The Unrecorded Story
She said she'd been chased out of her home. The kids who'd beaten her senseless and left her for dead had snitched, and her act of kindness had been discovered. She'd faced the contemptuous glares of her parents.
Just for helping one gray girl, the world had branded her.
"Sorry…"
"What do you have to be sorry for? It's okay."
And even in that moment, the girl smiled at her.
For the first time, she felt guilt, mumbling apologies over and over, and the girl told her it was fine.
"S-sor…"
"Tch! You don't need to apologize! Helping you was my choice, and this isn't your fault or mine. Ow…"
Even as she forced her lips into a smile, reopening the wound and letting a bright red drop of blood fall—plip—she said it anyway.
"Yeah, right! Now that we're living together, how about we introduce ourselves properly?"
"In…troduce…?"
She didn't know what that meant.
"It's when we tell each other our names and say hi!"
"… Ah."
Even after the kind explanation, she had nothing to say. She'd been abandoned long ago, left without even a name. Her mother hadn't given her that much before leaving.
She bowed her head, a little dejected.
But the girl wasn't one to sink into gloom.
"Hmm, if you don't have a name, I can give you one!"
"Uh…?"
Grinning widely, she continued.
"How about… Belia?"
"…"
Even in that situation, she gave her a name and made playful gestures.
"Gasp, you don't like it?"
"No, I… like it…"
She nodded. The first name ever given to her. Belia. She liked it so much she nodded more vigorously than usual.
And seeing that, the girl smiled too.
"I'm Ain! Nice to meet you from now on!"
"… Yeah. Ain."
She was radiant. Nothing like her at all. She, dyed gray, dull and hazy, deserving of hatred—nothing like that. She was so beautiful, she thought.
And so they lived together.
It was a landscape too harsh and sad to call joyful.
No warm, tasty food from ordinary kindness. The ointment for wounds had only one last dab left, and the clean bandages grew as filthy as their unwashed bodies.
The world was cruel. It tried to kill someone just for helping a gray.
Her parents turned on her and cast her out. Rumors spread everywhere, huge posters plastered up.
The kids still came to their alley, throwing stones and laughing. Now there were two targets, so even better—they hurled more stones before leaving.
The wounds multiplied. It hurt and itched so badly she wanted to scratch, but the girl with matching wounds stopped her, saying no. But it hurt and itched too much to bear.
They rummaged through trash bins for food again. It had been so long, she grimaced at the taste, but was grateful just to eat.
But.
"Urp… uweeeek…"
The girl, who'd never experienced this, couldn't.
Gathering courage. Smiling through hardship. She'd stuck with her, but it was brutal for an ordinary girl.
She couldn't hold back the disgust and vomited. Even forcing it down made her body ache, and she vomited again.
"It's okay… I'm fine…"
Lying on moldy planks, groaning, she still smiled. Foolishly kind.
When was it? The girl, itchy from not washing, teary-eyed. They snuck into the square's bathroom.
Slipping out of the alley at night when no one passed, holding hands tightly.
No soap, no toothpaste or brush.
"Ahaha! The water's warm, Belia!"
"…"
Just warm water made her smile.
She cranked the faucet and splashed hard to scrub off the grime.
"Ah, feels good… Right, Belia?"
"… Yeah."
They splashed each other for a long time, soaked their sackcloth clothes and scrubbed hard. But they couldn't erase the grime completely.
A bit whiter maybe, but faces still had caked dirt. The sackcloth, no matter how rinsed, was too ragged after years of wear—mere squeezing changed nothing.
Her first bath—her long-awaited one—ended like that.
…Not really.
No towels, they shivered naked. No change of clothes, they wrung out the laundry, shook it dry, and waited.
Was it good? She wasn't sure if she'd say yes.
Still, the girl smiled at her.
"Eh…? Belia, did you just smile?!"
"…"
And it was true—she'd lifted her lips for the first time.
Then, sometime later. An incredibly painful day. Like she might really die. Body burning, limbs tearing—it went on for days, out of her mind.
"Bel… ia! Stay… with me!"
She heard desperate cries beside her, but couldn't respond.
The gray girl didn't know what it was. Just that it had come—the pain she'd escaped until now. She might die like this.
So she tried to say goodbye first.
"A… in. If I die…"
"You won't die…! I won't let you, sob…!"
She heard the girl's sobs.
"Don't… stay here… Run away…"
"I won't run… Don't die, Belia…"
Her tear-blurred eyes caught the girl hugging her, bawling.
As expected. The girl shone. Even her teardrops sparkled brilliantly before falling—plip.
And.
Regrettably, the gray girl didn't die. She woke feeling refreshed, invigorated.
"Ah… ah."
She called for the girl who'd cried for her.
"Ain."
The warmth that had enveloped her was gone, so she called her name.
"Ain, I woke up…?"
But.
"… Ain?"
The girl who should have greeted her with a bright smile wasn't there.
"Ain."
To be precise, that body lay a little distance away, not breathing.
"… Ain."
Dried bloodstains were visible.
"…"
New wounds and bruises everywhere.
"A… in…"
Her empty eyes stared straight at the plank they'd slept on together.
In her arms, a sizable chunk of bread, soaked in blood.
It must have been for her. But it never reached her.
Never reached, and she died just like that—plop.
In her pain, she'd spoken of her own death. But the one who met it was Ain, the girl who'd helped her.
"…"
The memories piled up, the sad joys, shattered.
Gray swirled.
Blood tears flowed from the woman's eyes, uncontrolled emotions overflowing.
And so.
The first spell and wish from the gray's talent.
Just a simple desire: for this world to end.
And.
No memories after that.
A massive explosion. Beastly howls. Piles of corpses. Burning palace. Children's heads on pikes. Madwoman. Gray witch. Small coffin. Death.
Only those remained in records, defining the gray woman as a villain.
Their modest, sad story wasn't recorded—not a single letter.
When was it?
It was surely one day, riding in a carriage. One night, resting with people we'd met by chance.
"… The gray witch?"
"Yes, I heard the Saintess herself executed her. As someone researching gray, I'd love to hear the Saintess's insights."
"…"
I was momentarily speechless at the question from one of those chance acquaintances, a wandering scholar.
Do you remember the gray girl in the alley the Hero spared while we were training in the Empire?
Time passed, and she became a disaster.
With madness in her eyes, endless tears.
Filthy, unwashed, clutching a small coffin.
I still can't forget how she cursed the Empire and faced us.
Recalling those days brings a bitter feeling welling up from deep within.
"Ah, if she's too cruel and wicked for words, feel free to say it plainly…"
"… She was a pitiable person."
"Pardon…?"
Yes, a pitiable person. Even after killing her, my heart remained uneasy.
Seeing what was in that small coffin she clutched to the end.
The Hero and I investigated her past and learned.
She was undoubtedly pitiable.
Preconceptions built over centuries had driven her to death.
So.
"At least don't hate grays like the researcher does."
"…"
"They were people too."
I believe it.
The gray girl… the gray woman was surely like us.
There must have been a path to happiness.
But.
Preconceptions accumulated over centuries turn even the ordinary into villains—another curse.
Relighting the tragedy of witch hunts.
Sadly, gray leads only to such ends.
So I thought.
By speaking like this, baring my feelings.
Maybe someone—at least the researcher before me—won't remember the gray woman only as evil.
Maybe stories of grays won't be outright rejected after this.
I hoped my words could be the start.
That's what I thought.
What do you think?
How could her story—the gray girl's—have ended happily?
Sadly, I still don't know.
It only makes the name Saintess feel shameful.