And the Front Line - 3
Jerome sat alone, tilting his cup, lost in thought.
Are they shutting me out?
It wasn't a baseless suspicion. Time and again they had vanished together, leaving him behind. Given how long he had spent at the Saintess's side, feeling a little left out was only natural.
Yet when he thought it through carefully, he realized that even during all those years of service in the Holy Kingdom, he had barely ever held a proper conversation with her. He quietly argued against himself.
Honestly, it had stung when they met Spring before and left him forgotten up on the walls. Seeing the two of them disappear alone again now left him genuinely hurt. He was an adult, possessed considerable self-control, and was a Holy Knight besides—so he had kept silent and bottled it up until now. But he was starting to feel he had reached his limit.
Right. I should go ask them.
At last the decision settled. He calmly concluded that he might simply be misunderstanding. True, they had only spent a short time together, but it was hard to believe they possessed the kind of character that would deliberately exclude him. Above all, they were the ones chosen by the gods; it only made sense that their character, skill, and talent would be exceptional.
On top of that, though he had rarely spoken with the Saintess, he had spent enough time near her to know her nature. She treated even a low-ranking Holy Knight with kindness, and her eyes shone brighter than anyone's. Even if he imagined the Hero might want to shut him out, the same man who had spoken casually with him in the carriage and approached him first would never suddenly turn like that.
Reassuring himself that they would never intentionally leave him out, he first turned his steps toward the Saintess's tent.
And what he heard standing before it was a faint moan, and the Hero's repeated voice refusing, "Please stay away."
His mind filled with question marks.
What?
Countless hypotheses and thoughts whirled through his head, plunging him into deep confusion. Instinct tried to stop his hand, warning that lifting the flap would only bring regret, yet reason insisted he had to see the truth. At last he drew the tent open and looked inside—and saw the Saintess, cheeks flushed crimson, trying to throw herself into the Hero's arms while the Hero pushed her away.
He stared straight at the somehow raw scene with wavering eyes, still doubting his own sight, until his gaze met the Hero's.
An awkward silence stretched between them.
"..."
The silence felt eternal; though it lasted only a moment, to both of them it seemed hours had passed.
Jerome was the first to break it.
"My apologies."
"I appear to have interrupted."
He thought to himself that young people these days moved remarkably fast, and decided he had no right to meddle in someone else's romance. Watching the Saintess—who had once seemed like a child—act so boldly after meeting the Hero left him with a complicated feeling, yet seeing the little girl he had first met grow into this also made him feel she had finally left his hands. He had never intended to claim her as a mere escort Holy Knight, but he was a man of deep affection, and that was how he thought of it—because she was the Saintess he had served for so long.
Jerome was still relatively young; if Lloyd or the others had known of these thoughts, they might well have snorted in laughter.
The Hero stared blankly for a moment after Jerome said, "I appear to have interrupted," then grasped the meaning and hastily rose, shouting after him.
"It's not like that!!"
Of course the words never properly reached Jerome.
The Hero tried to chase after him and clear the misunderstanding, but the Saintess clung to him and he could not leave. If he stepped outside while still held like this and more soldiers saw them, he had no idea how long the cleanup would take. What kind of rumors would the surrounding soldiers spread?
Thinking back to the last cycle—when he had carried the drunken Saintess to her tent and the rumors that followed—this time something far worse would circulate. Something like, "The Hero and the Saintess came out of the same tent." And if it went further, "I heard the Saintess was trying to throw herself at the Hero."
He could accept his own reputation taking a hit, but he refused to let her—flawless as she was—wear such rumors because of him.
So, still held by the Saintess, he retreated deeper into the tent.
And honestly, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling either. What man would dislike a situation where a woman of roughly his own age, with a mysterious fairy-like beauty as if she had stepped out of a fairy tale, tried to cling to him while drunk?
Yet the Hero had already decided that even if such a chance came, he would never force anything. His desire might sometimes seep out in quiet, damp ways, but his goal was mutual consent and pure love. Being publicly recognized as lovers in a situation like this—swept along by the atmosphere with a woman who was not in her right mind—held no "romance."
Yes. The Hero was a romanticist beyond imagination, full of ideals. In other words, a true romantic.
Thus the Hero forcibly peeled the Saintess off as she tried to cling to him, laid her on the bed, and stayed by her side until she fell asleep. Once he confirmed she had drifted off, he headed outside to rest himself—and what he saw was the sun slowly beginning to rise.
The Hero sighed.
Haa—
Didn't sleep again today.
The next morning, I opened my eyes in my own bed.
An unfamiliar ceiling greeted me. It looked like the inside of my tent. Had someone carried me here?
Yesterday's events refused to come into proper focus. My head pounded as if it would split.
I hastily chanted the holy arts I knew.
Purification
Heal
Normally one would have been enough, but with no clear grasp of the situation and desperate to escape the headache, I used both.
I smoothed my tangled hair, checked myself in the dusty mirror in the corner, and stepped outside.
And outside was a battlefield.
Black mud, half-melted shapes that looked like the remains of something burned, clumsy beasts mimicking animals—they poured through gaps in the palisade, over the top, up from beneath the earth. The soldiers stabbed, slashed, and blocked with the familiarity of routine.
I could only stare blankly at the first battlefield I had ever seen. It was utter chaos. That was why I hated war so much. Scenes I had only watched in a game now stood before me in reality, and my first impression of a real battlefield was, as expected, disgusting.
A soldier called to me.
"Saintess!"
When I turned, he continued.
"Healing over here!"
I grasped the situation and quickly followed him. Behind him lay countless wounded, their bodies torn by bites and claws, blood and entrails mixed and spilling out. I was not the strong-stomached type; the urge to vomit rose just looking at them. But I had to endure it. So I did.
Heal
"Next, this way!"
Heal
...
Heal
Heal
Heal
...
Heal
How long had I spent healing the wounded? By the time the sun was climbing toward its highest point, the final patient remained. Only then did I notice the other priests who had arrived and were treating the injured as well.
I turned toward him and chanted the holy art.
Heal
Yet the face of the man lying there looked somehow familiar. It was the squire who had guided us. For some reason he had never introduced his name or house, wearing only shabby clothes—yet I remembered him. Three claw marks scored his belly, and something kept spilling out through the gaps.
Heal
Even chanting Heal again, the wound did not close.
Ah. I see.
The essence of holy arts is to restore something to its original state. Returning a corpse that is already dead to its original state still leaves only a corpse.
And so the nameless squire who had guided us—kind, seemingly burdened by circumstances—one human being, died before my eyes.
Strangely enough, I felt nothing at all.
A little—just a little—if I had arrived sooner, would it have been different?
Well. It probably wouldn't have been.
Blood trickled from my nose and left eye. I had overused them far too much.
Just a little rest, maybe.
The world lay down.
No—I was the one who lay down.