A Song for Just One Person (2)
After leaving the restaurant, we finally made it home, the whole walk there steeped in an awkwardness that simply refused to lift.
The moment we reached the front door, Erzena's tightly sealed lips finally parted.
"Oh, dinner today was really... lovely."
"I'm glad to hear it. Let's go again sometime."
"I'd like that."
Her ears, as she hurriedly kicked off her shoes, had flared a bright red.
"W-well then... I'm tired, so... goodnight. ...Nathan."
And no sooner had the words left her mouth than she bolted for the second floor.
I suppose calling someone by their bare name, no honorifics attached, really does take a bit of courage.
But I still had one piece of business left with her.
"Ah, please wait just a moment, Erzena."
At my call, her body—mid-dash up the stairs—froze on the spot.
"That thing I mentioned to you before—this seems like the perfect moment to hand it over."
"...?"
Erzena looked back at me, her face a question mark.
"Please wait just a moment."
Leaving her there, I headed down into the basement.
— Thud. Scraaape. Bang!
Amid all that racket, some three minutes later I came back up with something in my hands.
"Cough! It had gathered more dust than I expected—I nearly couldn't find the thing."
The moment Erzena's eyes landed on it, her expression turned to astonishment.
"A guitar...?"
It was, indeed, a guitar.
"Ahem. It's a far cry from the top-grade instrument you used to play, Erzena, but it's still quite a serviceable old fellow."
I said it with feigned pride.
"To be precise, it isn't this officer's— rather, it's one I inherited from my grandfather."
I gave the guitar a few pats to shake off the worst of the dust, then held it out to her.
"If you'd make use of it while you're staying here, it should help keep the loneliness at bay."
Erzena had arrived at my house without a single belonging to her name. The necessities she'd hurriedly bought at the market and a spare change of clothes were the sum total of everything she owned.
There's no hell quite like having no hobby, no leisure, nothing at all to enjoy.
For a man as frantically busy as me, it wouldn't have mattered—but she was a different story. Granted, she would be heading to the Immigration Office herself starting today, but leaving her to sit around with nothing to do would have been poor hospitality. She'd be staying under this roof for two whole months; she needed something to pass the time.
And sure enough, her golden eyes sparkled with delight.
"Wow... I was already curious about the guitar Central— I mean, Nathan, mentioned."
She took it quickly and slid straight over to the couch, plopping down onto the cushions. Her professed exhaustion was long gone, replaced by a hum of anticipation.
"Now, let's see..."
— Twang.
The moment her finger plucked a string, a grotesque sound sprang out.
"..."
"..."
Silence.
"I-I'll retune it for you."
"It's alright. I'll do it right now."
She adjusted the tension of the strings with practiced ease, and before long—
— Drriing.
a mellow melody came flowing out of the freshly tuned guitar.
"It's a good instrument. The sound has real depth to it."
It wasn't clean. Nor was it precise. But perhaps thanks to the years it had lived through and the many hands it had passed through, it carried a resonance all its own—unique, and deep. A nostalgic feeling washed over me, carrying me back to my days at the Academy. And still lingering somewhere in that sound was the very tone my grandfather used to play for me.
"If you press here, like this... oh, there we go. Now it rings much more naturally."
Watching her happily fiddle with the instrument, I spoke quietly.
"Would you... care to play something?"
"Huh...?"
Startled, she lifted her head.
"I'm simply too curious about what this Rock Spirit of yours actually is."
I'd only ever heard the rumors—that the moment she took a stage, she became someone entirely different. What could that possibly look like? The her I'd seen so far had two faces: the zealous fanatic, and the genuinely saintly. So what face would she wear when she sang? Curiosity gnawed at me.
"Ah, no... asking me so suddenly like that..."
"There's no need to feel any pressure."
I said it as I settled slowly onto the sofa.
"Just think of it as one small request from a landlord to his tenant."
Which was a roundabout way of saying: do it.
Erzena narrowed her eyes.
"...I feel like the pressure just jumped fivefold."
The light back-and-forth eased the air between us.
"Ahem—hemm!"
She readied her voice.
"Well then... shall I... give one song a try?"
I nodded, smiling.
"The honor would be all mine."
What song would be good?
Erzena fell deep into thought. Honestly, she hadn't intended to play anything at all. She'd simply gotten carried away at the sight of an instrument after so long, that was all. But staring into those expectation-filled black eyes, she found she couldn't possibly refuse.
He gave her such a satisfying meal, and even thanked her.
His earnest words still glowed in her heart like embers. Perhaps that was why she wanted to sing him something Nathan would actually like.
He'd said it once—she'd overheard him through a window. That he did not lean upon God.
Then hymns probably weren't much to his taste.
Now, what songs had she sung in her time? She cast her mind back.
"Slay the Unbelievers"
"Walk Barefoot Through the Thorns"
"4-Hour Nonstop Praise-the-Lord Medley"
A positively menacing lineup.
...What on earth possessed me to sing things like that?
Her face suddenly flared hot, and she shook her head hard enough to scatter the thought. Then Erzena remembered a song she'd loved as a child—the one she'd sung lying in bed back at the convent, dragging her worn-out body through one hardship after another.
That's the one.
She took a deep breath and struck the first note.
"When the long day ends, a short night waits for us..."
Her voice rippled out, soft and serene.
"The faces that laughed and wept all fade away, and we gaze up at the starlight without a care in the world..."
Nathan closed his eyes, nodding along now and then. The Central Officer tapped the floor with the tip of his foot, right on the beat—and at the sight, Erzena allowed herself a small smile.
Look at him, keeping the rhythm and everything.
She carried the song onward into an even gentler melody. And then the soft warmth of the hearth and a faint golden radiance wove together and began to wrap around him—so discreetly he could never notice, warm and seamless as a quilt. Nathan's breathing gradually evened out. And then, slowly, its rhythm began to slow.
"Lay down your weary body; lean your head upon my knees and drift off to sleep..."
As she played, she sank into thought. If only this song would never end. If only this poor man could sink into sweet sleep just as he was. If only this moment could stretch on as long as it possibly could.
"Don't open those closed eyes. I'd rather not be caught, watching you..."
For the first time, she sang not to God, but wholly for him. Not shrieking until her throat tore, but soft as a lullaby—for this man so perfectly upright, and yet so brittle it seemed a single blow might snap him in two.
With a soft, sliding hush, Nathan's head drooped, and his crossed arms slipped apart.
"Mmm..."
His expression had melted smooth before anyone noticed. In place of the face so laden with worry and fatigue, he now slept the sound, carefree sleep of a child with not a worry in the world.
A smile bloomed at the corner of Erzena's lips. In this very moment, she was purely, simply happy.
The flames in the hearth danced along with her holy power, and even the crickets beyond the window fell quiet to listen to the song. And so, as the night deepened, a woman sang for a man.
The next morning, at the Immigration Office.
"Good morning, everyone."
More refreshed than I could ever remember feeling, I delivered the greeting with plenty of force.
"Good morning, all."
Erzena followed me in, wearing an equally unburdened expression.
"Good morning, Central Officer, and Miss Erzena!"
"No exceptions at the border!"
"I slept like a log last night!"
The lively greetings came flying back all at once. A rare sight, at the Immigration Office. So this was why everyone was always harping on about clocking out on time.
Of course, there was one exception.
"Why did I have to pick scissors... why am I the only one who has to go home late..."
There was one poor soul who still hadn't escaped yesterday's blunder.
"There, there, Olfactory Officer. Next time, throw rock instead of scissors."
"Grrrrr..."
At my light teasing, he shot me a glare that could kill.
And that was when it happened.
— Flap, flap.
The sound of vigorous wingbeats echoed in from somewhere.
"Hello there~! Royal Post Office at your service!"
Along with the cheerful voice, a young woman in light clothing entered the office. But there was something odd about her.
She had no arms.
In their place stood a pair of huge, snow-white wings.
"...A harpy."
A being half human, half bird, wearing the shape of a person. Since the Royal Post made speed its very lifeblood, its entire courier corps was made up of harpies. Unbound by road conditions and free to soar anywhere, they were the beings best suited to the postman's trade. As if to prove the point, a medal stamped with a bird-talon emblem hung at her neck—the unmistakable symbol of the Royal Post Office.
She drew the delivery list out with her mouth and read from it.
"Hmm... let's see... Nathan Kell? Is there a Nathan Kell here?"
"Here."
She gave her wings a single flap and shot across the room to my side in one clean sweep.
— Thunk.
With a heavy thump, she deposited what her talons had been clutching onto my desk.
"Please sign as the recipient—and the signature for the one you missed last time, too, since you weren't here!"
Work documents flown in from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and a thick codebook sent over by the Intelligence Department. And, on top of it all, a certain bundle of papers stamped with a serpent seal.
That must be the material on the Evil God Cult that the Intelligence Director mentioned.
No doubt about it.
"Yes, that's all mine. Then... hold on—"
Just then, one more item caught my eye. A fine, expensive-looking red envelope. And it looked terribly familiar—the exact same color as the letter that had come last time. The instant I saw it, a chill ran up my spine all over again.
"W-wait, please, just one moment."
"Huh? I'm busy! I still have deliveries to make to the border folk!"
I caught hold of her and asked.
"Th-this letter. Who sent it?"
Please, tell me my guess is wrong. Tell me it isn't that person.
The courier's gaze followed mine down to the letter.
"Uh... this..."
Her words stuck for a moment—and then she abruptly snapped to attention, chin jutting stiffly upward.
"The Royal Post Office discloses no information whatsoever regarding its senders!"
And with that, the harpy recited the line like a machine, her tone stiff as a board.
"U-um, Miss Courier? What do you mean—"
"The Royal Post Office discloses no information whatsoever regarding its senders!"
When a harpy was placed under extreme strain, or bound by some powerful command drilled into her through training, she locked up entirely—rigid, as though paralyzed. Which is to say, that frozen posture could also be read another way: that someone whose authority soared so high no one would dare so much as raise a wing against them had entrusted her with that letter.
And there, I knew.
Damn it.
The owner of this letter was the Princess.