The Nun's Gentle Voice
Chapter 4
To avoid running into Sister Iris, I circled around the main building even after arriving at the Academy. One reason was that I wanted to steer clear of any place that might stir up memories of Giselle. I strolled slowly beneath the arched ceilings of the practice building corridor, taking my time. From the training grounds in the distance, the clack of wooden swords echoed across the railing. It reminded me of the days I trained until blisters formed on my hands. Being able to pour yourself into something is a good thing. Even if the results weren't spectacular, I must have worked so hard because I had a purpose. As always, I had a sword at my waist. Now it was little more than decoration—I couldn't even swing it properly anymore.
I had no desire to head to the training grounds and work up a sweat. 'Who would ever call someone like you "big brother"?' 'Disappear. There's nothing you can do for me anyway…' The most unpleasant face was bound to be strutting around there, so I wandered off in search of somewhere else, letting the sound of wooden swords fade behind me.
Eventually I found myself in a small lecture hall connected to the main building. It was quiet, filled only with the scratch of chalk on blackboards and the teacher's voice. Back when my life was better than it is now, I wasn't a top student, but I wasn't a failure either. For a time, I even earned decent marks in theory. But after the war ended and I returned to school, nothing seemed to stick in my head anymore, so I gave up on everything.
The classes here had few students. They were all unpopular electives that weren't required. Peeking through an open doorway, I slipped into the classroom that looked like it had the fewest listeners. Inside the nearly empty room sat only two people. One of them was nodding off, unable to fight the drowsiness. I gave the teacher on the podium a half-hearted nod and took a seat in the very back.
The teacher was a nun. A young one who looked about my age. If she stood on tiptoe, she might just reach my chest. With only one student in the front row scribbling notes, she moved about as if she were delivering a grand lecture to a packed auditorium. Yet her voice was soft and pleasant, at odds with her busy gestures.
'Theology, huh. No wonder it's unpopular.' Religion had lost its former prestige in the Empire. The rapid advancement of magic had stripped the masses of any reason to lean on faith. It was similar to how technology had replaced religion in the modern world—only far faster. Faith demanded devotion, both material and spiritual. A priest's training was a battle against oneself, and they were constantly tested in their patience. With no immediate reward to speak of, one had to offer themselves completely to an uncertain afterlife and an intangible god just to wield a Blessing.
Setting aside the actual efficacy of blessings, Theology was difficult to approach out of mere curiosity. Magic, by comparison, was convenient and flashy. Anyone with circuits could use it, and it was practical in daily life. Breathing fire from your palm, muttering a few words with your eyes closed to call down lightning from a clear sky—who wouldn't be thrilled? I couldn't use it myself, but I liked magic. I'd benefited from it plenty. Thanks to magic, I could even enjoy beer colder than ice in a chilled glass. And thanks to the Academy, any noble scion could receive systematic, step-by-step instruction through a proper curriculum. The barrier to entry was low. Even without majoring in magic studies, related books were everywhere. Just the other day I saw two kids, maybe eight years old, playing catch with a ball they kept afloat using wind.
This nun had come all the way from a small holy kingdom on the outskirts of the continent to spread her faith, alone without any fellow clergy. Rumor had it that because of diplomatic considerations—or perhaps because they couldn't get rid of her—they'd simply handed her a leftover teaching position. The nun, absorbed in reciting scripture, probably had no idea.
The ambiguous efficacy of blessings themselves had likely contributed to religion's decline. Healing blessings? A potion mixed from market ingredients according to a formula in a book was far more convenient than some mediocre priest sucking and licking at a wound for hours. If even that process seemed bothersome, you could just walk into any general store and buy a finished product. Ah, but unlike potions, blessings were supposedly good for relieving fatigue too. Like a massage, maybe. In any case, neither magic nor blessings could restore permanent physical defects. There was no way to get my eye and arm back.
Exorcism blessings? If there were ghosts, I'd love to become one. I'd haunt those Magnolia bastards every night until they all killed themselves. But even in this fantasy world, ghosts didn't exist. I'd once watched an exorcism in an empty lot, but it was nothing more than a cheap show to gather believers. In short, religion had been abandoned by the Empire. I almost felt a sense of kinship. Unlike me, though, the nun looked incredibly lively.
I unbuckled the sword at my waist and set it on the empty seat beside me. Burying my face in the desk, I closed my eyes. Listening to the nun's passionate voice, I gradually drifted off to sleep.
...
Having a nightmare after what was only a short nap meant I really hadn't had enough to drink. My eyelids refused to open, as if pressed down by sleep paralysis. My entire body felt like stone. The missing arm and eye burned as if they were on fire. Nightmares came in all varieties. A dog hanging from a noose. Every insult I'd heard in the family. The ring Giselle had thrown away. And of course, plenty about the war. Comrades sprawled on the ground like sacks. The godawful roar of godawful artillery. Bodies reduced to chunks of meat by magic. Blood splattering across my vision every time I cut into flesh. But today's visitor was the head of an enemy soldier I'd beheaded. Fragments of nightmares I'd buried and sealed away sometimes came calling without warning. It wasn't something I usually did. I should've just stayed holed up at home. Soon that head—improperly severed because I'd had to hack at it repeatedly—would open its mouth, its bloodied teeth cracking with a sound, and begin reciting a prayer in a small voice. I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn't have enough hands. I couldn't move to begin with. In the landscape behind my closed eyes, I wished I could close them again.
The mouth of the head slowly opened. It gaped like a massive cavity, as if to swallow me. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to see it. I was terrified. I was scared. Giselle, Iris—whoever—just please get me out of here.
"Ah…"
But no matter how long I waited, the prayer never came. Instead, a thin voice like birdsong. Only a wordless, pleasant hum reached my ears. The darkness gradually brightened, as if being painted over, slowly, like dawn breaking.
...
Waking from a nightmare usually meant screaming. It was because of that falling sensation I always felt when opening my eyes. So cases like this—waking up feeling refreshed, as if I'd slept well—were extremely rare.
"Ah, you're awake."
The singer had been the nun leaning on the windowsill in front of me. The setting sun streamed through the window, scattering light so I couldn't see her face clearly. I recognized her by the black habit and the necklace glinting in the light.
"Sleepyhead."
That song-like voice was addressing me. When I lowered my head slightly, a pair of eyes whose blue hadn't faded even in the sunlight gazed at me. Brushing the hair stuck to my cheek, I looked around the classroom. The two other listeners were gone. Judging by the color filling the room, I must have slept for at least three or four hours.
"Was my class that boring?"
As she said this and stepped away from the windowsill, her brown hair swayed slightly in the breeze that had entered the classroom.
"I just couldn't sleep last night, that's all."
At my excuse, the nun let out a small giggle. She reached out, plucked another strand of hair still clinging to my face, and blew it out the window.
"You were sleeping just fine. Even drooling a little."
"…I lack faith, you see."
"So you're an irreverent one."
Even as she called me that, the smile on her face didn't fade. Her gaze landed on my empty sleeve, yet she couldn't seem to look away, as if fascinated. Resting her chin on her hand in a thoughtful pose, she alternated between looking at my eye and my arm. Unable to bear that stare any longer, I blurted out something harsh.
"Are you pitying me because I'm a cripple?"
"Yes."
I'd answered with a prickly tone without realizing it. It wasn't like I held that much resentment toward clergy…
…?
Had I misheard? She answered so readily.
"What did you just—"
"You asked if I was pitying you because you're a cripple, so I said yes!"
"Uh-huh. I see. Could you hand me that sword over there?"
No. I couldn't make the Academy's one and only precious nun run an errand. I reached out myself to grab the hilt, wondering where I should hit her so it would hurt less. But a white sleeve brushed against my face without hesitation, and slender fingers gently traced the scar around my eye.
"Pitying the weak is only natural."
As she said this, stroking the vertical scar, the nun's expression was nothing but kind and warm. I'd been treated like the weak to the point of exhaustion. I'd received plenty of pitying charity given reluctantly because we were family. But this warmth—approaching me as if it were simply an obvious duty, without any trace of condescension—was something I'd never experienced before.
"It must have hurt terribly."
I hated it when people treated my pain like an interesting spectacle. I also despised those who pretended to understand everything while knowing nothing and tried to close the distance. I loathed the whispers that followed me wherever I went.
"Hm? Come to think of it, why are you holding the sword?"
"…I get anxious if I don't. It's my cherished blade."
Yet why couldn't I brush away that hand that still refused to leave my face? If it were alcohol, maybe, but I hadn't been starving for affection. I hoped it wouldn't leave for a long time.
"What's your name?"
"…You don't know?"
"Are you famous?"
What was this? Self-promotion? Someone had called me an Empire specialty.
"I keep to myself at school… I'm not very sensitive to rumors."
As she answered, the nun playfully stuck out her tongue. With that behavior and voice, she was every bit a girl my age.
"We have something in common. I'm an outcast too."
"…I'm not being outcast, I'm the one doing the outcasting, you know?"
"That's what all outcasts say."
At my reply, the nun burst into laughter. I hadn't said it to be funny. Once her laughter subsided, she still didn't remove her hand and looked me in the eye.
"I'm Mace. I teach Theology at the Academy. The class is boring, but would you come nap here sometimes?"
"…Ain. Just Ain."
After the introductions, Mace smiled so brightly her eyes nearly closed. It was a smile like the sun on a much brighter, clearer day than outside.