The very few times Alver had ever seen his wife's face this close cascaded through his memories in a waterfall of strange emotions.
Cale was beautiful.
It was just a fact that he knew. He didn't marry her because of it, for his purposes marrying a squid would have been just as well if it would have worked, but he was always aware of her beauty.
She had a striking and sharp beauty that attracted the eye whether one attempted to look away or not. Sharp narrow eyes, delicately shaped cheek bones, full lips, crimson hair–he could easily list all of the factors that made her beautiful but somehow all of the intellectual descriptions in the world didn't do justice to the person in front of him.
When faced with a beauty like her, especially up close like this, logic could only make its muted complaints while the heart pounded and greedily drank in her effortless beauty.
So many words to say he was left breathless.
Her soft and calloused hand resting on his cheek, her stunning brown eyes blown wide with surprise, her pink lips partially parted as though she'd forgotten to scowl at him. She was always beautiful and yet in moments of weakness, that beauty really struck him and stole away everything but the racing of his heart.
Perhaps he was still sleepy because he unconsciously leaned into her touch as his drowsy eyes searched for answers.
Why was it that she lied?
He never would have said those things to her if he'd known. He hadn't even wanted to say it. He hated the words and he hated the reality and he couldn't understand why she was so determined to hide the truth from him.
He didn't even know what the truth was. Not entirely. But he knew enough to know that she lied. She'd purposefully misled him into believing that she didn't care for their daughter. Who knew what else she was lying about.
And even as he sought out answers, his heart ached wretchedly in his chest. If he could take the words back now–no, if he could take the very thoughts back. If he could turn back the clock and understand–
The perfectionist inside of him couldn't cope with his mistake. It made sense. He bet his life on his ability to read others and he'd missed something so big and so close. He'd missed so much and he didn't even know how or why.
Yet... that didn't encapsulate his feelings.
Regret, remorse, the desire to change things, the frustration, the pain, the confusion, the curiosity... all of it simply orbited around the pain in his heart.
He hurt her.
How could those feelings be fully conveyed? It hurt too much to manage. He hurt her and it was for nothing. Her face full of fear and pain, her body trembling with barely repressed emotion, her eyes blazing with determination despite it all–he'd seen the pain but he hadn't made sense of it and hated himself for it.
Hated the arrogance and foolishness and his crucial inability to read this important person. Hated all of it.
He wanted to treasure her.
He always had. When he promised his life to a person he didn't know and spoke those vows, he'd always wanted to treasure her. Maybe they wouldn't love one another, maybe they wouldn't even be friends, but he wanted her to be treasured and happy. He wanted her to have a peaceful life.
How many ways had he failed? He didn't even know what his mistakes were but he knew that somewhere along the way, he'd started to make one mistake after another. He'd become a source of her misery.
Was she miserable?
He hoped not and yet–he couldn't know.
The beautiful woman before him was a mystery now. How much had he misunderstood her?
A wretched voice from the back of his heart condemned him that it didn't matter.
What was the truth? Where were the lies? None of it mattered because he hurt her. It was no comfort at all to reflect that he hadn't thought his words would hurt her. He hadn't thought she cared at all. Because he should have known and in some ways he did know. He ought to have known.
Why would he leave his beloved daughter in the exclusive care of a violent drunk for years? It wasn't apathy. Somewhere in his heart he trusted that she cared and when that trust was shaken, he only made mistake after mistake. He reacted impatiently and cruelly and stupidly.
And now she was so close and farther than ever.
He wanted to be closer. He wanted to understand. He wanted to fix all of his misunderstandings and to treat her properly. To find out what she wanted and give it to her. He wanted her to be happy.
He suspected her happiness might be somewhere apart from him and that filled him with strange and miserable feelings as well.
There really might be no fixing his mistakes. There might be no way to untangle the web of lies, misunderstanding, and pain. There might be no way to reach out to her–
–no matter how much he wanted to–
Cale pulled her hand away from him and smiled at him.
His gut churned.
He knew well enough that she wasn't actually smiling at him. That she had nothing but contempt for him. At least that, among all the lies and misunderstanding, he was sure was the truth.
It was bittersweet and painful.
How wretched was he to corner her until she could do nothing but pretend to care about him? The nauseating knowledge slowed his beating heart and he looked away from her terrifyingly convincing lie.
Was there a moment perhaps where he'd allowed himself to hope that smile was for him?
Now that he'd seen her true smile it was all too obvious where the lie was.
Belatedly he realized he might have a lot more in common with her than he ever imagined.
What sort of person was Cale though?
He knew she was cruel and venomous, never giving up an opportunity to hurt him. But was that her personality or did she merely hate him in particular so much that she couldn't help but be malicious?
In his groggy thoughtful state, he almost missed her words.
"–sleeping here?"
He understood from context. "I didn't want..." His gaze flickered to Penelope's bed, realizing too late that he'd failed to keep watch over her because she wasn't here anymore. He knew that Cale wouldn't bother to linger here if she didn't know where Penelope was and that she was safe so he didn't panic.
...why did he know that? Why was he so sure? He was positive. Absolutely positive that Cale would be ripping out throats right now if Penelope was in danger again and yet, why? The inquisitive part of him that wanted to understand Cale, to get to know who she truly was, couldn't help but linger on the thought. What had he noticed about her unconsciously, even though he hadn't realized it consciously?
Perhaps that was why he'd never worried about leaving Penelope in Cale's care before the recent events. He couldn't help but trust that Penelope's safety was her priority. Was it mere bias? Mothers protect their children? He wasn't that naive, was he?
"...I'm sorry." His voice cut in through his thoughts. Cale looked at him with mock curiosity, her fake smile still plastered on her beautiful face. "What I said yesterday..."
"It's perfectly alright. Please don't worry about it, your majesty." The sugary sweet honey in her voice was painful on his ears. Alver closed his eyes.
"It's not alright. It wasn't your fault." Who was to blame? He was the one who left Penelope in Cale's near exclusive care. Of course Cale would have to sleep sometimes. He was the one who failed to increase the guard a sufficient amount to avoid this near tragedy. He was the one who didn't insist they return to the palace the moment it was clear that there was danger on this 'vacation'. He was the one who bore the responsibility. "I was upset and I took it out on you. It was unacceptable. I apologize."
Cale was silent and Alver didn't look at her. Couldn't bear to. What condemnation would await him there?
"I don't accept your apology."
Cale's words were cold, missing the honey and so much more honest. Alver's heart flinched but he accepted it.
What else could he possibly say or do? There was no place for him in Cale's happiness. He was the source of her distress. He had handcrafted her pain with his own two hands.
Pathetic. That's all he was.
"I understand. You don't have to."
She made a clicking sound with her tongue but he didn't have to look to know it accompanied an expression of disgust.
He didn't say anything as she left, didn't look up even when the door clicked shut behind her, he heaved out a shaky sigh and ran a hand through his hair.
What a way to wake up.
–
There was something that had been bothering Penelope ever since she first made sense of her memories and glimpsed into her own fate.
Her mother, her majesty Cale Crossman, the evil villainess queen was set to die before the events of the story took place. Or at least close enough to the beginning that the creators had no qualms with mentioning her death in character profiles.
Alver Crossman, a capture character and the handsome king of the kingdom, was supposed to be somewhat tragic because of all the abuse he'd endured at the hands of his wicked wife. And his daughter, Penelope Crossman, was supposed to be a primary villainess in the way of the happiness of the player character and Alver.
Wasn't there something twisted about that?
A grieving daughter portrayed as a cruel villain who needed to be dealt with? Plenty of children hated or resented their step family for attempting to replace lost loved ones, why was Penelope such a villain in the original for acting out against her indecent fathers proclivities?
When she'd read about the characters she hadn't thought about it all that much. It simply hadn't mattered to her. They were just characters in a game.
Now it all mattered and she couldn't help but find it strange. Who decided on that twisted premise for a story? Who was it that decided Penelop was a villainess?
Logically it was the writers but the world she lived in now was real, at least as far as she could tell. This wasn't virtual reality. This wasn't a coma dream. She was living in a strange new world. Which meant there weren't really writers so much as people who knew about the events in this world and used them to create a twisted game.
This left her with two logical conclusions.
Firstly, not all the information she had from the game could be trusted. People dramatize true stories for fiction all the time. She already knew that whoever wrote this trite plot had no concept of who Cale truly was and therefore they weren't omnipotent.
And secondly, the game was from the protagonist's perspective. The woman who was supposed to capture Alver and make her a part of her miniature harem. The person who looked at Alver's flawed daughter and saw a vicious villainess. Penelope instinctively hated her. The clueless homewrecker who so callously dismissed Penelope and her mother.
So far as Penelope was concerned, the protagonist was just as disgusting as her father. They were both wretched people who deserved nothing less than her condemnation.
Still, as she lacked an appropriate timeline for the games events as she hadn't actually had the opportunity to play it, she didn't have any concept of when or how the damn slutty temptress was bound to show up. She assumed she'd have a few years at least, even the game writers couldn't possibly make a four year old into a villainess, and so among the things that Penelope worried about the arrival of the stupid ho that her father preferred to her mother wasn't a concern that she spent very much time fixating upon.
That was what she thought.
Of course, given the years she'd have to wait, Penelope tried to memorize every detail about the woman who would be the harbinger of her own death. She remembered her name and every feature described about her. She also remembered something else about her that was oh so typical for the genre but she was unsure of how to feel about it in her current situation.
The protagonist was also a foreigner to this world.
Any sympathy or compassion she might have for a girl in a similar situation to her own was incompatible with her own bias. The same bias against her father, presuming the very worst of him based off of a limited description in an unreliable game. Just the same, she felt that the hussy who would seduce her father was the absolute worst scum there was. If Cale was still alive at the start of the game, that was all the worst. A mistress who didn't care who she ruined the lives of so long as she got her pathetic harem.
Penelope's fortuitous conversation with her uncle had left her in a rather better mood than she'd been in lately. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. With Basen as her ally, she'd be able to neatly begin preparations for Cale's divorce.
It was without question that Cale would want one. Even if she didn't, it was for her own good to get her as far away from that cheating murderous bastard of a husband as soon as was feasible.
She was feeling quite optimistic before she turned a corner and saw her.
Penelope's heart just about stopped and her blood ran cold. The unmistakably Korean features, the dark hair, the place, the clothes–no that wasn't all there was to it. Her memories lined up perfectly, providing her with the now unforgettable image of the unique protagonist.
She thought she'd have a lot more time before meeting the woman her father was destined to love more than her and more than her mother, assuming he'd ever held any love for them at all. Knowing that disgustingly shallow man he only kept them around for appearance.
But was that appearance going to be a necessity now?
Penelope felt faint. The world swam around her and it was nearly impossible to breathe.
She'd die. Her mother would die.
All to serve the narrative and allow this woman to pursue love.
Nausea overtook her and Penelope surprised everyone present by giving in to it.
–
Penelope looked pale. She hadn't stopped trembling since she'd been returned to her bedroom. The doctors assured them all that she wasn't sick but how could she not be? She'd vomited while on a walk and become nearly catatonic in the following moments.
Alver paced the room worriedly as Cale sat at Penelope's bedside. His wife had managed to calm her down until she fell asleep but Penelope hadn't let him nearby. He'd been forced to leave the room a few times as looking at him appeared to trigger her panic all over again.
Now that she was asleep it was safe for him to remain nearby but she still looked so pale. A delayed reaction to the events on the way here? Or was she sick with some strange disease that they hadn't been able to properly diagnose?
He didn't dare approach the bed for fear Penelope would wake up and become filled with dread again. He couldn't leave her side though. He couldn't leave when his daughter was in such clear pain.
...was this also his fault?
The spiraling negative emotions had only taken their time to make a home inside of Alver's heart, twisting in nails to assure that they couldn't be easily dislodged. His gaze flickered from his daughter to his wife and once again, he was left feeling the gulf between them.
He couldn't sit at Penelope's side the way Cale could.
He couldn't comfort Cale either. Her face was nearly as pale as Penelope's, bottom lip trembling, and her eyes fixed upon her fitfully sleeping daughter.
She was too young to experience all this hardship.
He'd blamed Cale for taking away Penelope's innocent smile, but wasn't it also his fault? It was natural to resent a father who was hardly ever there. Alver had certainly held some resentment for his own father.
Alver had always thought he wasn't his father. Unlike Zed, Alver always made sure that Penelope's status and well-being went unquestioned. She was well provided for and whenever they did meet, he showered her in all the love that he felt for her.
But he wasn't there very much. Not as much as he should have been. The fact that Penelope resting on a bed was an unfamiliar sight to him prior to this trip alone made that much obvious. Had he neglected her? He wanted to make the kingdom as great as it could be, to make a prosperous place for her to live, but was that what she actually wanted?
Miserably he remembered the days after his mothers passing. When all he'd wanted was a hug from his father. When he would have given up everything in the world just for that. How Zed had never come and how Alver had learned how to comfort himself. Penelope's situation was certainly different but...
...wasn't there something irreplaceable about the presence of a loved one?
"Stop pacing."
Alver stopped, looking towards Cale again. She was fixing him with a cool gaze that didn't bely any of the emotions stirring inside of her. And yet, Alver was certain he could understand those emotions. At least some of them. She was just as worried as he was. She was angry. She wanted to lash out at him.
Alver couldn't connect how he knew, but he did.
A smile didn't come to his lips and he met Cale's gaze. To his surprise, her eyes flickered as though unsure of his reaction. Perhaps it was unusual. Normally he would put on a brave face. Perhaps make an attempt to comfort her and assuage her worries. Smile like a liar to hide his own fears and insecurities. Smile like a liar to be strong, to be perfect, to keep them safe.
Of course she would lash out at him if he did but he didn't have the heart. Not to lie. Not to smile. He didn't know what he'd do if she forced herself to smile back at him, apparently fearful of his wrath if she didn't pretend to care.
He hated that.
Right now, he couldn't tolerate the idea of causing her more harm in this situation but he was at a loss for what to do. How to act. He couldn't act as he always had, couldn't pretend everything was okay because it wasn't. Without his every defense, he was bereft of anything.
Cale stood up, gently leaving Penelope's side and approached him, a skeptical look on her face.
She really was beautiful. It was impossible to ignore when she was so close.
"What are you up to?" She asked suspiciously and he was at a loss.
"...I don't have anything planned." He admitted, feeling shameful for it. He was supposed to know what to do. Being able to appropriately lead in a distressing situation was the whole purpose of his position. His whole purpose in life. He'd failed at that and he'd failed to care for those he loved–
Oh.
He loved her.
The thought ripped through him with agonizing clarity.
He had for some time now.
Whether she was a liar or a drunk or a wicked woman, he loved her. Her piercing gaze, her indomitable will, her voice, her words, the way she could convey so much with a tone or a look, the way she walked, the way she spoke, the way it felt to talk to her, the way it felt to touch her. All of it. Everything. Even when she was deceitfully cruel and when she so clearly hated him.
When had it started?
How long ago was it when he first looked at her and everything just revolved around her?
How many afternoons had he spent thinking only about her? Unbidden thoughts drifting towards her, wondering what she might be doing, how she was fairing, what she was thinking about–how long ago was it that he started to avoid meeting with her because her vitriolic hatred was too painful to endure?
How long before he'd convinced himself that he only thought she was a nuisance because it was so much easier to think that way than to accept his own miserable feelings?
How long had he lied to himself?
Once there had been a time when he thought something like love could bloom between them. But she'd made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him and loathed his very presence. He'd made the effort to keep his distance ever since.
Was it then? Had he fallen in love then? Or was it some time before that. In those moments when he thought–
Cale watched him with sharp reddish brown eyes, a thoughtful frown on her pink lips and an effortless grace to even her tiniest movements.
"I don't believe you." She said coldly.
Alver could laugh if he didn't want to cry.
If he could, he'd sweep her into his arms and ask for her forgiveness. Beg to know what he could do to make it right. Sit beside her while they fretted over their daughter.
He realized now why he'd chosen to lie to himself rather than pursue her. The pain of unrequited love was so much more tolerable then.
She hated him.
She always had.
She always would.