Falling Blossoms
The Saintess stepped out through the door as if nothing were amiss—or at least, she was performing the part well enough—and set off toward the chapel with her usual unhesitating stride.
I glanced sideways at my younger sister. Her expression had not shifted in the slightest; she simply continued to carry out her duty in silence.
Finding no trace of panic on her face, I steeled my own features and fell in close behind the Saintess.
At the end of the long, almost desolate corridor, she opened the door and entered the chapel proper. The familiar routine of her daily duties looked so completely ordinary that I allowed myself a quiet breath of relief.
Once inside the chapel she paused only a moment before disappearing into the private prayer room she always used.
Standing guard on either side of that door, my sister and I exhaled at the exact same instant, as though we had both been holding our breath the entire time.
"Hah—"
The sighs of relief were loud enough that they would have carried through any thin door. Fortunately the private prayer chamber was a place that must never be disturbed, and the soundproofing was excellent.
Just as the silent vigil was beginning to grow tedious, a low creak sounded and the door of the Saintess’s private prayer room slowly swung open.
Questioning looks collided between us. My sister and I exchanged a glance, then finished opening the door ourselves.
What met our eyes was the wooden floor stained black with clotted blood, and upon it the Saintess, collapsed and pale as a corpse.
"Just like we were trained."
The moment my sister saw the scene she dropped low and poured holy power into the body.
Heal
Heal
Heal
Heal
Hea…
"Stop!"
Seeing her burn through holy power far too recklessly, I seized her wrist, then took the Saintess’s own wrist and slung her arm around my neck.
The clammy wetness of her clothes pressed against my back. My own clothes would be soaked in blood by now. I knew this was no time to care about such things, so I shut the thought away and called my sister’s name.
"Titia! Contact the medical wing!"
Titia and I had never been meant to serve the Saintess at all. Whether it was the result of some opaque power struggle or something else, the number of attendants permitted to the Saintess had always been fixed at three: two clerics and one alchemist. The alchemist was absent at present.
Some called it long tradition; others called it nothing more than the ugly jealousy of old men. What mattered now was that inside this small church building where the Saintess resided, only the three of us existed.
Our holy power alone could never fully heal her.
Think. Think. Think…
"Oppa… there wasn’t anything wrong…"
"What?"
I frowned at the strange words Titia had spoken.
Divine power was the force that returned a body to its original state. Unless a condition was innate, it would eventually heal as though time itself had been rewound. We Holy Knights, bearing only the faintest starlight, restored so slowly that I had assumed complete healing was simply beyond us.
But if that was true… had she lived with this agony from the moment she was born until now?
Looking down at the unconscious Saintess, pity and compassion welled in his eyes. In the end he understood there was nothing he could do for her.
What he felt was powerlessness, and only the thinnest thread of responsibility. Whether that fragile sense of duty could change anything in a future already decided, no one could know.
I opened my eyes again in the familiar place I had seen that morning—the same room where I had first awakened inside the Saintess’s body.
Someone had clearly been caring for me; a hot towel still lay across my forehead. When I pushed myself upright it slid down my face with a soft rustle.
This frail body trembled like a child caught in a cold wind the moment I tried to sit up. My throat still burned as though I had swallowed fire, and the moment I left the bed the cool air wicked the sweat from my back.
A faint chill ran through me as I took stock of my surroundings. One hand felt strangely numb. Glancing left, I found the Holy Knight from that morning gripping it tightly. From the way he was half-sprawled across the bed, he must have fallen asleep while nursing me.
For someone who joins the dawn prayer every morning, he sure sleeps a lot, I thought absently—then felt an instinctive revulsion at the fact that a man was holding my hand. I tried to pull free.
…It won’t come out.
Even when I put every scrap of strength I possessed into the effort, the hand did not so much as twitch. A small wave of self-loathing washed over me. I actually made it all the way to autumn in the game, didn’t I? I measured what remained of this life.
Six months still left.
Plenty of time.
I forced the reassurance on myself, then reminded myself again that the illness had not left me. Sweat still beaded and ran from the tightly clasped hand. Driven by the clammy sensation, I finally brought my other hand into play and began prying his fingers open one by one.
When I at last freed myself, a faintly damp palm remained. My fingers still looked so thin that two or three pencils laid side by side would have been thicker.
Feeling one’s own helplessness eats away at the mind more than expected. I deliberately shook off the darker thoughts.
I am not the Saintess from the game. This variable will matter. It has to.
I soothed myself with the thought. The side effect of the erosion rate was the deterioration of health—had I developed a fever? I wiped the sweat-soaked hand on the blanket and pressed it to my forehead.
Perhaps because of the towel that had been there moments before, my forehead actually felt cooler than my hand. For someone who had been drenched in sweat, I was remarkably cold. Maybe the Saintess simply ran hot.
Grateful that, aside from the coughing of blood, no major symptoms had yet appeared, I pushed the blanket off my overheated body and let myself cool slowly. The bed felt damp—probably from all the sweat I had poured out while unconscious. Fortunately the sweat carried no unpleasant body odor.
If anything, it almost smells like flowers.
Leaving the sleeping Holy Knight where he was, I rose and slipped back into the shoes that had been neatly arranged beneath the bed. Had he taken them off so I could lie down properly?
Wait—my clothes?
I suddenly remembered that the second nun’s habit I had been wearing was soaked and stained red. I hurriedly checked what I was wearing now.
A long white negligee of skirt-like cut enveloped my body. The first thought that struck me was simply: Who?
Who the hell changed my clothes?
My gaze, carrying a faint suspicion, drifted to the Holy Knight still half-leaning on the bed, fast asleep with my hand in his.
Don’t tell me…
Even without looking in a mirror I could feel the contempt and revulsion that must have been written across my face. Remembering that I always had to wear a mask, I carefully smoothed my expression back into blankness. A blank face was better than open disgust. Some people might call this a reward, but I refused to believe that particular Holy Knight had such peculiar tastes.
In any case, I needed to wash this sticky body. It was the first time I had looked closely at a female form, yet the sensation of sweat that had dried into clamminess was so unpleasant it overrode any embarrassment.
Leaving the half-reclining Holy Knight behind, I headed for the bathroom and picked up one of the neatly rolled towels. I had never expected to see again the folding method a hotel had taught me during a brief part-time job long ago; a small nostalgia stirred.
Even if the quality of life here was higher, had there been a reason—any reason—I had to return?
The larger, heavier memories remained lodged in my mind, but everything outside the broad outlines had grown hazy, as though wrapped in fog. I groped through them.
Still nothing rose to the surface.
"Ah—ugh—kh—"
It won’t come back.
I tried to speak the words and found I could make no sound at all. Realizing that I had grown even fainter than before, that my memories would not return, tears slipped free. They traced my cheeks, gathered at my chin, and fell one by one toward the cold floor.
It was some time later that the bathroom door finally opened.
The Hero regarded the ornate carriage that had drawn up before him, the imperial crest gleaming on its side. The servant who stepped down introduced himself and opened his mouth to speak.
The Hero remembered only those who would be useful to his future and those he had failed to save; he did not bother to fix the man’s name in his mind.
"I have come to escort you."
The Hero gave a small nod of assent and spoke.
"There are two others who must come with me."
"…Pardon?"
The man looked briefly flustered, then, after a short internal debate, nodded with reluctant acceptance.
"Understood."
The Hero’s lips curved faintly. In a voice too soft for anyone else to hear, he murmured,
This time I’ll save them all.
As if the words were a compulsion, he repeated them out of habit, then turned toward the carriage, leading his parents with him.