Of the Brave and the Ridiculous (3)
The world is not beautiful like a fairy tale.
Noble knights are rare. Grand tales of adventure are rarer still. And above all, stories never reach the neat, satisfying endings fairy tales promise.
Only miserable endings. Dull ones. Bitter ones.
Alonso Quijano thinks:
Reality is neither fun nor joyful. Look at the fairy tales. Is that not where a joyful world truly lives? Tales of valiant knights who face dragons. Tales of an old knight whose adventures are ridiculous yet more magnificent than any other. Alonso loses himself in the stories of those fairy-tale knights.
Reality is dull and tedious; fairy tales are joyful and beautiful. Living lost in those tales, Alonso Quijano one day arrives at a thought.
"This world is short on laughter!"
Reality is boring, he decides, because it has no laughter.
Because there is no cheerful knight like Don Quixote.
Alonso Quijano pushes the corner of his mouth upward with his thumb.
The smile of a boy who lost his mother at nine and lost his laughter with her is awkward, strained. Without that thumb tugging at the corner of his lips, a proper smile will not come at all. Even so, Alonso Quijano forces himself to laugh.
Ridiculously. Like a jester, perhaps.
"Laugh. What reason is there not to laugh? No matter how hard the trial, if you laugh through it, it becomes something joyful in the end."
Speak like a knight from a fairy tale.
Laugh like a knight from a fairy tale.
"I am Quixote."
Because then, even a little, he feels better.
"The ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote!"
Alonso Quijano laughs.
To endure the pain.
Hoping the world might become even a little more joyful.
Najin blinked. He closed his eyes and opened them again.
His vision was blurred.
Blinking several times more, he groped for his memories. What had happened? All he could recall was the image of himself charging the windmill and, at last, piercing straight through it. He remembered shattering the point that bound the Revelry Emperor’s domain to La Mancha.
And after that?
What had happened next?
He had seen a hazy vision. A figure who seemed to be from the past of the Star of Contempt, and that man’s squire…
"Ah."
The moment the thought reached that far, his fogged vision cleared. Looking around, he realized this was not the Outer Land. A cheap tavern like this would never have stood in the Outer Land. Weathered wooden beams, cheap liquor and snacks met his eyes.
"Ahahaha, so what I’m saying is!"
"This guy’s had way too much to drink."
"Who could stand against this valiant Paulo? I swung my axe like this—huh? Like this, whoosh—and they all scrambled off with their tails between their legs!"
And loud, boisterous mercenaries to match.
Faced with a landscape that had transformed in an instant, Najin worked his lips silently for a moment. The sensation was strange yet somehow familiar.
The same as when I entered the Glass Star’s tomb…
It was the exact same feeling. Najin realized he had stepped into a star tomb. Had the road to La Mancha opened the moment he destroyed the Revelry Emperor’s domain?
"…"
It did not seem so.
If a true path had opened, Yuel and Seongyuksin, who had been traveling with him, should have entered La Mancha as well. Yet no matter where he looked, neither of them was anywhere in sight.
Merlin. Can you hear me?
Yeah. I can hear you.
Thankfully, Merlin was with him.
Najin rubbed his chin and asked her a question.
You’re not materializing this time? Back in the Glass Star’s tomb you took physical form, didn’t you?
The Glass Star’s tomb didn’t discriminate among visitors. The conditions were pretty loose too. This place is different.
Merlin answered.
It’s a star tomb with tight restrictions. I don’t know the exact entry conditions, but they seem extremely strict.
Conditions?
Yeah. There are tombs where anyone can walk in and roam freely with no restraints at all…
She pointed at Najin.
And then there are tombs that aren’t like that.
Najin looked down at his clothes. His body and appearance were unchanged, but what he wore had been swapped out. Instead of a Free Knight’s coat, he now wore light cloth armor—the sort an apprentice knight or squire might wear.
I’ve told you before that a star tomb is like a play made of a constellation’s dreams or memories, right?
He had. Najin nodded.
And every play has roles. There are free-form plays where you can take the stage without being cast at all… and then there are plays where you absolutely must receive a role before you can set foot on the stage.
A play titled La Mancha.
In that play, the only one who had been cast—the only one permitted to step onto the stage—was Najin. What role he had been given, he still did not know.
"…"
Najin surveyed his surroundings in silence. It was still a tavern, still raucous. A mercenary with one boot planted on a table swung a tankard and belted out a song; the laughter of patrons who found him hilarious filled every corner of the room.
Song, laughter, shouts, and the trembling voices of men who kept saying quiet down so a man can drink yet could not stop laughing themselves.
And then—
"Ahahahaha!"
One strand of laughter that cut through all the rest. The instant it rang out, the tavern fell quiet. Every mercenary’s gaze swung toward the center of the room.
There sat a knight in splendid armor that did not belong in a cheap dive like this.
"Valiant Paulo! Since you have treated us to such a fine adventure tale, I cannot rest until I repay you with a story of my own. Will you not hear the tale of this ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote?"
"Ah, my lord! I was waiting for the moment you would say just that. Come, sit with us!"
The silence dissolved into fresh laughter. The mercenaries shoved cheap snacks and cups aside in one long sweep and made room for the knight.
"Listen well, my friends. Today this body will tell you of a most splendid, most magnificent adventure that befell me."
The knight who had named himself Don Quixote began his story. With a heavy thunk he set down his tankard and launched into the events of the day.
"A giant with four arms stood there! So vast that even when I craned my neck I could not see its face. Startled by that size, I—shameful though it is to admit—fell back, if only for the briefest of moments!"
"Hahaha, a giant in Quijano lands, you say? That must have been dangerous, my lord. If you had not stood in its way, the maidens of Quijano would surely have been carried off!"
"Exactly so, Paulo. Fearful, yes—but what choice had I? Had I retreated, that dread giant would have stormed into Quijano lands, stolen away the maidens, and the young men who secretly loved them would have shed bitter tears… How could this body, knight of Quijano, simply stand by and allow such tragedy?"
The mercenaries roared with laughter at Don Quixote’s tale. It was not mockery. Just as no one laughs at a minstrel who spins an absurd yet delightful story, the mercenaries did not laugh at Don Quixote in contempt.
"And then, my lord? What happened next?"
"This body charged! I rushed forward with all my might, determined to pierce straight through the giant’s arm!"
Whistles from the mercenaries, and laughter louder still. Don Quixote spoke as though he were singing.
"Though the giant’s arm flung me through the air and left me covered in dirt, I still wrung a promise from it—that it would never again set foot in Quijano lands. Not while this body, Don Quixote, stands guard!"
The mercenaries clapped.
My lord, you are the very model of a knight; as expected of Lord Don Quixote—praise followed praise. They took his story as the finest of drinking snacks and drained their cups.
"A toast in the name of Quijano’s ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote!"
Don Quixote clashed his tankard against the ones the mercenaries raised. Between them stood the gulf of mercenary and knight, commoner and high noble—yet before a shared cup such trivial things meant nothing.
"Of the glory won in this great adventure today, I dedicate a portion to my dear friend and squire."
Don Quixote thrust his cup outward. Its destination was the corner of the tavern where Najin sat. Smiling, Don Quixote shook the tankard toward him.
"You come join us for a drink as well, Sancho!"
Sancho—Don Quixote’s squire.
That was the name of the role Najin had been given.
Just as an actor who has received a role reads the script before taking the stage, information flowed naturally into Najin’s mind.
Don Quixote. True name: Alonso Quijano.
Second son of the Quijano family that ruled Quijano lands—and the family’s perpetual sore spot. Alonso had never cared about the seat of head of house. In truth, he had cared about almost nothing at all.
Around the age of nine, after watching his mother die, Alonso Quijano had shut himself inside his room.
To him the world was not the outside. The fairy tales and chivalric romances that filled his chamber—those were his world. Living sealed inside that private universe, one day he suddenly kicked the door open and burst out.
"I am Quixote."
Wearing a ridiculous paper helmet and gripping a stick.
"The ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote!"
He declared that he would become a knight. His father, at a loss, considered the matter for a moment, then decided that roaming outdoors was better than rotting in a room and gifted Alonso a splendid suit of armor and a lance.
And so Alonso Quijano became a knight.
Naturally, a man who knew nothing of sword or lance was constantly mocked—yet Alonso, who had scarcely known how to smile before, now burst into laughter at every slight and cried out to his mockers:
Hear the tale of this body!
Then he would spin impossible stories—how he had fought a giant, how the flock of sheep that had knocked him flat were in truth fearsome monsters temporarily transformed, and other such absurdities.
Listening long enough, even mockery fades. People laugh instead—out of sheer disbelief, out of pure ridiculousness. Adventure after adventure, and before anyone quite noticed, Alonso had become a local celebrity of Quijano lands.
Quijano’s ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote.
A ridiculous young master one could not bring oneself to hate.
And at the side of that immature, worldly-innocent young master there was always a single squire who attended him.
Sancho.
The boy from a poor farming family whom Don Quixote had brought back after a journey beyond Quijano lands.
Sancho Panza.
That was the role Najin had been given.
"…"
Najin fell silent for a moment. He knew, after all. He knew what end awaited the boy named Sancho.
"The very moment I was sent flying by the giant, Sancho came running and saved me! Without Sancho I could never have claimed victory over that dread giant."
Listening to Don Quixote’s story, Najin drained his cup without a word. From the start it seemed Sancho had been a quiet, unassertive sort in front of others. Every one of these actions felt completely natural.
The drinking continued for some time.
When the night grew deep and the mercenaries finally collapsed into drunken sleep, Najin stepped outside the tavern, looked up at the moon, and drew a long breath. A space in which everything felt infinitely real. He had entered one once before, yet even so, these star tombs were places to which one never truly grew accustomed.
"Huu…"
Exhaling slowly, Najin considered what he must do from here—how he was supposed to clear the star tomb called La Mancha.
"Sancho."
While he was still turning the problem over, someone dropped heavily onto the seat beside him. He turned his head and found Don Quixote.
"What thoughts occupy you so? Perhaps the adventure we met today?"
"I was thinking about the adventures still waiting for us."
At Najin’s answer Don Quixote laughed.
"Adventures still waiting… What sort of adventures do you suppose lie ahead? True battles against giants, contests with dark sorcerers, the slaying of dragons—do you think such things await us?"
Najin stayed silent for a beat. Because something in the way Don Quixote spoke felt off. The Don Quixote Najin knew was a man lost in delusion.
Everything Anton told me, and everything that just flowed into my head, says the same.
A fantasist who had immersed himself so completely in a fairy-tale character that the fairy tale had swallowed his life. Yet the man before him showed no such sign.
"What do you mean by ‘true’?"
This Don Quixote was speaking as though he knew full well that he was living inside a delusion. When Najin probed, Don Quixote gave a bitter smile.
"Sancho, I am no fool."
He let out a long breath.
"How could I not know that all of this is delusion? I know it all. That what I faced today was a windmill and not a giant. That the ‘adventure’ of two days past was nothing more than the foolish act of charging a flock of sheep. I know."
Don Quixote touched his helmet.
"You have suffered much, keeping me company on these ridiculous adventures of mine. But listen, Sancho."
He lifted the visor and looked up at the sky.
"If one dreams and lives laughing, is it not possible that one day every last delusion might become reality? That a day might come when even I achieve a feat that shines like those stars in the night sky."
Najin regarded him without speaking. A man who had spent a lifetime shut in a room and only just stepped outside was, by any objective measure, weak. Not even an Expert, let alone a Sword Seeker like Najin.
A young master who could not even handle a lance properly.
If such a man pointed at the stars and spoke of them, nine people out of ten would laugh and call it empty dreaming. But Najin was the one in ten, and instead of laughing he listened.
"Is that so?"
"It is. And if fortune should one day grant that my life be written as a book, I have already decided what sentence will stand on the very first page."
"What sentence?"
"I will tell it to you alone in advance. Listen carefully, Sancho."
Don Quixote twisted the corner of his mouth into a grin.
"The world is boring because it lacks laughter. And here stands a knight who never lost his laughter no matter what journey he walked. That knight’s name is—"
Quixote.
Quijano’s ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote.