Southeastward Bound
Southeastward Bound
Village chief Laveri's offer hadn't been spontaneous.
It was, he said, the conclusion reached after plenty of discussion during the two days I'd been unconscious. The damage Ear Hunter had been inflicting on the elves was that severe, so resolving it with a surprise attack before the bastard finished his preparations had apparently been a wise choice. Hunting always came down to how thoroughly you prepared, after all.
"Of course, the fact that you're a remarkable member of the Human Race who heard the World Tree's words played a part as well. Various other opinions were put forward for what to give you... but from what I heard from Cellevian, your weaponry already seemed to be more than sufficient. A token of friendship was also pointless since you'd already received the World Tree's seed, so the consensus was that armor would be best."
If I had to pick the lowest-quality thing I was wearing, it was definitely my armor. It was nothing more than ordinary leather armor.
Until recently it hadn't caused any particular problems, so I'd made do with it. But the little wounds I'd picked up fighting Ear Hunter had already been bothering me, and I'd planned to use my newly fattened purse to have a decent set of armor made once I returned to Itisel.
"It may not match dwarf armor, but it's remarkably sturdy for its weight. What do you say?"
"...Then I'll gratefully accept."
For a moment I'd considered just taking money and commissioning a custom order from Balkun... but it wasn't like I'd visit here once and never return. Ultimately, this was a place Asilie and I would have to drop by at least once more.
If the one who refused their goodwill at that time showed up wearing dwarf-crafted armor, it would cause pointless gossip, so it was better to just accept what they gave. I was curious about what elven armor was like anyway, so there was no downside.
"Haha, that's a relief. I don't say this lightly—our village blacksmith is quite skilled. When they suddenly picked up a hammer one day, I thought they'd gone mad, but after 1,300 years of hammering away, I suppose the work really suits them."
"...1300 years?"
"Village chief. It's 1354 years this year."
"Ah, was it? My memory grows hazy with age. Hohoho."
Cellevian and Laveri were chatting with an odd sense of déjà vu, laughing with haha-hoho and answers like 'Well, that can happen.' Unlike them, I felt a cold sweat running down my spine.
Fuck, this is why talking to long-lived species is terrifying. Just how old are these elders?
"They couldn't stick with a job for even a full century before changing trades, so I assumed this time would be no different. Life truly is unpredictable."
The explanation continued: the blacksmith was a little eccentric, but unquestionably skilled. Hearing they'd been at it for 1,354 years, though, I couldn't shake the anxiety that this might be a craftsperson with a screw loose.
Just as dwarves were born craftsmen and architects, elves were born hunters and forest keepers. The academic consensus was that because their preferences were so starkly divided, elves, even with that long lifespan, couldn't surpass dwarven techniques at the racial level.
I'd never personally seen the dwarven kingdom, but from the rumors, they were practically the only people living in an arcane-punk world inside a medieval-fantasy setting. At the very least, I'd seen nothing like that in the elven village or the World Tree's territory, so the elves' nature-oriented way of life probably hadn't changed.
In an environment like that, how was I supposed to treat an elf who'd spent more than a thousand years on smithing alone as normal? From bits of the conversation in front of me, it sounded like they even kept up regular exchanges with dwarves.
To these people, the blacksmith was just a fellow long-lived villager who happened to like that kind of work. To me, a member of another race, they seemed like an elf who was completely out of their mind. I felt very sorry for thinking that about someone I hadn't even met, but I couldn't help it.
Anyone who'd spent 1,300 years doing one thing and nothing else looked like a lunatic to me.
"...Then I'll stop by Luwiming's smithy with Eldmia early tomorrow morning. I'd already given them a heads-up at the last meeting, and they pick up the hammer at dawn every day, so I don't think it'll be a problem."
"Mm, that sounds good. Our guest should also rest properly for today at least."
Before I knew it, the two had even fixed my visiting schedule, smiling brightly as they tilted their cups.
What Asilie had told me back when I'd briefly stopped at Ogwen with Sen's group had been true.
The Blue Vine elves really loved their liquor.
◈
I'd tilted so many cups that I wondered if the words 'rest properly' had actually been code for 'let's kill him with alcohol.' After barely managing to stagger back to the Enderinia family's side, I'd fallen asleep only to wake up in a flash amidst a brutal hangover and the cold.
The drinking session, which initially seemed like it would end with just Laveri sharing a drink with me, had been passed to Cellevian on the grounds that I handled my liquor better than expected. Soon after, other elves, increasingly drunk, joined in, and it had turned into a massive, chaotic party.
Noble and aloof elves? Those might exist somewhere, but at the very least, the Blue Vine elves were a far cry from that stereotype.
They were closer to Vikings. By the end, some were even being friendly with me for no reason other than I could hold my liquor. I vaguely remembered seeing Laveri in the back, sipping his drink and watching the scene with satisfaction. That was probably accurate.
I'd only now realized that the unsteady look he'd shown when handing the floor over to Cellevian had been nothing but an act, but I didn't feel bad about it. Since that was how he'd arranged a spot for me to bond with the other elves.
"Urp."
Of course, that only meant I didn't feel bad about what had happened. Physically, the hangover was driving me straight into hell. I'd wanted to leisurely look around Asilie's old room and indulge in a little novel-protagonist sentimentality, but I had no room for that nonsense now.
I clearly remembered walking home with Cellevian just fine yesterday, so why was I suffering so much? Thinking back, the root cause was probably the round two drinking session that had broken out with the Enderinia family.
Even the youngest, Amie, was 40 years old, so every single family member, without exception, had gone all-out pouring and drinking. My last memory was crawling into my room practically half-dead. As I recalled all that, disgusted by the alcohol stench clinging in my mouth, I heard a polite knock on the door.
"Ahem, son-in-law. Are you awake?"
It was intensely embarrassing, but seeing Arwel's reaction, it was obvious no one had blacked out. I had no choice but to swallow the bile rising in my throat and answer.
"Yes, father-in-law. I just woke up."
Fucking alcohol was the enemy. It was the result of me getting properly wasted for the first time in ages and walking right into Arwel's leading interrogation.
'You! Do you know the meaning of that earring!'
'Of coursh... Cellevian told me...'
'You can take good care of our Asilie, can't you, son-in-law!'
'Needsh you ashk... I'll treasure her more than my own life, father-in-law...'
Fuck.
I'd rather not have remembered at all. I didn't think it was a slip of the tongue, but it wasn't the kind of thing I'd wanted to say while plastered.
As I staggered out of bed, Arwel quietly opened the door and came in. With a pleased look, he handed me a steaming cup of tea and continued.
"This will help with the hangover. You truly do hold your liquor well."
"I was just struggling because I think I overdid it more than usual. Thank you."
"Haha, just managing to stay conscious was impressive. You're going to Luwiming's smithy today, right? Cellevian's just woken up and is getting ready too. My wife is simmering some broth that's good for hangovers, so have a little even if you're feeling rough."
It was a suggestion I really, truly wanted to refuse, but this time I was defeated by curiosity. I was desperately curious about what kind of hangover cure these liquor-loving elves used. In the end, I reacted one way or another and stepped out of the room with Arwel. The moment I did, a familiar smell stabbed my nose, making my eyes snap wide open.
"The aroma... is really nice."
"Hahaha. Don't praise it too much yet. You might not like a thin soup with nothing but vegetables in it."
Arwel's comment that it was the sort of food only elves ate didn't even register anymore. I already knew a smell very much like this one.
I walked down the second-floor stairs, which I couldn't even remember climbing up, and entered the dining room. The siblings of the Enderinia family, looking just as dead as me, and Cellevian greeted me with smiling faces. The drinking session yesterday had instantly closed the distance between us, which wasn't entirely a bad thing.
"It might not suit your palate, but you'll feel much better after eating it, so please have at least a little."
Looking at the clear soup Himir, his wife, had ladled into a bowl as she said that, I cracked a smile that welled up from the bottom of my heart.
"It looks absolutely delicious. Thank you for the meal."
What sat before my eyes was, in both appearance and smell, unmistakably bean sprout soup.
Tasting it with a spoon, there were subtle differences, but the flavor was roughly similar. And to think, in the kingdom, there were countless humans who refused to eat it because it looked unappealing.
The familiarity was so comforting that I forgot even my hangover, polished off two bowls, and only then rose with Cellevian to head toward the blacksmith with 1,354 years of experience.
Praying all the while that they'd be normal.