this phenomenon, but experiencing it firsthand was still fascinating. Unconsciously, Andrew tried to grasp one of the pieces. The result was, of course, failure. The fragment simply passed through his hand and flew towards the distant thicket like sparkling dust.

Amidst this, a laughter that seemed to find Andrew’s actions amusing echoed beyond the thicket. Andrew lifted his characteristic lifeless eyes and looked straight ahead. A figure emerged from the thicket.

“It’s a lovely night, Mr. Andrew Layton.”

Greeting him with an exaggerated theatricality that flowed in exaggerated Wisteria, the dialogue felt like something out of a play. Andrew furrowed his brow at the attitude of his interlocutor, who was using an unnecessarily dramatic tone. It was as if the other person was saying that all of this was nothing more than a mere play. In front of Andrew, who had just experienced a painfully harsh reality.

“Is that so for you?”

Wiping his forehead with a sweaty hand, Andrew Layton retorted with a mock tone towards his cold and grim rendezvous partner on this moonlit night. Then, he added the other person’s name in an equally dramatic Leraian.

“Mademoiselle Ariane Champleign.”

Ariane Champleign, now fully revealed in the moonlight, walked out of the thicket. The slender woman with long, straight black hair tied back, clad in a cape coat of indiscernible navy or black, moved the glistening pieces of the protective spell that had encased Andrew’s body a moment ago within her gloved hands, before ultimately clenching her fist and making them disappear. Then, she breathed meaninglessly onto her now empty hand before switching to Léans and spoke again, fixing her golden gaze on Andrew’s camera.

“How did the requested task turn out?”

“If you’re talking about the ‘mission,’ it was a success, thanks to you.”

“For a success so easily achieved, you seem to be in quite a state.”

Sensing the intrigued gaze that swept up and down his figure through the camera, Andrew couldn’t help but chuckle. A flattering view, indeed. Though he lacked the energy to be flustered. It wasn’t entirely untrue. He was sweating all over, and his leg was hurting from the stumble. His hand still trembled.

Thanks to Ariane’s dispelled barrier, sneaking in to capture photos would have been easy, but everything else had proved more challenging than expected. Executing the mission, made easier only by the removed executioner, had been an ordeal. As he recalled Edmond Laambert leaving the room expressionless after the execution and passing him by, he shivered again.

“So, what did you think after seeing it for yourself?”

Upon hearing her question, Andrew looked at Ariane with all his energy drained, his face devoid of any vitality. Even though he could have gone in himself if he’d wanted to witness it firsthand—the interior of the room right after the execution of a high noble, he remembered his request to “capture the scene after the royal execution on film.” The young officer of the Léans Revolutionary Army, speaking in exaggerated Léans even though he knew Ariane could speak the language more naturally, raised his eyebrows.

? ? ?

In front of Marie, Anais put up a facade of being as composed as possible. She couldn’t reveal her inner unease while facing the child who had managed to find a hint of laughter. However, after breakfast, when Marie had gone back to her room and somehow Leonard had declared that he wouldn’t be going out today, he remained locked in his room.

Or, should it be said, ‘somehow’?

No, that wasn’t the case. In reality, Anais had a shrewd idea of why Leonard had announced he wouldn’t be going out. But she didn’t want to admit it.

That he might be concerned about her dying.

Of course, it was a somewhat pointless concern. Not because Anais wouldn’t die, but because she didn’t have the courage to die by her own hand. Even if Leonard were to go out and not return for days, helping the civilians of Verduis, even if she were to cut her wrist with his razor, hang herself from the curtain rod, or climb onto the rooftop and fall off, she wouldn’t be able to do any of it.

Borrowing a gun from Philippe and aiming the trigger at her temple would be even more out of the question. Anais Belmartier, who had sworn to save lives throughout her life, couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing. She had sometimes wondered if it would have been slightly better if she had the courage to do so.

All she had was the courage to seek out a place to die. Some might argue that there was no difference between that and cutting her wrist, hanging herself, falling from a rooftop, or pressing a gun to her temple, but at least in Anais’s mind, there was a distinction. Even if it was just self-deception, she thought that way.

For her, coming down to Basbourg and wandering through the battlefield was akin to signaling. Who would doubt that death on the battlefield was anything other than a martyrdom? Who would find it strange that a doctor like her, who had saved patients on the front lines, was meeting a tragic end in the conflict zone?

It was where she would be most at ease, the place where her destiny as the harbinger of dawn and the angel of the rally, Anais Belmartier, would naturally come to an end, especially when those who wished her dead were at their sweetest.

On one hand, Leonard’s behavior was no different from yelling “Cut off my head, please!” at a protest, and in another way, Anais Bellmarte was truly participating in such a protest.

Wanting to die but lacking the courage to do so, she had come to the place where death awaited her.

After the revolution, Anaïs had been seized by a dreadful sense of defeat. The revolution had clearly succeeded. The tyrant had vanished. And yet, despite that, she felt a sense of defeat. Anyone dreamed of a world that was free and equal, a world that would become better and more generous with each passing day.

But the reality she encountered was the comrades who claimed they had to shoot innocent children with their guns and the horrific views of Bastbourg without reason. How could it be like this? Her protest fell on deaf ears. The world they had changed did not respond. Without feeling a positive change that would surely exist somewhere, she fell into despair.

Seven years since losing her father and leaving Leonard behind.

What she had devoted seven years to, ridiculed her beliefs and hacked at her heart.

When Anais cried and cried that this is nonsense, that this is the world we have created, Enjolras said that someone should take responsibility, that this is the most correct way. Charlotte said how the world could become beautiful overnight, and now that she has found her own path, it will gradually change on her own. Enjolras’ words that this was the right path might be just as difficult to affirm, but in reality, Anaïs didn’t understand those words. The idea that the world would change on its own.

Weren’t we gathered because we didn’t have the patience to watch the world change on its own?

The comrades who were shouting together that the flow of the times should be cut off and corrected suddenly felt unfamiliar. They behaved like those who now possessed the patience that was absent seven years ago. They spoke as if the world would automatically flow in a better direction if left alone.

Yet Anais still couldn’t wait, and she was afraid that if she raised her voice once more in hopes of a better world, she would fail again. Without comrades to stand by her side and face the situation together, even having to shout alone at them was frightening.

Why is everyone like that, speaking as if this world is natural and proper? Am I right in walking the right path? What if this was also one of the wrong choices? Was everything I believed in just a fleeting illusion?

Her upright conviction, which she never doubted was the most valuable thing she possessed, suddenly bent and strangled her. But, even while her belief choked her, she couldn’t let go of it.

‘Why are you thinking about dying without watching the world you created anymore?’

Leonard was right.

Anais couldn’t bear to watch over the world she had created.

‘Are you trying to say that the road we’ve been on is wrong, Anais?’

She couldn’t deny that she might want to say that. She didn’t have the courage to face the reality that the changes they had made might worsen the country.

So she handed down a death sentence to herself.

To escape forever to her distant death, where neither her world nor her convictions could pursue her.