6. Helena Evergale
2023.11.06
Clink.
A thin, circular piece of metal slipped through Eugene’s fingers. The coin rolled across the mahogany desk before bumping into a small frame and coming to a stop.
Eugene tapped his finger lightly on the number engraved on the coin while his gaze lingered on the woman in the frame.
A woman whose face was expressionless yet radiated flawless elegance. The woman who had suddenly left home, leaving only the divorce papers behind, and who had since vanished without a trace.
Even she had a time when she rolled through life like this coin.
50 Crisant. The money-obsessed witch.
That was another name Helena had carried during her days as Helena Owen. The villagers in Hyer had all called her that.
For just 50 Crisant, she would spend the night with anyone—from fledgling youths barely past puberty to frail, white-haired elders.
Of course, Helena swore by the name her late mother had given her: she was innocent.
The trouble began when she rejected the confession of the younger son of Baron Dupont. That sour mooded man had started the first rumors.
But, as always, the truth was irrelevant. What mattered was how appetizing the rumor was.
Unfortunately, Helena’s existence made for a juicy story.
A beautiful young lady from a family reduced to straw.
Attaching the label of a loose woman to her was simply too tempting for people to resist spreading.
“I heard Pepper saw her leaving Colton’s house last night.”
“Wasn’t she working at the Smiths’ butcher shop just the day before? Like a sly fox, she couldn’t stay put and moved again.”
“Tsk, I wonder when she’ll come to my shop.”
Every time she moved her workplace, Helena was stripped more bare by people she didn’t even know.
Shopkeepers who had been refused brazen advances threw their filth at her to cover their own shame.
Still, Helena had to endure. She was the only one who could earn the medicine money for her younger brother Basil, who had been sick since birth, while the Owen family drowned in alcohol and gambling.
For him, she didn’t mind being falsely branded a prostitute in gossip.
It was then that Eugene appeared.
“Are you Helena Owen?”
At a time when she had grown more used to being called 50 Crisant than her real name, he called her properly, with her true name.
Six years ago, Eugene returned victorious from a long war that everyone had deemed hopeless.
Though it was only a temporary truce from afar, the allied kingdoms hastily declared defeat in front of Eugene, who had personally cut down enemy commanders one after another.
Helena met him on the very road back from that shining victory. Eugene willingly drew her into his ruin.
She was a woman who had uprooted and dug into his entire life. Her existence alone offered salvation. He could boldly claim it was a destiny ordained by the gods.
A life devastated by his father’s sudden death and years of brutal conflict. And in the midst of that, she suddenly appeared.
If not love, what else could this be called?
So he had to possess her. The desire would not end otherwise.
Although his mother, Christine, protested fiercely, even she had to yield before the encouragement of the Bohemian king.
The king readily accepted Eugene’s decision. He even quietly shelved the engagement talks with the princess, welcoming Eugene’s proclamation to marry for love.
Not because he liked Helena, but because Eugene chose a different path from his friend Aslan Evergale. Either way, Eugene was grateful.
“I’ll come tomorrow. The day after, next week, too.”
Eugene confessed a future to Helena, fragile as a mayfly.
He had wiped out the Dupont family, originators of the rumors, without Helena knowing. He paid off the debts of the fallen Owen family.
Yet, he did not end the rumors. He did not seek a cure for Basil’s illness. He did not claim the title of perfect savior.
“Darkness must exist for light to shine.”
He pitied her for suffering in such harsh circumstances, yet he welcomed the very forces that drove her to the brink.
The more the ground she stood on crumbled beneath her, the easier it would be for her to depend on him.
“Please go now. And I hope you won’t come again.”
Words of rejection like this would no longer come easily.
It was the first time Eugene had ever been refused.
He had never imagined that the first person to reject him—imperfect and inexperienced—would be a humble countryside girl.
Therefore, to her, he had to be an unforgettable first. A light she could cling to without hesitation.
So Eugene restored her precious name, Helena Evergale, instead of leaving her as 50 Crisant.
“Let’s marry, Helena Evergale.”
Fortunately, and as expected, Helena eventually agreed.
“I will gladly become Helena Evergale.”
When she accepted his proposal, Eugene felt a thrill akin to the moment he had celebrated victory on the battlefield. He had loved, and loved deeply.
Much had changed since then, and what was once a thrilling first had become an inevitable, mundane ending. Rumors eventually died down, having gnawed at the couple long enough.
Of course, Eugene neither admitted nor wished to realize it. The one who needed realization was Helena.
Even sharp stones, worn by the sea breeze, eventually yield sand. Expecting eternal newlywed bliss was absurd.
“Don’t make me think the reason is mine, Helena.”
Just as Natasha had her place, Helena had hers. And that was decided the moment he met her.
That was all.
Helena of Preterita.
A rose blooming between stone walls.
Though she left before full bloom, she was a flower etched even more brilliantly.
Twelve-year-old Paul, who lived behind her house, remembered her.
If his older brother Theor had been there, he would have remembered much more. The pain of his brother’s early death struck Paul anew.
Still, he answered sincerely as best he could, to the tall, kind-eyed man by the village entrance.
He said he had come to find Helena.
When he heard she was no longer in Preterita, his expression stiffened, but he visibly relaxed when told the Owens had moved to Hyer.
“Thank you for telling me. Please see my brother’s funeral done properly with this.”
But then came a stroke of luck.
The tall man left as suddenly as he had arrived. Paul slowly opened his palm. Five gold coins sparkled, oddly out of place on his calloused hand.
“Huh!”
Traveling gentlemen occasionally gave coins for errands, but none had been so heavy.
Paul didn’t know what to do. He entrusted the coins to his grandfather and hurried after Ian.
“Wait! Hold on!”
Ian and Dion stopped. Paul, hands on his knees, caught his breath and then thrust his fist forward.
“I-I want you to have this.”
It was the bouquet he had just placed on his brother’s grave. The stems were slightly bent from his tight grip.
Paul’s face burned with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry it’s not much, but it’s the prettiest thing I have…”
His voice grew smaller. Even his grimy fists seemed shy.
Could such a tiny bouquet matter to someone who carried gold coins like pocket change? Paul blamed his hasty impulse.
Ian, however, carefully accepted the bouquet from Paul’s outstretched fist. Bringing it to his face, he inhaled the scent lightly and smiled warmly.
“Marigold.”
“…Huh?”
“This flower is called marigold. Just as you and I have names, even this wildflower wishes to be recognized by someone.”
Ian lowered his gaze to Paul and asked gently:
“And what is your name?”
“P-Paul. My grandfather found me on the street, but my brother Theor gave me my name.”
“Theor…?”
Ian’s expression hardened slightly, his gaze distant, as if tracing a piece of the past.
After a moment of silence, he looked at Paul deeply.
“…I see. Paul, thank you for giving me such a lovely flower. Your grandfather gave your brother a good younger sibling.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Theor would have been happy to have you. Even I could tell the first time I met him.”
Ian gently ruffled the boy’s hair. Paul nodded and returned to his grandfather.
A few steps away, Dion approached and grumbled.
“You really are extraordinarily, immensely kind. Couldn’t you treat me like that too?”
“I’m not merciful enough to accompany a nagging servant.”
Ian turned coldly. His gentle expression toward the child vanished. Dion nodded absently and fell into step.
“Yes, of course. Silence is golden. Without gold, I guess I must remain quiet.”
Ian led the way through the carrot field, still clutching the slightly crushed bouquet.
Dion tilted his head, curious.
‘Why on earth is he holding that?’
Though Dion was trained to sense danger, curiosity whispered primal questions that could even make him risk peril.
“Can I just ask one last thing?”
“If it’s pointless, prepare to be planted upside-down next to this carrot.”
Despite stepping into the tiger’s den, Ian furrowed his brow. Dion quickly pointed to the flower.
“You really won’t throw it away? It’s not rare, it grows everywhere… oh, wait… could it be…?”
Dion finally covered his mouth, shocked. Ian, instead of scolding him, smiled faintly.
“It seems the spot next to the carrot suits you best. You even resemble it. That carrot might have been human like you, cursed into what it is now.”
Hmm. He even used “you” directly. Alert!
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, are you the uncle who ran off with all the family fortune when you entered the academy? Why not go try speaking to him? He might run out covered in soil, asking why you’re only here now.”
“I deeply apologize.”
“Check if he still has the stolen wealth; it could help with security.”
“I must have been crazy for a moment.”
“If you understand, do your duty.”
“Yes, Your Majesty’s faithful servant, Dion Cedric. I will prepare to ensure Your Majesty reaches your destination safely.”
The rash servant ran off toward the carrot field, eager to avoid being planted upside-down. He disappeared faster than ever.
Left alone, Ian gazed at the sky. Gray clouds gathered, threatening a sudden downpour.
He slowly opened his hand holding the flower. The faint scent of marigold lingered on his palm. Old memories began to mix naturally.
“Grandfather Theo said: Even if you don’t have it now, what you want or desire is called desire. Desiring is not a sin. It’s only natural to want what you wish for.”
The girl had appeared like a beam of light through the darkness. Her voice, those nights—he had never forgotten.
“Crush those who forced you into such a plight and claim your place. Rise to the highest point so that everyone must see you.”
He remembered the girl’s skin against his fingertips—not a mere pulse, but a heartbeat violently planted into him.
“I, who you abandoned, breathe freely, live, and exist.”
It was mercilessly devoured and hammered into him, like a stake through the heart.
