Traces of the Old Saint (3)
"This is…."
How on earth was he supposed to take this in? Why, of all things, did the name Grandeus have to surface here?
"There it is! So this is where it was!"
Filbar, who had appeared at some point brandishing an enormous parasol, gave the cloth in both hands an enthusiastic shake, as if responding to something in the air.
"Did you see or hear something?"
"Yes, I did."
Cariel's gaze swept over Alesia and Baron Varonens's family, who stood a short distance away, before he asked.
"You know of Grandeus, of course?"
"Of course I do. But why do you ask?"
"…He was Saint Cariel's teacher."
Filbar puzzled over it for a good long while — then his eyes went wide all at once.
"I beg your… pardon? Good heavens. This is— wait, hold on. Do you happen to know Grandeus's true identity? That's… that is hardly the kind of information one comes by ordinarily. Hoo."
His expression scrambled into disarray in an instant, he glanced warily around, then pressed his lips to Cariel's ear and whispered.
"If you already know, that simplifies matters considerably. I'd advise you not to speak of this to anyone."
"……."
"Quite right. If word of this got out carelessly, it could very plausibly shake not just the Church but the entire world's understanding of knighthood itself. There would be backlash — and beyond that, measures to bury it entirely."
"So you're saying we should… hide the truth?"
"The truth isn't what matters. What matters is how the living receive it. And it wouldn't be hiding, exactly — merely not speaking of it. We wouldn't be doing anything wrong, would we?"
So that was it.
"Let it sit for five hundred years. Or a thousand, if need be. Announce it then, and no one will be the worse for it."
"……."
"Humanity, and civilization itself, are dreadfully fragile things. Wise individuals, taken one by one, may accept such a revelation with grace — but those who would sooner let the sky fall than tolerate it are far, far more numerous. And then there are those who would seize on it and turn it to their own use."
Cariel found himself nodding, slowly, because there was nothing else he could do.
"I… understand."
"Haah. A heart that ought to rejoice, and yet finds itself so conflicted. Why, another inspiration is welling up already. Hmm! Excellent! Then I shall return to my work. As far as anyone is concerned, nothing happened here today. Understood? We'll simply coordinate our stories later, you and I."
Perhaps it was because he insisted on spreading that enormous parasol in the middle of a busy street within the city.
Around that time, a commotion that was not quite a commotion began to stir.
"The Baron! It's the Baron!"
"My lord?"
Baron Roia smoothed things over swiftly, so no real trouble came of it.
"So this is the place, then?"
"It is. Saint Cariel fell here — this is where he made his last stand."
And with that, Filbar cast Cariel a sidelong glance.
"Hmm."
Alesia, meanwhile, wore a slightly gloomy expression, quietly taking in the street where people came and went.
"My intention is to use magic to recreate the scene of that day as an illusion. Ah, but the street is rather cramped, so I'll ask you all to give me some room. To prevent any unfortunate incidents, I'll lay down a barrier as well. And — let's do this after sundown. After all, confirming the location was one purpose of this trip."
With that, muttering about inspiration springing forth anew, Filbar slipped off into his carriage.
"Is that so?"
Baron Roia spoke, brightening the mood.
"That's settled, then — everyone dismissed! We regather here at sundown."
The Baron added,
"I know the festival preparations are underway, but that ought to be plenty of fun in its own right. You two — no need to hold back. Go enjoy yourselves as you please."
He meant Alesia and Cariel.
The two of them nodded obediently.
"Come to the church with me, then. If you were planning to come here anyway, you'd have stopped by sooner or later, no?"
At Alesia's suggestion, Cariel followed without complaint.
"Honestly, you can't keep going around dressed like that."
Amid her grumbling — and, while he was at it, savoring the festive atmosphere of the preparations.
Wasn't it two days away now?
Originally, the plan had been to visit the church only once.
Entirely unrelated to the festival.
"……."
Things rarely went according to plan, it seemed.
The church building stood proudly atop the small mountain rising within the city — reachable only by climbing a stone stairway of just under two hundred steps.
The trouble was that the stairway's layout sometimes turned upward past a slope and wound into a spiral, making it, by any ordinary measure, no easy climb.
Each individual step, moreover, was of inconsistent height.
Still, managed the ascent, and the whole of the small city spread out before one's eyes at a glance — which, granted, had its own sightseeing charm.
Though even that, some grumbled, was half a view at best, the mountain itself blocking part of it. A young couple standing near the two of them was airing exactly such complaints in real time.
"Um, would it be all right if we went up the church building for a moment?"
"Hm? Up top? Why?"
"I wondered what it would look like from above."
"If you can get up there, be my guest."
For all her words, Alesia sounded like she didn't expect much.
But Cariel, quite matter-of-factly, tested the building's wall with a few footsteps — and then began to scale it, as if leaping straight upward.
"Whoa! What was that?"
"Is he an elf?"
"How is anyone that nimble?"
In an instant, he was far above the ground.
When at last he reached the top of the church, the vista that unfolded was different again — but.
"……."
Any stirring of the heart, any sensation of eyes being opened wide by the sight — none of it came.
He reaffirmed, once more, that his own emotions and sensibilities were no longer as lively as they had once been.
Growing unbothered had its advantages, certainly — he was less easily swayed by the things around him.
Perhaps that was why.
The world felt ever more flavorless.
Tedious. Empty. Hollow.
And he caught himself accepting everything as though that hollowness were simply the way things were.
"……."
How many seconds had passed?
Cariel strolled through empty air — literally empty air, with not a single foothold or handhold to be found.
And so his body plunged straight down.
A few onlookers below shrieked in alarm or clutched their faces with both hands — but.
Thud!
A heartbeat before striking the ground, Cariel kicked off the wall, reined in his speed, and — with lithe, practiced grace — took the fall without a scratch, landing cleanly.
"And where did you learn that?"
"…More like it just… came naturally?"
Faint though the memory was, at some point he had simply become able to do this.
When it came down to it, this wasn't Cariel's own strength being brought to bear, either.
Someone as poor at channeling mana as he was could never produce such feats on his own merit.
Perhaps, he merely thought, it was precisely because mana and magical power suited him poorly that he'd gained tricks like this in exchange.
That was all there was to it.
"How does it even work?"
"It's like… the seams in the wind. You just have to cross against the grain well enough… it's hard to explain."
"Hm."
"Couldn't you manage it too, Lady Alesia, going up and down places like this?"
"…There's nothing I couldn't do if I tried. But getting caught and chewed out is more of a hassle, so if I did it, it'd be in secret."
Alesia looked as though something was on the tip of her tongue, deliberating.
"Ah — look at me, lost in my own head. Come on, let's go inside."
Cariel gave a small sigh as he looked at the entrance.
…As expected.
Churches were uncomfortable in all sorts of ways.
The solemn atmosphere, the currents of something sacred flowing through the air — none of that was what truly mattered.
It was that whenever he came to a place like this —
the holier, the more divine, the more solemn the ground —
his mother, Ermina, rose unbidden in his mind.
Yet inside, this church was simpler in structure than its exterior suggested.
It was tall, certainly — but none of that height was divided into floors or anything of the sort.
High ceilings, sunlight scattered into rainbows through stained glass, an air at once beautiful and sacred.
And still, little of it reached him.
The interior opened out precisely in the shape of a cross.
And at the very heart of that cross — the center of the church —
…there the statues stood.
A man kneeling on one knee, both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword.
Yet refusing, to the very last, to fall — resting his brow, his whole head, against the hilt held in those two hands.
The figure of a man standing with his eyes closed.
A statue one artist had completed over five years, in tribute to Saint Cariel.
And toward that man — seated as though leaning his forehead against the sword planted in the earth —
from behind him.
In threadbare clothes.
The old and the young, men and women alike, wrapped in rags scarcely different from scraps of cloth, touched sorrowfully at the hem of his garment, his back, his shoulders; pressed their foreheads to him; leaned upon his arm —
and wept.
No — "weeping expressions" would be the accurate way to put it.
Stone could shed no tears, after all.
One merely saw those faces, and understood, and interpreted them so.
Near where the statues stood, believers and plainclothes knights alike could be seen bowing their heads in mourning with eyes closed, while here and there others offered silent prayers.
"I'll change and come back, so take your time looking around."
Once she left.
The world settled into stillness once more.
Beftting a church, everyone kept themselves in check of their own accord.
Cariel leaned against a wall in the most out-of-the-way corner he could find, and asked the empty air.
"Why did Grandeus teach Cariel?"
-How would I know that?
Apparently the fact had taken even her rather by surprise.
-Knowing a great deal doesn't mean knowing everything. If it did, I'd be the Omniscient Demon King, not the Demon King of Wisdom, wouldn't I?
"……."
-You're the one who came here of your own will, aren't you? Not once did I ever wish it on you. If anything, I'm the one who wants to ask. Why did you come here? Did you come expecting this would happen?
"There's no way I could have."
He was profoundly unsettled.
Of all things, he had learned Grandeus's swordsmanship.
And then, of all things, he had set out on a journey to recover Grandeus's Magic Armor —
…and in the middle of it all, his own name, Cariel, was entwined with Grandeus?
Every last bit of this was something he would never have known, had he himself not come to this place.
-If it strikes you as too strange to be mere coincidence — then perhaps it was never coincidence at all, but inevitability.
"……."
Which would only make it stranger.
And once he began swallowing that explanation without complaint —
…then all the pain and absurdity of his entire life, his whole existence, would mean… that it had all been planned and predetermined?
It was enough to summon a fury that hadn't existed before, newly born from the very act of looking back.
As though he had been nothing but a toy batted about at someone's malicious whim.
"Knight or otherwise, it's none of my concern."
He did not want to become one.
There was no reason he had to.
All that remained to him was a hollow pride — crushed and ground to nothing, stripped even of shape.
Even his longing had vanished.
Envy's last ember had long since burned out to ash, scattered by the wind, strewn and swept away ages ago.
He did not wish for it.
He held no expectation, and never even dreamed it.
Whether he became a knight, or a Hero.
If, by any chance, he had been born to become such a thing —
if he had been fated for such an absurd destiny —
he would refuse it, resolutely, even if it killed him.
In every circumstance.
Even if —
even if it were something someone had yearned for and desired with all their desperate heart.
Among the countless, countless souls in this world —
he could say with certainty: it would never be him.
=====
With time to spare, he asked the Demon King one thing after another.
"Even your own people curse you openly to your face. How does that make you feel?"
-I told them to curse me. If you're going to do something, do it properly. I ordered them to hurl abuse every time they meet a human, and they're carrying it out splendidly. Every word of it is heartfelt, too.
…That was somewhat unexpected.
Did this Demon King simply have no trace of the desires that craved genuine recognition, or glory, or deeds to be recorded and remembered?
-It's a difference in the values one pursues, and one's purpose. It's not that I lack such things.
The Demon King said:
-The only thing I ever feared was losing Her favor. Everyone else's gazes, their judgments? None of it was ever my concern.
Which might well be just another form of self-absorption.
"The Golden Rule — what were you thinking when you introduced it?"
-To make them respect one another.
Only then —
-could they adopt the attitude they have now, speaking and negotiating with you as equals. Consider it a form of preparatory education.
Demons have nothing like that, you see.
At best, they honor contracts, and nothing more.
-By your standards, demons are by nature violent and savage — brutal enough that even wild beasts would fold to us a move or two in.
"So you're saying that because of your rule, they became capable of attitudes like the ones they show now?"
-Not entirely. But there was no helping it, was there? Wolves, sheep — even bears can reach some manner of accord. But you'd pen birds and fish in the same enclosure, too. Does that sound like sense to you?
What can't be done simply can't be done, little whelp.
-The sooner you let go, the higher the finished quality of what remains. Pointless hesitation and obsession are the enemies of wisdom.
Then as now, she was resolute.
Which made him wonder.
Just when, exactly, would the day come —
when he could crumple that damned Demon King's face up like a sheet of paper?
"Kept you waiting, huh?"
Alesia had returned.
Her outfit was the plain, practical sort of clothing men commonly wore.
The brown shirt hung conspicuously loose — evidently sized up deliberately to accommodate her chest — and over it she wore a red surcoat falling to her hips, which looked rather stylish, truth be told.
"Not at all. I found plenty to look at."
"Is there actually anything worth looking at here?"
"There are people, buildings, structures. All manner of things, aren't there? Each one carrying its own stories and circumstances, the way people do."
For instance —
"How much labor and toil went into raising this very church. All that sweat and effort and time, poured in by others, is what made this place what it is today. It's the same with that statue over there."
"…You really do have a sharp eye."
"I'm sorry?"
"Most people only look at the surface, fixate on what's right in front of their eyes. They don't try to peer beneath it like that."
"Ah…."
Cariel had simply been muttering whatever came to mind — but apparently he'd been taken in an entirely different sense.
"Thank you for the kind words."
"There's nothing to thank. You said something good was good — why would that call for thanks?"
…Truly.
Alesia was, without question, a good person.
"……."
Saintess Ermina.
From everything he'd overheard those around her say, she too had always been regarded as a presence of such nobility and sanctity that the like would never again be seen in this world.
More benevolent than anyone.
To him, though, she had been a presence boundlessly, immeasurably distant.
Yet every time he looked at Alesia, or spent time at her side, he found himself confronted, against his will, with that contradictory reality.
And if only to keep from letting that dissonance show —
Cariel could only paint silence and a smile upon himself, quietly, time after time.
Someone had once said it, hadn't they — that the very moment of preparation was already part of the festival.
Stepping out of the church and back into the city, wherever crowds had gathered there was, as always, no end to the laughter.
The sight of children with eyes sparkling bright with expectation nearly pulled the corners of his mouth loose before he knew it.
Luke, remembering with commendable accuracy what he'd introduced to him only yesterday, would toss him a piece of fruit with a wink and a grin, telling him to try it.
Somewhere, it seemed, a makeshift stage was going up — the rhythmic ring of hammer blows drifted over at regular intervals.
Children ran and played; carts loaded with baskets of flowers in every color rolled past.
Some threw themselves into cleaning, for an even cleaner street come the day itself, while others practiced their singing in anticipation — and caught hell from the neighbors for it.
All of it.
Rich, and peaceful.
Drawing slow breath in and out,
he followed that pleasant scene, in good spirits,
all the way until dusk.