Have You Come To?
"…Vice Captain! Come to your senses, Vice Captain!"
I hurriedly caught Celine as she went limp in my arms. But no matter what I did, she would not wake.
The problem was her shoulder.
The place where the mana bolt had struck her earlier had already turned an ugly black.
The Corrupted Dragon's venom had seeped into her body through the wound.
…This is bad. I have to act fast.
I examined her injury in haste. Fortunately, thanks to my knowledge of the original story, I already knew how to handle a situation like this.
The Corrupted Dragon's poison spreads slowly through an open wound. So the first priorities were to squeeze out as much of the tainted blood as possible, rinse the wound with clean water, and then crush and apply the herbs that neutralized the venom.
With trembling hands, I set to work on her emergency treatment at once.
How much time passed after that, I couldn't say…
Thankfully, it seemed I had put out the worst of the fire. The black stain of venom that had been creeping outward no longer spread, and Celine's ragged breathing gradually evened out into something steadier.
…Whew. At least we've bought ourselves a moment.
But it was far too soon to relax. We were still sitting in a place thick with the toxic miasma pouring off the Corrupted Dragon's corpse. If we lingered here any longer, even I—who was still unharmed—wouldn't come out of it unscathed.
I carefully hoisted Celine onto my back and hurried us out of that poisoned ground.
After walking a long while, until we were finally beyond the reach of the miasma, I came upon an abandoned village where not a soul remained. It seemed everyone had fled to escape the Corrupted Dragon's rampage; the place was empty and desolate.
Even so, one house among them still looked relatively intact. I carried her inside and laid her gently on the bed.
Looking down at her pale, chilled face, I felt a tightness settle in my chest.
…She needs to get her strength back soon.
I wiped the cold sweat from her brow and let out a quiet sigh. Then a thought struck me.
A body damaged by poison needed proper nourishment above all else if it was going to recover. But even if she woke in her current state, there was no way she could get something as hard as jerky or dry bread down her throat. What she needed was something warm and soft—something that would gently heat her from the inside.
…Right. Let's try boiling something up.
I rose and began rummaging through the house. Fortunately, the kitchen still held a fair amount of housewares the former residents hadn't managed to take with them—a soot-stained pot, a humble hearth. And in a sack tucked in one corner, remarkably enough, was a quantity of grain that hadn't spoiled yet.
That wasn't all. In the little kitchen garden out back, a few ownerless vegetables and medicinal herbs were still growing quite vigorously.
…Oh. This should be more than enough.
I found myself smiling without meaning to.
Yes. What she needed right now was nothing other than a single bowl of hot, gentle porridge—a carefully made bowl that would soothe her stomach and restore the strength she had lost.
I rolled up my sleeves. Before Celine woke, before she opened her eyes, I needed to have a warm spoonful ready for her the moment she came to. I had to get that porridge on the fire, and quickly.
I rolled up my sleeves and set about preparing the porridge at once.
First I scooped a handful of grain from the sack, then rinsed it carefully in clean water—again and again, until the cloudy white runoff ran clear. After that I left it to soak for a while, so each grain could plump up nicely.
…This way, it'll break down much more smoothly later.
Porridge was the sort of thing you ruined if you rushed it. If the grain didn't soak properly, no amount of boiling would save it—you'd still end up with a gritty, underdone mess.
While the grain was soaking, I prepared the vegetables I'd pulled from the back garden.
The person who would be eating this porridge was a body so ravaged by venom she wouldn't even have the strength to chew. So I minced the vegetables as finely as I possibly could—roots and leaves alike, chopped until they would melt on the tongue the moment they touched it.
At last the grain had soaked just enough. I poured a generous amount of water into the soot-stained pot and set it on the hearth.
With porridge, using plenty of water was essential. Too little, and the grains would scorch and stick before they ever had a chance to open up. Being stingy simply wouldn't do.
Once the water was bubbling merrily, I carefully added the soaked grain. I kept the flame high at first, just until it came to a rolling boil—then turned it down low and slow.
From here on was the real work.
I took up a wooden spoon and began stirring the bottom of the pot in slow, steady circles—careful not to let anything stick, yet just as careful not to crush the grains. Every bit of my attention went into that delicate balance of pressure.
…Bubble.
Bubble. Inside the pot, the grains gradually began to yield, loosening themselves into the water. A thick, milky broth started to take shape, little by little.
…As that savory, comforting aroma filled the kitchen, I felt something in me ease.
Once the grain had opened up to a fair degree, I added the finely minced vegetables and herbs—the firmer root vegetables first, the tender leafy ones last. That way each would cook through just enough to give its own flavor.
I didn't hurry. I simply kept stirring in silence, waiting for the porridge to soften and ripen of its own accord.
At last, when every last grain had broken down completely, losing all its shape, and the gentle sweetness and fragrance of the vegetables had steeped fully into that milky broth, I scooped up a spoonful and tasted it.
…Mm.
A soft, savory flavor melted gently across my tongue. The subtle sweetness of the grain, the bright aroma of the vegetables—and beneath it all, the faintest bitterness of the herbs, holding everything in quiet balance.
I seasoned it with salt until it was barely salted at all. For a stomach damaged by poison, the absence of any harsh stimulus mattered more than anything.
…Yes. This will do.
At last, the porridge was finished.
…A single bowl of soft, warm Vegetable Porridge, white steam rising from it in gentle curls—cooked so fine it would dissolve the moment it touched the tongue.
Cradling the bowl in both hands, I carefully made my way to the room where Celine lay.
…Please. Let this single spoonful breathe warmth back into her exhausted body. Let it restore the strength she had lost.
…I quietly poured that earnest wish into the warmth of the bowl.
…When she managed to push up her heavy eyelids, an unfamiliar ceiling swam into view.
For a moment, Celine couldn't even begin to place where she was. Her mind was fogged as if wrapped in mist, and her whole body felt as heavy as waterlogged cotton.
…Then, abruptly, the last of her memories returned.
The Corrupted Dragon. And Noah Grim. That vicious venom boring into her shoulder. And just before she lost consciousness—Kyle's face, drained of all color, racing toward her.
"…Have you come to?"
Just then, a quiet voice reached her from nearby.
She turned her head, and there was Kyle. He was looking down at her with an expression of unmistakable relief.
"…Sir Lowenheim… How did I…"
"…You were struck by the venom and lost consciousness. Fortunately I was able to give you emergency treatment, so now… you need only regain your strength, little by little."
…Only then did Celine piece together what must have happened. This man had carried her unconscious body all the way here and tended to her like this.
The thought of it made her cheeks warm, just a little.
At that moment, Kyle carefully held something out toward her.
"…Would you try some of this? You'll need something solid in your stomach if you're going to get your strength back."
A bowl of pale porridge, steam rising from it in soft curls.
"…How did you…"
"There happened to be some grain and vegetables left in the house, so I boiled up something simple."
Celine's eyes went wide.
…Porridge. And not just any porridge—porridge Kyle had made with his own hands.
…Unbidden, a memory from a few days ago flickered through her mind. That warm table she had spied on through a window. And herself, desperately swallowing her own hunger, aching for even a single bite of Kyle's cooking.
…And now, of all things, she was being handed a bowl he had made for her—right here, right in front of her eyes.
"…Please, eat. It won't taste as good once it cools."
At Kyle's gentle urging, Celine fumbled uncertainly for the spoon, lifted a careful mouthful, and blew on it softly before putting it in her mouth.
And then—
…!
A soft, savory flavor bloomed gently through her mouth. The impossibly fine grains of porridge, melting the instant they touched her tongue. The subtle sweetness of the vegetables. And beneath it all, a warm heat that seemed to soothe her exhausted body from the inside out.
…It was delicious.
It was only boiled grain, and yet somehow it loosened every tight, aching place inside her. As that warmth slid down into a body left parched and worn thin by venom, Celine felt her eyes sting without meaning to.
…Once she had swallowed that first spoonful, the next one followed of its own accord. As if entranced, Celine brought spoonful after spoonful to her lips.
"…Take your time. There's plenty."
Kyle watched her with a strangely contented smile.
Only then did Celine realize how frantically she had been eating, and a faint flush rose to her cheeks. Even so, she couldn't quite bring herself to set the spoon down.
"…It's truly delicious."
She murmured it quietly.
At her words, Kyle scratched the back of his head, looking somehow embarrassed. Watching him, Celine found a small laugh slipping out of her.
"…Heh. It's strange, isn't it."
"…Pardon?"
"…Not long ago at all I was locked in a life-or-death struggle with that monstrous beast… and now here I am, sitting in front of a bowl of warm porridge."
Celine looked down at the steaming bowl, a faintly distant smile on her face.
"…It feels almost as if I'm dreaming. I can hardly believe I was in the middle of that chaos only moments ago."
…Heh. She laughed softly, her shoulders shaking.
Looking back on it, it had been an impossibly long day. She had thrown herself into mortal danger and fought with her life on the line; she had very nearly lost that life. And yet now that all of it was behind her, sitting here before a single bowl of warm porridge…
…Somehow, that brutal day already felt like nothing more than a distant dream.
And in that dreamlike place, he was with her.
…The man who had carried her out of that deathtrap on his back, who had cared for her, who had even made this warm bowl with his own hands and fed it to her.
…How strange.
The thought came to her unbidden.
…At their first meeting she had been so wary of him. So why was it that now, being at his side felt only comfortable—and warm?
"…Come, finish the rest. Let's get your strength back."
"…Yes."
…Celine nodded obediently and lifted another spoonful of porridge.
"…Once I've recovered enough, we should return to the Imperial Palace together, Sir Lowenheim."
"…Yes. Let's do that."
And so the two of them sat across from each other, talking quietly back and forth. With a single bowl of warm porridge between them, an easy, companionable warmth settled drowsily through that humble little room.
Celine found herself thinking, suddenly—
that this moment might well have been the most peaceful, the warmest, of either of her two lives.
…That she wanted to stay right here, just a little longer.
Just a very little longer.
…Holding that quiet wish close, Celine let a gentle smile rest over the steaming bowl of porridge.