Fellow Sufferers (2)

The Saint and I set out for the lake.

"This way, wizard."

She took the lead without hesitation—a far cry from the Valkyrie, who'd told me in no uncertain terms never to walk behind her.

"Just don't stick too close."

Keeping her distance suggested she was wary of me, but it was a half-hearted kind of caution. If I decided to crack her over the back of the head, how exactly did she plan to react?

"Excuse me, Miss Caston."

"What is it?"

"Could you turn around for a moment?"

"Absolutely not."

She wouldn't even look me in the face.

"We have no idea what might be waiting up ahead. Left, right—keep a proper watch on our surroundings. Wizard."

"For the last time, I'm not a wizard."

"Then what am I supposed to call you? A mage?"

"Yes."

She knew the distinction well enough.

"I've always been curious, actually. Wizard? Mage? What's the difference?"

"A mage is a magic-user who upholds the Pact of the Magical Path."

"So what? Calling you a wizard should still be fine, then."

"In that case, may I call you a half-elf Saint?"

Only then did she glance back. Her irises had gone rabbit-red.

"No? Of course not! Lumina and half-elves are completely different!"

"The pointed ears look pretty similar to me."

"You have a real talent for getting under people's skin."

Evolutionarily speaking, Lumina were half-elves. They just hated being treated as such—pride in being the race chosen by the Goddess. Of course, that "chosen" business was nothing more than a story from the old myths.

"The same way you dislike being called half-elves, we mages feel the same. We are magic-users, yes—but call us wizards and we take offense."

"What, some kind of 'we're the best' thing? Chosen-people complex?"

"No. Unlike the Lumina."

"We're not like that either."

She answered with a pout.

They say extremes meet. Lumina and mage—perhaps the two words shared more origins than anyone cared to admit.

"We're here. The stream."

She pointed toward a brook.

"Follow this waterway downstream and you'll reach the lake."

"Good water?"

"There were plenty of fish."

"Then why didn't you catch a single one yesterday?"

I fixed her with a suspicious look. She averted her eyes, whipping her head away—but my gaze was faster. Her irises had turned orange.

After setting the fish traps, we made our way down to the lake and washed our hands and faces first. That was when the Saint spoke up.

"Under the lake."

"Pardon?"

"There might be danger beneath the water. A water ghost, for instance."

So there really was a water wraith of some kind.

"Did you run into this ghost here yesterday?"

No answer came. That was confirmation enough.

Yesterday, the Valkyrie and the Saint had returned before sundown. If they truly had been attacked, it meant a monster that paid no mind to day or night might be lurking under the surface.

"Still, I don't see anywhere else to bathe. Looking at it now, the upstream is far too shallow."

She swallowed hard.

White, orange, violet, pink—her irises flickered through colors like a fireworks display.

"Th-that washing business. Do we really have to?"

"Yes. I figure I won't be able to put any real effort into anything until I do."

"Then… go ahead."

Following the waterway down, we found the lake exactly as that mysterious man had described. The water was impossibly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clear. Out of nowhere, the Saint spoke again.

"I should wash up as well."

"Ah—right."

My brain short-circuited for a second, but I told her to go ahead. She'd bathed yesterday, so I took it to mean a light rinse of the face. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It wasn't as though she was about to strip bare right in front of me.

"I'll go take care of things behind those rocks over there."

I gathered a shaving knife and David and headed for the far side of the rocks. Stripping off my clothes and setting them on top, I checked the depth. Waist-deep—just right.

Heeding David's advice, I scattered alert stones across the lakebed. That should give me some measure of peace of mind.

Still, better safe than sorry—I'd wash as fast as I could and get out.

"Man, now this is living."

After sweltering in the heat, stepping into the water was pure heaven.

I was mid-shampoo, mid-shave, when a sudden splash shattered the quiet.

I whipped my head around at once.

But there was nothing where the sound had come from.

"…Did I imagine it?"

It was a lake, yes, but not still water. Rocks jutted up here and there, and the current varied by spot. It could have been nothing more than water striking stone.

Of course, there was one other possibility.

The next instant—before the alert stones could even react—something heavy and cold coiled around my ankle.

"Got one!"

Rachel hauled up her fishing rod. This time she'd hooked something with real bulk. That made five already.

"Not bad at all."

The compliment was partly for her own knack with a line—and partly for the man who'd built the rod. For something thrown together in a hurry, it held up surprisingly well.

The line, especially, refused to snap. Maybe because it was made from expensive stockings—unless a truly heavy fish took the bait, it wasn't going to give out.

"Ugh, stings."

She'd been out on the water far too long. Looking up, she found the sun at its zenith. Any more sea fishing and she'd end up burned.

Rachel rowed back to the deserted island, shook out her outer clothes, put them on, and sat in the shade of a rock for a brief rest.

"Haaa… I really can't afford to tan."

She'd lost her family to a mage, and every last friend was dead. No one close remained in her private life. Her ambitions, as a result, were modest: grind the Magic Kingdom thoroughly underfoot, then retire in peacetime and build new relationships from scratch.

A family would be nice, if she could manage it. Marry a kind man. And for the sake of that future husband, skincare was non-negotiable.

"Surviving comes first, though."

Rachel gave a dry little laugh.

Unbidden, the image of the Saint and the wizard setting out that morning rose in her mind.

The Saint in particular—Tiria Caston's safety—worried her.

Tiria was the first person from the Holy Kingdom Rachel had seen in a month. Naturally, she inspired more trust than an enemy mage ever could.

"…Colonel. You'll be all right, won't you?"

She was not.

Following the man's example, Tiria stripped as well and approached the rock where he stood. With every step closer, her heart hammered—thump, thump—faster and faster.

Fortunately, he was absorbed in washing his hair. He didn't seem to have heard her approach.

From the far side of the rock, the slap of water filled her ears—the sound of him pouring water over his own body.

Tiria began scrubbing herself stiffly.

The long walk through the sweltering forest had left her drenched in sweat. It hadn't been the plan, but bathing had become unavoidable. Keeping clean was essential if she wanted to avoid disease, after all.

But did that mean she had to wash this close to the man?

Yes.

There was one reason.

The water ghost.

Physical attacks did nothing to a water ghost. If that monster tried to drown the man the way it had tried with her and Rachel yesterday, there would be no other recourse. Tiria had to stay nearby so she could intervene at once.

Enemy or not, once you were stranded on a deserted island, cooperation was mandatory. Tiria might consider mages a social blight, but she still had this much flexibility.

So.

This was necessary.

She swallowed hard and stole a glance past the rock.

"W-waah."

His body.

Trapezius and latissimus, deltoids and erectors—not a single muscle out of place. Perfect.

Shoulders drawn taut as a hawk's wings, a back carved like sculpture, water beading on it like sweat—she lost her gaze to him in an instant.

"…"

Tiria's face flushed as if molten iron had been poured over it.

I've lost my mind. The second I see an enemy soldier naked, the first thing that pops into my head is a line from a steamy novel? That is not the mindset of a Saint!

Yes. Steamy novels. Those books Catherine had brought in were always the problem.

How had it come to this?

It had all started with the lapse of a fellow Saint ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠named Vesti.

Vesti, eldest among the Saints, had gone out one day to perform a civilian baptism, taken one look at a village youth, and fallen head over heels. She'd written a diary full of fantasies about him—and the high priest had found it.

Compose yourself, Saint! You are meant to deliver the Goddess's word—you cannot write filth like this!

The high priest had scolded her so severely that Vesti simply snapped.

From that day on, she began dropping little comments to the other Saints about wanting to go outside and fall in love freely. Tiria and the rest, already chafing under the Church's ascetic life, found themselves nodding more than they should have.

Then one day, Catherine—who volunteered at the library—came back with a piece of classical literature that depicted the union of man and woman.

The plot was simple: a man and woman from two hostile houses fall for each other and elope. An ancient, well-worn formula—but to Saints who'd never read anything but dry scripture, it was pure dopamine.

Sisters! Look at this! Classical literature with such impure content!

This should be designated a banned book. Let's manage it ourselves so it never leaks outside.

The intimate scenes ran to two pages at most, and even those were written in the most circuitous language. Still, the six Saints reread those passages hundreds of times. The paper yellowed and the ink wore away in just that section—that was how bad it got.

After that—

Something's missing—I mean, there might be more vulgar books like this out there, right?

Exactly. We should step up and censor them ourselves.

That was the start of the downhill slide.

Adolescent girls, with Catherine at the helm, ran wild through the library. They borrowed every romance novel they could find, and whenever a new steamy title hit the shelves, they raced each other to buy it.

Wow, these are on a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠whole different level from the old stuff.

Cheap pulp, just as you'd expect—the prose is incredibly crass. Low-grade.

These are all grimoires. Under no circumstances can they be allowed to circulate!

Tiria had been thoroughly corrupted from that point on. With no proper entertainment available, reaching for pulp novels had been all but inevitable.

The high priest seemed aware of it, yet for some reason stopped at a few warnings. Probably intending for them to feel the guilt on their own.

In any case, it had been the most morally lax period of their lives.

Once grown, Tiria had at some point fallen into deep self-loathing. She'd quit novels entirely and read only scripture—to keep her faith, to preserve a Saint's dignity, to live piously from then on.

But.

After what had happened yesterday, how was any word of scripture supposed to stick in her head?

Regardless, Tiria had one job.

Watch the man.

Whenever she slipped and made a splash, he turned around—and each time, Tiria had to scramble behind the rock. She'd hold her breath, wait, and resume her surveillance the moment he looked away again.

A long time passed with her spying on the mage under the pretext of watching for the water ghost.

In that span, her mind turned into a fireworks disaster—so thoroughly that she'd long since forgotten her original plan of washing faster than him and getting dressed first.

And the crisis struck while she was still staring, completely vacant.

"What the hell is this—!"

Something seized the man and dragged him under. At the same moment, the dazed Tiria snapped back to her senses.

No time to dress.

Tiria dove into the water to save him.