Even If It Means to Break - Chapter 40 - 10. After Story

After losing her child, Hill weakened at a frightening pace.

The change was as stark as a snapped flower wilting away.

No matter how devoted the care she received, her health never truly recovered. At times, Andouche found herself thinking that Hill resembled a picture lightly sketched onto fine sand. Perhaps it was because of her hair, pale and gleaming like white sand.

She seemed so fragile that even a strong gust of wind might scatter and erase her, making one hesitate to speak to her at all.

Eating, basking in sunlight, answering questions with brief replies, or simply staring blankly outside. Every action felt less like living and more like inertia, as though she moved only because her breath had not yet left her body.

It was the same when she shared her body with the man.

Even when she reached climax and let out a moan, a strange listlessness seeped from her entire being.

The man did not dislike that version of Hill either. After all, could Hillstein ever become someone he disliked? Even sitting there limply like a doll, she was still the Hill he loved. His own livestock, broken and trained into docility dozens of times over.

“Still, it is a pity.”

The man murmured, as he always did, probing inside her.

“A creature without purpose or will tends to die rather quickly.”

Crushing her again and again and fastening a leash so she could not even think of leaving him had been deeply satisfying. Yet for that very reason, a certainty had taken root within him.

She would not live long.

Her eyes, hollow and empty even as she whimpered in pleasure, always stirred a peculiar feeling in him. Pressing her onward, he drove her harder, and Hill, arching her back and moaning, finally reached her peak.

Liquid flowed from between her thighs, and from her n*****s as well. The man lowered his head and drank the milk that began to spill. Her body, made exquisitely sensitive by the act they had just finished, trembled faintly each time he drew out the flow.

How lovely it was. A body that still responded to pleasure even after losing the will to live.

“Hill. My Hill.”

He called her name again and again, kissing her.

“If possible, do try to live a long life.”

Even her unresponsive lips were unbearably dear to him. He covered her slightly parted mouth with his own, almost desperately.

A year passed, and the seasons turned.

Then, in a merciless summer so harsh that even beasts collapsed under the blazing heat, Raban’s brutal life came to an end.

Hill faced her father’s quietly stilled body without shedding a single tear. She only stroked his cheek a few times, like tracing something precious and fragile, and pressed her lips to his darkened fingertips.

After the funeral, Hill returned to her daily life as though nothing had happened. Like a doll made of paper, she remained meekly confined to her quarters. Empty time flowed on again, slowly. One day, then another.

And then, in autumn, when the sun’s cruelty finally eased—

Hill closed her eyes quietly.

She looked neat and peaceful, as though merely asleep. Even Andouche failed to notice her death. Only the man, who for once came early that morning, sat by her pillow, stroking her cheek as he whispered,

“So you have already left.”

Or perhaps, only now.

There was no warmth left in her chilled cheek. Even so, he stubbornly continued to caress her face. He smoothed her thin jaw, her slender arms, her sand-colored hair fallen in disarray, again and again.

Her gently closed eyelids were so pale they seemed almost translucent. His expression slowly twisted as he pressed a kiss to those colorless lids.

“Hill.”

My Hill.

The man’s lips pressed against her face, again and again, like a baby bird rubbing its beak against its mother. When he had kissed every part of her face, he pulled her into his arms and whispered,

“My beautiful Hillstein.”

Suddenly, a tear trickled down his lips—one line, then another. Soon he began to laugh aloud, rubbing his tear-soaked lips and cheeks against her pale, cold face. The wetness staining his expression of pure happiness was grotesque.

“Even in death, you are beautiful. Just as I imagined.”

Her face, so delicate it seemed it might scatter with a breath, was immaculate and white. A noble light he could never corrupt, no matter how deeply he dragged her into ruin.

How could I not love you?

Whispering as though sharing a secret, he pressed his wet lips to Hill’s. Then, cradling her head, he smiled brightly.

Now, his only world slept here forever.

“With you gone from this place…”

The voice slipping from his moving lips scattered faintly, like an exhale.

“There is no reason for me to live here either.”

The calm monologue, devoid of sorrow, was closer to a sentence than a lament. Bowing his head with the air of performing a sacred rite, the man rested it against the chest that no longer beat and closed his eyes quietly.

Then he moved his fingertips, ever so slightly.

As always, the power that faithfully obeyed his will surged toward its master’s heart.

Once.

Twice.

And several times more.

The blood of giants was truly troublesome. Even death could not be savored gently.

Even the agony of his heart being torn apart felt satisfying, a sinking that followed Hill. Blood surged up and spilled from his lips, but the smile at the corner of his mouth never faded.

At last… this was it.

With a smile like liberation itself, the man pressed himself flatter against Hill’s chest, rubbing his cheek against her cold skin as a child might seek its mother’s warmth.

Hill. Hill. My beloved Hill. My world, which I had to possess even if it meant dragging it into the abyss.

His heartbeat slowed. His breathing grew strained. The movements seeking one final trace of warmth reached their limit, slowing little by little, the blind fixation that had chased only one thing burning out its last spark.

And finally, even his last breath scattered away without a trace.

Some time later, Andouche—who had been waiting outside—knocked carefully on the door, asking whether she might enter.

There was no reply.

After pacing uneasily for a while, she took the risk and spoke again, apologizing as she gently opened the door.

Inside was quiet. The air, wrapped in silence, was utterly still. And upon the sunlit bed lay the girl, finally freed from life, and the king who had followed her into the end of his world.

Only the afternoon sunlight, falling upon the king’s smiling lips, glimmered faintly, like scattered fragments of gold.