Suspiciously Suspicious... (8)
The Gate of the Holy Land.
It was one of the greatest landmarks in the Holy City—a true marvel among marvels. The instant the Gate had been created, a pillar of light had descended from the heavens and miracles had bloomed around it; by now there was not a soul who did not know the tale, and talk of founding a festival in its honor was already stirring.
Perhaps the gates of the giants said to have existed in the distant mythic age had looked something like this.
The Gate of the Holy Land possessed an overwhelming majesty born of sheer size. Stand before it and the futility of mortal flesh sank in of its own accord; awe rose unbidden in the breast.
The one who now stepped out through that Gate was the fourth.
The first had been the three pilgrims summoned by the god. The second was the blacksmith Adam, who had learned the language the god Himself had created and returned. The third was Iscal, who had received both shield and sacred charge. And this time, the fourth.
So of course the entire Holy City was in an uproar.
Whenever the Gate of the Holy Land opened, extraordinary things followed. Every eye in the city therefore turned toward it, wondering who had answered the divine call this time and what mission they had been given.
"Whoa, there are a ton of people."
"I never realized the Holy City could hold this many. Uh, Selina—what are you doing right n—?"
"Ah, hehe. Catch that? Nothing big, just a little side hustle."
"...Return that wallet to its owner this instant. Unless you want another red mark next to your name."
"Tch, so uptight."
The throng was less a crowd than a sea of humanity. Iscal, a head taller than most, craned his neck this way and that and saw nothing but the tops of countless heads. Paladins shouted themselves hoarse trying to keep order, yet their voices were swallowed by the roar of the multitude the way a child’s cry is lost against the tide.
Far ahead, at the foot of the Gate itself, stood a single man—an elderly gentleman with a staff in one hand and a painting in the other.
Iscal squinted, then nearly leapt out of his skin.
"Th-th-that! Selina, that painting—isn’t that the one we’ve been looking for?!"
"Hmm. Too far to tell. You can see it from here? You’ve got crazy good eyes."
"What? What painting?"
"Selina, look properly! Don’t you see it? Cat ears stuck right on top of a human head!"
"Mmm—can’t see past all these people."
Selina bounced on her toes, trying to peer over the wall of bodies, but the human barrier refused to yield. While Iscal pounded his chest in frustration, Selina suddenly stretched both arms toward him in a clear “pick me up” gesture. Iscal blinked at her, baffled.
What is this supposed to mean?
Selina’s green eyes curved into a sly, coquettish smile.
"I’m too short to see. So be a dear and lift me up? Hands under the arms, right here."
"Wh-wh-what kind of—!"
Whoosh!
"Kyaaak!"
"Hey, can you see now?! Well?! Can you?!"
Friga had snatched Selina up with both hands and dangled her in mid-air like a rag doll on a pole. In a purely technical sense, the goal of “seeing ahead” had been achieved.
When Friga finally set her down, Selina staggered and collapsed straight into Iscal’s arms, clutching her head with a pained little moan.
"Uuuugh… my stomach’s a bit off. Just let me stay like this a second?"
"You little—!"
Iscal’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, neither pushing her away nor holding her closer. Friga’s eyes sharpened into twin axe-blades. If a glare could cut, Selina’s arms would already have been lying on the ground.
"Citizens of the Holy City—!"
A single voice rolled across the square, vast enough to bury both the paladins’ frantic orders and the ceaseless murmur of the crowd. Every sound died at once.
The elderly gentleman with staff and painting raised his head and spoke, and the world itself seemed to listen.
"My name is Marquis Purius de Iskir!! I have answered the call of the Sixth God, journeyed to the Holy Land, and from His hand received both a sacred mission and this staff!"
""Wooooaaah—!!""
A colossal cheer erupted, yet the Marquis’s voice only swelled louder, drowning even that roar.
"The God has commanded me to gather and nurture the descendants of certain fallen races of the mythic age—the Forgotten Ones—and to make them prosper!! And this! This painting depicts those very descendants of the Forgotten!"
He lifted the canvas high for all to see.
A wave rolled through the crowd.
Its name was culture shock. Those nearest the painting recoiled in open-mouthed astonishment; the astonishment leapt from mouth to mouth, spreading outward in ripples like a stone dropped into a still pond. Cultural upheaval and the thrill of the utterly new surged in great concentric rings with the Marquis at their center.
Perhaps this was how the first humans had reacted upon discovering fire.
Inwardly the Marquis felt a deep, quiet satisfaction.
His taste, his aesthetic sense, had not been wrong after all. Everything he had collected over the years was no mere collection of perverse pictures; they were wondrous records of the forgotten races of the mythic age!
He raised the painting still higher and thundered, his voice booming louder than any lightning bolt, as though the God Himself were lending him strength.
"Look! Look well upon this painting! They have no human ears, yet animal ears crown their heads—this is the mark of the Forgotten! Open your eyes wide and behold!"
Some covered their faces in scandalized horror. Others stood dazed by the cultural impact. Still others flushed crimson and accepted the new world with open hearts.
"I must find their descendants, yet the world is vast and I am already old. Therefore I entreat you—bring the descendants of the Forgotten to me! To aid me is to share in the mission of the Sixth God! I beg you! Help me serve the God!"
His fervent cry carried far. Even those who could not see the painting understood the situation perfectly from his words alone.
Helping the Marquis find the descendants of the Forgotten was the same as assisting a divine mission?
Every heart in the Holy City began to pound. An opportunity to serve the God had appeared right before their eyes—a chance to pour out the faith that burned so hotly within them.
"Do not forget! Bring me those who wear animal ears upon their heads! Do so and you too shall share the mission of the Sixth God!"
""Wooooaaaaah—!!""
Cheers shook the air.
The Marquis’s words had set the citizens’ hearts ablaze.
"Remember well! Those with animal ears atop their heads are the descendants of the Forgotten!! Animal ears!!"
""Animal ears! Animal ears! Animal ears! Animal ears!!""
"Good heavens…"
The name of that frenzied rapture was faith.
Watching the feverish scene, Selina pulled her robe deeper over her head. If her cat ears were spotted here, absolute chaos would erupt.
Iscal, equally worried her ears might be discovered, took her by the shoulder and tried to steer them out of the crush.
"Selina, let’s get out of here first. My lady! My lady, you too, hurry—"
"…What the hell are you two doing?"
Of course, to Friga—who knew none of the deeper circumstances—Selina looked like nothing more than a thieving alley cat rubbing up against Iscal.
The anger she had been carefully stacking all day had nearly reached its limit. Iscal’s little bit of skinship just now was a spark tossed into a powder keg.
Snap—!
Friga’s eyes blazed. Her hand shot out like the wind—so fast that even Iscal, standing right beside her, could not react.
"Kyaaak—!"
"You rotten little—!!"
Friga seized Selina by the collar and yanked hard. For every action there is an equal reaction.
The robe Selina had pulled so carefully down slid back with a soft rustle, shyly revealing the triangular something she had been hiding beneath it.
Twitch.
Black, fluffy, and traced with delicate pink veins—
A cat’s ear.
"Ah."
"…Huh?"
A blank sound escaped Friga’s lips. Iscal, already foreseeing the catastrophe about to unfold, covered his eyes.
Twitch-twitch.
The pair of black cat ears swiveled left and right, warily scanning every direction. Someone spotted them and shouted.
"H-here!! There’s a cat-eared girl!!"
"It’s true! A woman with black cat ears!"
"A descendant of the Forgotten is right here!! Wooooaaah!!"
"To find one so quickly!! The God must be watching over us!!"
Countless eyes locked onto Selina.
"…Uh, uh? Cat… ears? Why does she have…? Huh?"
Confronted with the utterly unexpected appearance of cat ears, Friga’s language system seemed to short-circuit. Still dangling by the collar, Selina slapped Friga’s hand away with a sharp tak!
Her mind raced. Spilled water could not be gathered again. The situation could not be undone—so she would use it to the fullest.
This was both crisis and opportunity: a chance to place a debt of conscience on the terrifying young lady. Selina decided to season that debt with a little extra spice.
Her upturned eyes fixed on Friga with cold accusation.
"Yes, my lady. Satisfied now? Feels good to drag someone else’s carefully kept secret out into the open for everyone to see, doesn’t it? Hmm?"
"Uh, uhh…? No. Wait. I didn’t mean to—"
"Thanks to you, my lady, everything I’ve kept hidden for so long has collapsed in an instant. I’m so very grateful. You’ve done me a tremendous favor. After all the time and effort I spent living in secret… to think it would crumble so quickly."
"No, I never intended… th-this isn’t what I…"
Cornered by Selina’s relentless grilling, Friga felt something was terribly wrong even if she could not name it—and she had, by her own hand, exposed Selina’s secret to the entire city.
She took an involuntary step backward.
"Over here! A descendant of the Forgotten! Let’s escort her to the Marquis at once!!"
"Animal ears! Animal ears! Animal ears!!"
"Look at those cat ears!! They’re adorable!!"
"Hmm… maybe… just maybe…"
In the end Selina was borne forward by the countless hands reaching for her, carried along by a current far larger than her own will. Her retreating back looked so much like a condemned prisoner trudging toward the scaffold that Friga felt something sharp and guilty jabbing at her conscience.
"Hey, hey… what the hell is going on? I—I didn’t do it on purpose! Really! You know I honestly had no idea, right? I never, ever meant for this to happen…"
Lost and floundering, Friga’s eyes latched onto Iscal as she pleaded desperately.
She hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t known. She truly hadn’t intended any of this.
Terrified that Iscal might blame her, her gaze grew fragile and small. Iscal could not bring himself to look away.
"I know, my lady. I know. You’re not the sort of person who would do something like that on purpose."
"R-right? I really, really didn’t know! Why would I deliberately do something that crazy?!"
At Iscal’s reassurance, Friga’s eyes softened with relief. Watching her, Iscal opened and closed his mouth several times, hesitating.
Should I… tell her?
The words Selina had flung at Friga just before the crowd swept her away.
…It wasn’t as if she’d been hiding it for years, and she certainly hadn’t spent long, careful effort living in secret.
The cat ears had only grown a few days ago; all she had done was throw on a robe. Seeing Friga fretting so earnestly made him want to confess the truth—yet if Friga learned it, she might actually kill Selina. That fear stayed his tongue.
When their eyes had met earlier, Selina’s playful glance and the finger she had secretly pressed to her lips had meant exactly this, hadn’t they?
"Ugh…"
It was hard to watch Friga torment herself, yet telling the truth risked seeing Selina’s head displayed on a pike in front of the Pantheon.
In the end Iscal tightly clasped Friga’s now-steady hands and spoke with utmost seriousness.
Grab!
"Eek!"
"M-my lady. Would you make me just one promise?"
"…Y-you, a promise? What kind of promise?"
Her voice still trembled faintly. Had she not fully calmed down after all? Iscal squeezed her hands a little tighter, trying to soothe her.
"There’s something I need to tell you… but before I do, you must promise me that no matter what I say, you will absolutely—absolutely—not kill or hit anyone."
"…S-suddenly? What is it. Did you hide something from me?"
"No, it isn’t that I hid anything… Anyway, if you promise, I’ll tell you."
"Saying it like that just makes me more curious. Fine, whatever. I’m in a good mood right now so I’ll let it slide! I promise—now spit it out."
Friga swung their joined hands back and forth cheerfully as she spoke.
Only moments ago she had been anxious; why had her mood flipped so suddenly?
A woman’s heart was a mystery that defied understanding. All he could do was pray that her present joy would not transform into towering rage.
Gulp.
With the heart of a mouse tying a bell around a wolf’s neck—
Iscal slowly opened his mouth.
"The truth is…"
And so the truth was delivered.
Iscal squeezed his eyes shut and clamped down hard on Friga’s hands, ready to hang onto her with his entire body if she tried to bolt in fury. He planted his feet firmly, prepared for the worst.
And yet…
"…Wh-what. That’s it?"
"Huh? Y-yes? Ah. Yes! That’s everything."
"Ha, for crying out loud… that beggarly wench is a pain in the ass right to the end. Still trying to mess with me?"
Friga scratched at her faintly reddened cheek. Had she not gotten as angry as he expected?
Iscal quietly let out a breath of relief. For whatever reason, Friga was not furious—and that alone was a blessing.
Whoosh—!
"Whoa!"
"Hey, hey! Enough. H-have you eaten? I know a good place nearby—let’s go grab a meal there!"
Their tightly clasped hands pulled him forward; Iscal stumbled after her with a startled “whoa.” Friga strode ahead, still holding his hand.
At some point their fingers had interlaced.
Friga kept her face turned resolutely forward so Iscal could not see how red it had become, and marched on with determined steps.
It was the defeat of the thieving alley cat who had tried her shallow little tricks.