"The third point I was going to talk about..." Evangeline began, her voice steady but carrying a hint of reluctance. "...isn't exactly a direct point like the others. It's more about her feelings, how she reacted to them, how they shaped her. And it involves your mother, Abigaille, in a way."
"Abigaille?" Kafka's brows shot up, curiosity flashing in his eyes.
At his side, Vanitas stiffened and quickly looked away, as though ashamed to even hear the name brought up. Her hands fidgeted like a child caught in something humiliating.
Evangeline glanced at her but pressed on.
"Yes. Abigaille. To start off I'll inform you that...by the time the trial had begun, Lady Vanitas was already aware of her emotions. She knew she was in love with you. Not confused, not mistaking maternal instinct for something else...No. She knew. Clear as day."
Kafka blinked, silent, as Evangeline continued firmly.
"At first, she struggled. During the early years, when she began feeling things she thought were 'off,' she convinced herself they were just remnants of her guilt, or perhaps maternal feelings growing distorted."
"But as time went on...she grew more human. Watching you, learning emotions through you, she began to understand things more clearly. And when those romantic feelings surfaced, she recognized them for what they were. She knew it wasn't how a mother should feel."
Evangeline turned her head deliberately toward Vanitas, who was looking away and the added,
"And now I'll be saying some examples of how she was starting to look at you in a different way which she herself recounted to me, Kafka, so that you can have a better understanding."
Vanitas whimpered. "Evangeline, don't—"
But Evangeline's gaze was merciless. "You wanted the truth revealed, my lady. And so be it."
She then turned back to Kafka and begun saying,
"Example one. Lady Vanitas admitted she grew jealous. Jealous whenever another woman smiled at you, or leaned close to you, or tried to win your affection. She knew, she knew, as your mother, she should be pleased. Happy that her son was popular, happy that you'd have a future full of partners and children. That's the natural order of love: reproduction, the continuation of life."
"But instead, whenever another woman came near you, she burned with envy. She wanted you for herself. She told me this herself."
Kafka's eyes widened, his throat dry. "Jealous...of other women?"
Evangeline nodded, unflinching. "Yes."
Vanitas groaned into her palms, her face flushed scarlet.
"Example two..." Evangeline went on, relentless. "You once went to the cinema in your world, by yourself, to watch a romantic film. She was watching through you, as always. And there was a scene where the two lovers held hands, staring into each other's eyes...An ordinary romantic cliché."
"Yet Lady Vanitas confessed she wished it were her. She wanted to be the woman in that scene. To hold your hand, to look into your eyes like that. Even though she knew what it meant. Even though she knew it was wrong."
Vanitas let out a strangled noise, her body trembling with embarrassment.
But Evangeline wasn't finished. Her eyes hardened.
"And then...there are the moments she described that even I found difficult to listen to. Times when you were...with another partner. Doing what men and women do to make children."
Kafka froze, heat flooding his face. "You mean—"
Vanitas lurched forward, hands waving frantically. "Evangeline! Stop! Don't say it!"
But Evangeline's voice sliced through, merciless.
"She admitted that when she watched those moments, she didn't feel like a mother who should look away...No. She felt hot, flushed, jealous again. She wanted to be the woman with you. She wanted to experience what they were experiencing with you. She wanted to feel your touch, your passion, for herself."
Her words dropped like thunder.
Kafka stared at her in disbelief, his face pale as he slowly turned toward his mother.
Vanitas had covered her entire face now, her body trembling violently, her violet eyes peeking out through her fingers, glowing red with shame. She was flushed so deeply she looked as though she might combust, her pride stripped bare in the most humiliating way.
Evangeline then cut through the silence with her calm, steady voice.
"I could state many more examples, Kafka. Many more moments where your mother's feelings betrayed her, moments where it was clear she wasn't looking at you as her son anymore, but as a man...But I think what I've already told you is more than enough to make the point clear."
Kafka exhaled sharply, half-chuckling in disbelief.
"Yeah...I think I get it. You basically just told me that my own mother wanted to bed her son. I mean...there's no need to explain any further."
He gave a weak laugh, shaking his head like the absurdity of it was too much even for him.
"My mother is definitely in love with me..."
The words hung heavy, and Vanitas only pressed her hands tighter against her face, muffling the tiny whimper that escaped her throat.
But then Kafka frowned. "Wait. You mentioned Abigaille earlier. What does all of this have to do with her? How is she involved in this?"
Evangeline nodded. "Yes. Abigaille is the key to the third and fourth points. Let me explain."
She folded her arms, speaking with precision as she went on to say,
"The thing is, even though Lady Vanitas had such feelings, and even though she was aware of them, she tried to bury them. Like any mother would. She knew it was wrong, and so she concealed it."
"She meditated, underwent endless rituals to purge herself of these 'demons,' and for a time she truly believed she was making progress. She even told me once that maybe, just maybe—one day those feelings would fade away."
Vanitas lowered her hands slightly, her face burning red with shame.
"But..." Evangeline continued. "...everything changed at the start of the trial. When you were tasked to seduce Abigaille."
Kafka stiffened. "Abigaille...?"
"Yes." Evangeline's eyes narrowed. "Lady Vanitas was watching, as always. And she saw it happen, saw you seduce Abigaille, who was supposed to be your mother. The woman who had raised you, who was meant to embody maternal care for you."
"And yet, there she was, beginning to falter...to see you as a man rather than a child. Lady Vanitas saw it all. And in that moment, she thought, she knew, she wasn't alone. That even Abigaille, sweet and pure Abigaille, was being pulled into the same storm."
Vanitas winced, her lips trembling, but she couldn't deny it, while Evangeline pressed on.
"And so, she convinced herself. 'If even Abigaille could fall, then maybe what I'm feeling isn't so wrong. Maybe I'm not the only terrible mother.' And that thought...it gave her license. License to stop suppressing what she felt."
"Every smile you gave Abigaille, every reaction she had to your advances, only fanned the flames in Lady Vanitas' chest. She thought: 'If Abigaille can...then why shouldn't I?' And she used Abigaille as her excuse to stop holding back."
Kafka groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"But...she didn't have to keep watching. No one forced her. She could have just looked away."
Evangeline shrugged lightly. "Ask her, not me."
All eyes turned to Vanitas, who slowly peeked out from behind her fingers, her voice breaking.
"I...I did try to look away. I swear I did. But something...it was like something chained my eyes in place. I knew, I knew, that if I kept watching, I'd realize things I didn't want to realize...But I couldn't stop myself."
"It was like being liberated and cursed at the same time. Watching you and Abigaille only made my own feelings...come alive."
She choked back a sob, covering her face again.
And hearing this, Kafka pressed a hand to his temple, muttering. "Gods above..."
"But it didn't end there." Evangeline sighed. "Abigaille's involvement carried into the fourth and final aspect. By this point, Lady Vanitas was teetering, on the very edge of a precipice. One more push, and she would fall completely, unable to return. And that final push...came the moment you took Abigaille's virginity."
Kafka almost choked, his face flushing crimson. "Wha—hold on. What does that have to do with it?! There no way! You're making this up!"
But Evangeline shook her head firmly.
"No. It had everything to do with it, as watching Abigaille, who was supposed to be your mother—moaning beneath the sheets, trembling under your touch, filled with pleasure—seeing her, of all people, abandon her role as your parent figure and embrace you as a lover, completely broke Vanitas."
"That was it. The dam shattered. She lost all the strength she had to resist. She became consumed by her lust, her desire. At that moment, she no longer cared about what was right or wrong. She wanted you. Only you. To devour you like Abigaille had."
Kafka shivered at the words, his heart racing rapidly. But then suddenly, his eyes widened as realization struck.
"...Wait. That night. The same night my mother and Noelle, the God of Stars, attacked the mortal realm. Back then, I thought she was trying to kill me. That she was trying to take me away. But—"
He froze, staring at Vanitas in disbelief.
"...are you saying she wasn't trying to kill me at all? That she broke through because she...because she wanted to..."
His voice cracked.
"...sleep with me?"
Evangeline rubbed her face with both hands, looking deeply uncomfortable. But finally, she nodded.
"Yes. That's exactly it. At that moment, she wasn't trying to harm you. She wanted to claim you."
She said like she couldn't believe that a almighty God was explaining incest stories, before then looking at him with a pitiful gaze and saying,
"And let me just tell you that you're lucky the barrier saved you, Kafka. If it hadn't held...you would have met your mother much sooner. And you would have been traumatized. Because you wouldn't have been able to resist her."
"...She would have devoured you—not as a god, not as a warrior—but in bed and you would be the one moaning helplessly under the sheets."
Kafka sat frozen, his face pale. The thought slammed into his chest like a hammer—if things had gone differently, he would have taken two of his mothers virginities in a single night.
Vanitas herself nearly fainted, her body buckling as she collapsed back into a golden throne she conjured in desperation right beside Kafka.
Trembling, she summoned a goblet of water and drained it in one gulp—then another, then another, trying to cool her burning face. But no amount of water could wash away the unbearable heat of shame.
Her violet eyes, shimmering with tears, peeked at Kafka only briefly before darting away.
And Kafka, gripping the arm of his chair, could only stare, utterly shaken, as the truth finally sank in.