Chapter 2: Prologue(2): Or the Sea to a Fish
My eyes flutter open for a split second, only to tightly close due to the bright light hitting them. I turn my head, shoving it deeper into the soft pillow, and bring the blanket further up my body.
I just want to go back to sleep. I don't have what it takes to face the day quite yet.
"..."
Despite my best efforts, I am unable to fall asleep again. I don't know how long I lie there, internally debating if it's a good idea to even just open my eyes.
'If I don't get up now, I won't get up at all.' Procrastinating is something I'm very skilled at, so I know just how to combat it. Force myself.
Fighting against every single anxious nerve of my body, I reluctantly, very reluctantly, pop one eye open. And the other. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but once they do, I'm met by a wall, covered in red wallpaper, golden swirly designs contrasting nicely with it. There's a doorway that sets off all kinds of alarm bells within my mind.
I suppress the overwhelming dread that wants to spring up. I take in a few deep breaths, and bring my hands up to my face.
As if last night were a lie, my hands have no wounds. Not even bandages.
'Bandages? Why would I need bandages for such a small wound?' A healer could easily...
'Right.' Everything comes rushing back, but none of the pain. The guilt, oh the guilt, It's there. Weighing on every inch of every muscle on my body. But bearable, if barely.
Maybe It's because I slept on it, and let my memories sort themselves out, but I feel... as well as I can possibly feel in this situation. And what a situation it is!
Before I start trying to figure things out, I decide to get the morning out of my system. I let out a yawn, bringing my hands up above my head, "Auggghh," I groan as I stretch, though the groan is more of a shrill unending squeak. But, it does end after a few seconds.
And once it does, I bring my hands to cover my face. "What the hell is going on...?" I curse, unbefitting of my status, but I think I can be forgiven considering everything going on at the moment.
I prevent myself from thinking any further on that topic, for now at least. I just need to gather my bearings for a few minutes.
With some curiosity, I look around the room. I may have memories of it, but it's different seeing it in person. Not to mention that I wasn't really in the right headspace to take anything in yesterday.
"Huh." In a word, it's large. Tons of posh, useless furniture litter the room like trash, but not even a tenth of it is filled. It makes me feel tiny, and unbelievably lonely. I'm also thankful there aren't any more mirrors, I still don't think I can yet stomach looking at myself.
'Well that was depressing,' I think, a twinge of bitterness creeping up my mouth.
'May as well start thinking about my predicament now,' I urge myself.
And so, I begin mulling over my situation, I mull, and mull, and ponder some, pondering some more, ruminating too, deliberating as well...
After thinking long enough for the sun to stop coming through my blinds, I give up. 'Okay, so this isn't working.' There's just too much to sort mentally.
'I need to write this all down,' I tell myself that, but...
I really, really, really don't want to get up. The guilt rests most heavily upon my mind. Motivation constantly plummets out of my body.
I close my eyes. Yet I don't try to go to asleep. I exhale noisily through my nose.
"Fuck," I curse, and force myself to sit up. Even that feels like it takes every bit of energy out of my body, but I can do this. No, I need to do this.
My lips press tightly against each other, becoming a fine line as I finally push my hands into the mattress, my palms sinking deeply into the unbelievably soft surface. I scoot my butt to the edge of my inconveniently large bed.
As my feet are about to touch the wooden flooring, I freeze as memories of last night flash through my mind. I hesitate before closing my eyes tightly in preparation as I lay my feet on the ground. But, there's no pain, just the sensation of the smooth, cold floor.
It's definitely peculiar. I know for certain that my feet have been healed by a healer, but one part of me is still thinking how impossible this is. The wounds that were on my feet... calling them 'bad' would've been an understatement. Glass was digging into my skin, small and big pieces alike, cutting deeper and deeper, more and more blood squeezing out with each steps. I remember the pain vividly. And for it to just be gone, it feels, well, magical.
Disorienting is the best way I can put it. Two completely different perspectives on life clash again and again within my head. 'I'll get used to it, I need to get used to it,' I inwardly think.
Standing up, I walk over to my desk. Pulling out the chair, I sit on the velvet cushioning it. I grab a golden laced fountain pen, and pull out a notebook from a drawer. And again, I pause.
A new conundrum is presenting itself before me. "Which hand do I write with?" I murmur under my breath.
In my first life, I was left-handed, and in my second life, I was right-handed. Now?
'Well, I'm in Callum Dumont's body, so it's not presumptuous to use my right hand.' With that decided, I start vomiting all my thoughts onto the paper. I inwardly note how handwriting is a weird mix of my first life's and my second's, only curvy lines reminiscent of cursive, but no connecting. Not to mention how weirdly I dot my i's and cross my t's. Though it doesn't look bad.
Eternal Dove. Eternal Dove. Right. I'm in the game series known as Eternal Dove, as Callum Dumont. And Callum Dumont's going to die, due to...
I grit my teeth, refraining from outbursting with anger. The image of the servants scurrying out into the hallway from yesterday appear in my mind's eye.
Those damn rats called my servants! I... My pen draws a sharp line, my thumb, index finger, and middle finger hurt with how hard I'm pressing into the cylindrical pen. I relax my tense hand.
"I...?" What am I suppose to do? What was I planning on doing?
'I can't hurt innocent people. They're in the right. I've really... done all those things.' But one part of me mentions all that I've done before, even when my life wasn't the thing on the line. I ignore those intrusive thoughts.
'Because that's just what they are, thoughts. And as long as I don't act on them, they'll stay that way.'
I feel dizzy. I set down my pen, and cup my forehead with my hands, blocking my eyes and resting my head.
'Why is this happening to me?' I sit up, and crane my neck upwards, staring at where the red wall meets the red ceiling. I stop myself from thinking on that topic anymore.
'I can't think that way.' I'll just spiral into a depressive pity party, until I lose the little motivation I have remaining. Plus, it's not like there's anyway I can answer that at the moment.
I pick up the pen again. I'm going to die. How do I stop that? Well, if I don't get executed by the guillotine, there's still a possibility the protagonist will kill me. Or I'll die, eaten by beasts. And if none of those happen, Aliza will certainly...
'Aliza.' The girl who shattered my heart. The last straw that broke the camels back, so to say.
'Then again, I wouldn't want to date me either,' I think with a sad smile before continuing to jott down my thoughts.
And if none of those happen, Aliza will certainly kill me if only just to annul our engagement. Naturally, annulling our engagement will fix that. But that still leaves everything else up to chance. What's the best answer here?
It's not too unrealistic to think I have no allies here, and that everyone's out to get me. Just goes to show how well I did at burning every bridge I had. It's no wonder I'm going to get killed, or eaten, or executed, or torn apart by an angry mob, or... wow. Those devs must've really had it out for Callum Dumont.
It's also kind of crazy to think about. Technically, I've killed myself multiple times, if only through a monitor screen and a few clicks of buttons. I shake my head, I've gotten off topic once more.
Okay. So I can only see one answer to problems regarding my impending death. Run. Flee. Bolt. Turn tail. Escape. Beat it. Scram. Skedaddle, or whatever. I just can't stay here or yeah, that's it for me. But, that leaves a few more questions. Where, and how?
I rest the cold backend of the pen against my lower lip. I write out my options before me in a list, remembering more and more as I go.
In the Eternal Dove series, there were three kingdoms where the five mainline games take place.
Eos, the setting of the first and fourth game, and where I am currently.
Terra, the setting of the second game.
And finally, Boreas, the setting of the third game.
In the fifth game, all of the kingdoms are available.
"Hm." I really want to chew my cheek, a habit from my first life, but refrain as it's unbecoming of a noble.
No matter how I look at it, I need to go to Terra. It's not only the closest kingdom to Eos, but Sigrun and Noa are there. I need to become allies with them, if only so that I'm safe...
Snap!
The tip of the pen breaks. It seems that I was unknowingly pressing it too harshly into the paper.
'But why?' Yes, why. Why am I feeling like this? This... disturbed.
I drop the pen as I realize. "I- what am I doing?" I ask myself. And really, what am I doing?
"Am I just... planning on running away? Hide? Grovel under two skirts so that I'm safe when the cataclysm comes!?" Each realization makes me angrier and angrier.
At myself. I'm pathetic. My brain tries to come up with answers, anything at all. More and more indignity wells up within me as I run into dead-end after dead-end. It all boils to a ferocious tipping pointing, culminating into a piercing sound coming from my mouth of overwhelming anger, mixed along with dread.
"But...! BUT WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO!" I roar, my throat stinging after it's all said and done.
And really, what am I suppose to do? The task is too tall. I can't fix or make up for what I've done. I've hurt too many people. The only way I can see my crimes even slightly resolved is if...
I die. But I'm not brave enough to do that.
This is a world of magic and fantasy. In later games, it becomes one of war and tragedy. I can't prevent that. Noa and Sigurn will rise to the top of this dangerous world's food chain, but Callum Dumont, no, I, Callum, am at the bottom of it. And have no talents to use to help anyone other than myself.
What a truly pathetic existence. Maybe I should just die after all. Something as parasitic as me doesn't deserve to live.
But, again, I can't do it. Because I am a coward.
My tightly balled fists are shaking. I desperately want to break anything and everything, but I resist the urge. I can't be like that anymore, I can't give in to that side of me. Just breaking that pen shook me.
'What... what should I do?' I wish something, anything could guide me. Because no matter how hard I've thought about it, I can't find any answers. But I have nothing, no friends, no family, just me.
Just sad, and twisted, and scared Callum.
'...' A face, one that half of me loves, and is afraid of, and hates appears in my mind. Reminding me of their existence.
Yes. That's right. I do have one bridge left, as full of holes it is, as worn out as the ropes are, I can use it. It is there. And it may be my only hope.
'Fat- No, Owen Dumont.' I need to talk to my, "father." My stomach flips. Even after all these years, I'm still hesistant to meet that man.
He's never really been a father. And I know, logically, I know now that it isn't entirely his fault that he slapped Callum Dumont back then. He's busy as the Count, Marquis now, managing his territory, not to mention he was still grieving his wife's death back then. I just reminded him of it. Made him more and more exhausted than he already was, until it came to a head in the form of him slapping me.
But, still, even then... It's hard for me. I don't have much experience interacting with parental figures in either life. And most of all, I'm asking him, trusting him to guide me. I'm bound to be hesistant.
'I need to do this. He's the only person I can ask,' I persuade myself. These thoughts give me just enough motivation to get up from my chair, but reluctance still permeates me.
I really don't want to do this. No, it's not even just talking to him. I'm scared at the very thought of stepping outside this room. I don't think I'll be able to endure the looks of fear the servants will send towards me.
I don't know if it'll make me angry, or feel guilty, or, or... something.
'Really? That's what I'm worried about?' Feeling how genuinely terrified I am of how they'd look at me... this makes me unbelievably angry at myself.
'I can't stand some frightened looks? Then why the hell did I do shit that made me a thing to be afraid of to them!? How irrational and hypocritical can I be?!' I grit my teeth. I can do this.
I pull at the collar of my white dress shirt, airing it out. I take in deep breaths, and longer breaths out. After that, I run my hands through my hair a bit until I feel like I'm wearing my sunday best.
'Let's just see how much they hate me,' I think. That line of thinking makes me realize something. Their contempt, their fear, I'm used to it.
And so, "Haha!" I laugh. Why? It's funny, that's why.
Because they can't possibly hate me more than I hate myself. I mean, if I think about it...
I've spent two separate lives despising myself. For different reasons, sure. But those feelings are all the same, as they're both me now! Meaning I hate myself twice as much as I did two days ago!
Having sufficiently convinced myself, I open my bedroom door, and walk out. And lose all the hype and bravado I barely managed to convince myself to have the instant I do.
All the people in the hall are frozen. Not even moving, or breathing. I can guess why. They stopped moving the moment they heard my door open.
My breath comes out in short, rapid bursts, and shallow, miniscule breaths in, I stumble backwards, my dizziness increasing. The world feels like it's tilting. Hurriedly, I close my bedroom door. I take a few steps, backing away from it, and sit down on my bed.
I look down at my hands. They're shaking, again.
"God, I'm... I'm so pathetic." I need help.
But only I can give myself it. I don't even have the confidence to dare to speak to a servant, let alone order them to have my father come to my room. Which means I have to walk.
'And I can't- I can't even do that correctly!' If that's not pathetic, I don't know what is.
"..." Self loathing, and feelings of humiliation unlike anything I've ever felt before fill my entirety. It is crippling. I want to cry, and scream, and break everything. But I don't. Because I don't deserve even my own tears.
I hate it. I hate it all. I hate it all so much.
'But... isn't this my burden to bear? Especially if I want to live?' I ask myself. That thought crushes me.
'I have to live like this...?' Realizing that makes everything feel even more debilitating, more hopeless. Dying is starting to look like a more and more appealing alternative.
I can't imagine the strength, and determination someone would need to live like this every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every month, and of every year. But that is exactly why I need to do this.
Because as long as I'm alive, I can do something about that. About this.
Dying isn't going to fix anything. It's not going to bring the rats, rabbits, cats, dogs, and people back.
I take in a deep breath and- stop. Breathing so far hasn't done anything for me. So I hold my breath, and steel myself as I stand up.
I force myself to walk to the door, and open it, and step out of the hall. I already want to stop holding in the air floating around in my lungs.
But I still hold my breath. I won't stop holding it until I make it to Owen's study. This way, I'm more worried about if I'm going to pass out to worry about their stares. It's either ingenious, or stupid and pathetic. Probably the latter, but it's working for me, so far at least.
Taking slow and steady steps, I follow the path I hold in my memories. The pressure in my chest hurts, and it's only been thirty seconds.
Each step feels like it takes an agonizingly long time. I wish my legs were longer. I want to breathe. I start hating myself (more) for thinking this was even a remotely good idea.
My lungs begin to feel fuzzy, before feeling like they're burning. The air I hold in my lungs, throat, and mouth push desperately against my lips, hoping to be released.
But I keep them shut. 'IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis! IwontdieIwontdieIwontdie!' I repeat within my head, like a mantra.
My body stops, and I let out the breath I was holding in. I gasp, greedily sucking in the air in the surroundings.
I've done it. I'm here. Swinging my head left and right, I quickly turn the doorknob and shove myself through the door, slamming it shut.
'Safe.' Relief floods through me, like dousing in a cool stream on a hot summer day, not to mention the cold air feels amazing to breathe in. And, for the first time in a while, I feel the tiniest amount of pride in myself.
"Hm?" I turn my head, seeing the image of the middle-aged Owen Dumont. He raises his gaze from the stacks of papers on his desk, still holding the wax stamp in hand.
"Oh, Callum!" he exclaims, the warm smile full of concern on his face making me deeply uncomfortable.
But, for some reason, my rough breaths even, and my heart rate slows. An inexplicable calm washes over me, and even my conscience that burdens my mind, lightens. My anxiety, my nervousness, my hesistance, it's all still there, but rationale prevails over emotions.
"I- Father, can I sit?" I ask, my voice clear.
"Of course!" he says. I slightly nod, and pull out the chair from across his desk, and sit. As soon as I do though, I hear Owen let out a deep sigh, I look up, seeing him pull a long face. My conscience rears it's weighty head, I ignore it.
"Callum, I don't want to press, but... what's going on son? Why did you hurt yourself? You know can talk to me, right?" I stay silent, my mind racing a mile a minute, as I try to figure out just how I should answer.
'Owen has always been forgiving of Callum's faults. Should I tell him the truth? No. Even he can't accept that. How do I ask him for advice without revealing what I've done? Not to mention I need to convince him to send me to Terra Kingdom and enroll me into Rhea Academy, but how do I do that and have him give me a new identity as well?' Just saying some flimsy excuse like, "I want to try something new," won't work. In the next second, I decide.
My face contorts, as I channel all my feelings of disgust, anger, melancholy, and express it. My mouth parts, the moment of truth is now.
"I just... hate it all," my voice quivers, it sounds miserably despondent even to myself.
"What do you hate?"
"This mansion, my room, myself... it's suffocating," As I respond, my head lowers, and I stare at my tightly clenching, and shaky fists resting in my lap.
"Why do you feel that way?" His soft tone causes my stomach to twist, but I persist. This is necessary.
"The reason I sent the servants out yesterday, is because I was scared of them. Why I hurt myself by breaking the mirror... is because I couldn't stand looking at myself. I hate how I feel around them," I explain.
I can see confusion clearly coloring Owen's face. "You're afraid of the servants?"
I let out a deep sigh, and bring up one of my trembling hands, brushing it through my hair. "Father, you may or may not know this, but for the past few years, some of the servants friends, family, and coworkers have been disappearing."
"..." He looks very taken aback.
"And, they mistakenly seem to think I'm the one responsible. Whenever I see them, I feel guilty, and so afraid of them... when I look into their eyes, I can see them tearing me apart within their heads."
While I loathe to turn it into a, "He said, She said," situation, the fact of the matter is, the servants currently don't have any way or means to prove what I've done. And the most important thing in such situations is striking first, people almost always believe whoever they heard first in such predicaments. Not to mention, he's my father. He's definitely going to give me more than just a benefit of the doubt. And as long as I have the word of a Marquis supporting me, other people can hardly have a say in the matter. For now that is.
"What!? My Father's voice is full of confusion, and anger. "Why would they... should I fire them?" he mumbles to himself.
"N-No!" I lean forward, waving my hands in a panic. "Don't fire them, it's not their fault! They're just... as I said, mistaken," I sigh again.
"You're barely turned into an adult a few months ago, if they have a problem with you, they should come to me. Not glare at you and make you feel afraid!" he protests.
"Father, they have pretty good reason to suspect me," I say, a self-depreciating smile appearing on my face.
"And what's that?" he asks, some attitude remaining in his voice, clearly still angry at the servants.
"Look, I'm-I'm not proud of it, but when I was younger... I broke a lot of things. Most of the time to feel better about myself. They always had to clean up after my messes."
"Being a bit of a problem child still isn't enough of reason to do that to you. Not to mention it's their job," he slightly growls.
"I did it for years! And, one day, I... my breaking objects turned into me hurting... animals," I barely manage to spit out, making a small show of closing my eyes tightly, as if in preparation of a scolding.
But... as expected, nothing comes. Hesistantly, I open my eyes, seeing my Father looking at me, is expression brimming with distress.
"Callum, I'm so sorry you didn't feel comfortable coming to me with all that you've mentioned until now. I-I've failed as your Father," he tells me.
The guilt comes back. I suppress it, a sticky sensation begins welling up in my throat and mouth. I feel sick, but I endure.
"It's not your fault. It's mine, the servants, they always told me you hated me. And I stupidly believed them."
He roughly breathes out, like a bull, making an effort of calming himself, and barely succeeding.
"Why?" he asks, his voice quiet and hoarse.
"Because... you told me. That it was my fault my mom died, that I was hurting you! And that nothing I could do could help..." Tears well up in my eyes, they unfocused as I recall that day. And then, I repeatedly remember all I've done. How scared I am, and how much I hate myself.
Crying comes naturally with all these intense emotions. I may be lying to him, but my tears are real. I never did learn how to fake cry in either lives, but this is close enough.
I flinch as I hear his chair scoot, my eyes focus, and I see him getting up. I can't quite make out his face, my vision blurry and wet. I stiffen as he leans down, and pulls me into his chest. I completely freeze. In both lives, I'm unused to physical contact like hugs, or even touching someone's hand, or high-fiving.
"Oh my son, I am so sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry for what I said back then, and for hitting you. I should've never raised my hand against you, and please, don't tell me it's not my fault," he sincerely says.
I don't know what to say. All I know is that more tears come, and that it's not because I'm particularly touched by his apology. It's due to the guilt I feel.
It's because I realize, that no matter what he says, I don't think I'll ever be able to see him as my Father in this lifetime. This... despondence crushes me.
I lightly wrap my stiff arms around his back. The sensation is warm, and weird, and deeply uncomfortable. I want to pull away, but I don't, as I need to offer him this comfort, however little it is. He deserves it.
Eventually, he does pull away, and sit back down at his desk, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. I just feel intense relief that it's over.
"Thank you for telling me that Callum. Now, what can I do for you about this, son?" he inquires, instantly getting straight to business.
"I-I'm not finished talking yet," I answer. He nods, and motions for me to go on. I can feel my wet cheeks drying.
"I need to talk about Aliza, she... she wants to annul our engagement. She found out about what I've done to animals a while, and, well... I don't blame her for wanting to annul."
"... I'm sorry, I know you liked her," he doesn't seem to know what to say besides that.
"Yeah," is all I can respond. I slump in my chair, and raise my head, staring at the ceiling.
"Father, I hate this mansion." I gesture to the walls. "And I'm tired of being scared, and feeling guilty for things I didn't do," I confess.
"I can set you up in a new property, with new servants," he tells me. I shake my head.
"I don't want that."
"Then, please, tell me what you want Callum, there's not much a Marquis's influence can't get you," he lightly chuckles. I make a deliberate indication of the conflict going through my head, my expression constantly changing.
Finally, I sigh, and tell him the truth. "I don't know what to do. I'm lost, and I just... want to start anew, as someone other than Callum Dumont. Because no matter what, the servants will hate me, and I will feel guilty," I let out a breath as I finish, and lower my head, staring into my Father's eyes.
He has a weird look on his face, a mixture of sadness, sympathy, anger, concern, and uncertainty.
"I want to know what I should do."
"..." he stays silent. "I don't know Callum, I've never been in such a situation. I-I can't answer for you," he advises.
My eyes turn upwards. I start shaking, but keep it together even as the horror fills me. 'Can I really do nothing?' I ask myself.
'What was I even expecting? If he doesn't even know the actual situation, how can he guide me?' I had hoped for the impossible.
'I guess there's only one thing for me to do.' After a while of silence, I let out another sigh.
"I know what I need you to do for me, Father."
*****
Before I know it, I'm back in my room, sitting at my desk. Writing more of my thoughts down.
I have at least half a year before the servants scrounge up enough money to hire a Mage who can expose me for having murdered so many people. As long as my Father doesn't reveal my location, I should be fine. Though it's regrettable that even with all that said and done, I still have to leave things up to chance in the end.
Not to mention, I'm no the wiser on what I should do. Can I really just live in hiding? But what can I do? I'm weak. Even Sigrun, and Noa couldn't stop anything, what can I do?
I need to stop deliberating on what I should do. That won't help anything. Let's just focus on what I at least know.
The academy's are made up of four years, from age sixteen to twenty. The stories of the first and second Eternal Dove games occur simultaneously. In two weeks, a new academy year will start.
It's unlikely Father will be able to arrange everything within that time. Not to mention that I'll need to travel to Terra Kingdom. So taking that into account, I'll need to stay here for three to four weeks.
Sigrun, and Noa are the two people of interest I need to get close to. And on brand for the Eternal Dove series, they're all girls.
Depending on my actions, getting closer to them will either be easy, or very difficult.
Sigrun is a regressor. Not to mention one of the eight playable protagonists in the fifth game.
Noa is the daughter of Terra Kingdom's Magic Tower Archmage. Unfortunately, the current Archmage is a misogynist obsessed with proving women are worse than men. He forces Noa, one of the greatest magical talents ever, to cross dress as a boy, just to prove his point to everyone.
Part of her route involves confronting the Archmage, but... yeah, no. Neither am I trying to become romantically involved with them. I just need to become good enough friends for them to protect me.
I lean back in my chair, my right hand aching due to all the writing I'm doing. My thoughts are all messy, reflecting the very rough situation I'm in.
I let out a sigh as I massage my weary face. 'Maybe I should just go to sleep. I have four more weeks to think about what the hell I need to do.'
I close my journal, open a drawer, and half-assedly shove it in, before slamming the drawer shut. I pull my chair out from underneath me, step to the side, and push it in. With little care, I elegantly plop myself onto my bed, rolling into the center of the massive mattress.
I pull the blankets over my, wiggle one hand under my pillow as I roll onto my side, and snuggle into the soft pillow. I shut my eyes, uncaring it's only a few hours after the afternoon at most.
This ends my second day of my semi-new life.
Prologue 2: Or the Sea to a Fish - End
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