That snowy afternoon, with a bag of money from Bishop clutched tightly in his hand, Allen walked back home. Confusion and emptiness seemed to weigh him down, the same as the heavy snowflakes that had settled on his weary head.
How could he change? What steps could he take to alter the course of his life? Doubt lingered in his heart as he wondered if apologizing was truly the right thing to do.
What if that person doesn't want to forgive me? What should I do?
He thought about it because it was difficult for him to convey his desire to apologize to Vash. As much as he wanted to say it, it turned out that he hadn't done anything wrong to Vash in the first place, which made his determination to apologize futile.
Instead, Vash offered his sincere apology to him. The reason behind this gesture stemmed from the fact that he had once hurled a rock at him, albeit trivially for Allen. Yet, Vash firmly believed such an action could not be easily forgiven.
He couldn't help but ponder the weight of his actions. If the mere act of throwing a rock could be deemed unforgivable, then what about him? He had taken another person's life. The heaviness of this realization settled in, causing his heart to ache with profound remorse.
What if, once he apologized to them, he mustered the courage to apologize and witnessed the faces of those he had wronged contorted with the same hatred and disdain he had once felt for the feared Lord Barkaley? The very thought sent shivers down his spine as he could not bear the sight of that unmistakable wrath being directed toward him.
His face was full of hatred that he felt for Lord Barkaley. These fears were amplified by the haunting words of Lord Barkaley, which incessantly echoed in his mind.
"That's funny... After you killed all their families. Now you're having fun here, cooking for those whose families you killed. You disgusting peasant."
"Once they find out that the food came from the murderer of their family, they will definitely throw away the food you made."
ραndαsΝοvεl.cοm The weight of those words pierced his soul, leaving an indelible mark of anguish.
'The children in the orphanage all ate my cooking with gusto.
They say thank you to me
They say my cooking is delicious
They devour it with relish
But...
They are the ones who have lost their parents. And I could be the one who killed their parents.
If they knew that I was the one who killed their parents, would they still eat my food? Would they say thank you to me?'
Consumed by guilt and the relentless tumult of conflicting emotions, he found himself lost in the abyss of his remorse. Every waking moment became a painful reminder of the irrevocable harm he had caused, and the uncertainty of forgiveness loomed over him like an endless storm.
He needs the certainty.
The certainty about what Bishop Nicholas has said to him.
…
From the Tavern window, Susan saw Allen walking with his head of hair almost completely covered in snow. Perhaps his clothes had gotten wet from it, and he could have gotten a fever from it.
Worried about Allen's condition, Susan immediately went out with an umbrella.
"Allen!" shouted Susan.
Allen stopped walking, and so did Susan. They started looking at each other but were afraid to be the first to talk.
For Susan, she suddenly remembered that Allen was the reason her brother was away from her now, and that thought always bothered her because it made her suddenly afraid of Allen.
She feared that she would hate Allen once she saw his face up close.
Susan started to ask, but without looking at Allen's face, "I was worried that you wouldn't come back, but thank goodness you did-"
"Susan!" called Allen. Inevitably, Susan also began to look at Allen's face.
His face was expressionless, but Susan knew that he was desperate for something.
"Am I not suited to being a Cook?"
Allen's question made Susan instantly forget all her awkwardness. It was a silly question, but Allen would ask it seriously and spend all day thinking about it.
"Of course. When I first saw you, I didn't think you were suited to be a cook. But your cooking is good, and you're also good with a knife, so I'm really sure you'll be a good cook."
Allen bowed his head; it was not the answer he wanted to hear.
"I possess and train my knife skills, honed not for culinary purposes but with an ominous intent to extinguish lives swiftly. I have tirelessly trained my hands, mind, and body through relentless dedication, fueled by my intense loathing for a specific person I desire to kill."
Susan then asked, "What happened to that person? The person you wanted to kill. Is he dead?"
"Yes, he is dead. But it was someone else who killed him, not me. That's why the hatred I've been accumulating and the effort I've been putting into killing that person have been in vain."
"Then isn't that good?! You don't have to think about the hatred within you anymore! That person is dead, meaning you don't need revenge anymore! You can just cook!"
"That would be good if I had only targeted him.
But I've killed many people in my path and on my way to defeat him. Including people in this town."
Allen held his chest, then looked at Susan with teary eyes.
"Hey, Susan. With this blood-soaked body, am I suited to being a Cook?"
Doubts arose inside Susan, making her unable to answer him.
As for Allen, he kept asking.
"Susan once said that I resemble your brother. Even though I'm the one who made your brother leave here.
And the reason he was left was
Waldo Barkaley..."
Waldo Barkaley. Susan and Arthur had been close to the noble family for a short time. To Susan, he was a savior, a brother, and also her first love. Once she heard that Allen was the one who killed that man, she immediately understood the reason why her brother never came home.
Allen was really the root cause of everything that had happened to her.
"Come to your senses, Susan. You've been thinking about it since yesterday, right?" she muttered to herself.
"Susan" called Allen, again. "Do you hate me?"
'Do I hate Allen?' was the question Susan had been thinking since she first found out who Allen was.
And the answer to that question was,
"I don't hate you. I can't hate you," Susan had thought about it carefully. She should hate Allen, and she had even tried to do so. But she couldn't.
Although the memories she had gone through with Allen were short, she knew that Allen was not a person she could hate.
Then, right now, she could see in front of her Allen, who was standing under the cold snow, desperately looking for the answer to her question. His eyes were glazed, and perhaps his hands were shaking. He was afraid. He was afraid that Susan would hate him and that everyone in the world would start to hate him. Just like when he received that hatred from Lavinia, he received it again from Lord Barkaley.
He was afraid that Susan would also say hurtful things to him.
Looking at him, Susan was sure there was no way she could hate him. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't.
"I am sorry, brother… I can't hate Allen, just like you hated him to chase after him until now." Susan muttered.
"I don't hate you, Allen," Susan said again.'
"Why? Why don't you hate me when I'm the one who made you suffer like now."
"You see, I didn't know the old Allen. The Allen I knew was just a big, curious baby."
"You know me now, I'm a murderer."
Susan finally walked over to Allen while opening her umbrella.
"Yes, I know."
"I probably just happened not to kill your brother, instead, I killed the person he respected AND you respected."
"Yes, I know."
"Even so, do you really not hate me?"
Susan finally arrived in front of Allen. Since Susan was shorter than Allen, she had to stand on her tiptoes so that her umbrella could reach over Allen's head.
"I've been thinking about it since yesterday. Even though you've done all that in the past, somehow I can't hate you at all.
The old you might have killed a lot of people, but I don't know about that. What I know is that the Allen of today is different from that I saw back then, inside the iron cell. The current Allen is very kind and likes to help others. He's not someone who would kill anyone.
That reason alone is enough for me not to hate you."
Allen looked at Susan, who smiled sweetly while thrusting the umbrella before him. Then he thought of what Bishop Nicholas had said to him.
"You must help others so that they remember you as the one who helped them, not as a murderer."
'You were right, Nicholas,' Allen thought.
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