Who Are You, Mister? (2)

"I…."

I couldn't answer.

It was as if my throat had been sealed shut. What could I possibly say?

An ordinary boy with pale brown hair, the kind you could find anywhere. Those two eyes that shone like gold — I couldn't bear to meet them, and my gaze dropped. In both his hands I saw several small bouquets of white flowers with tiny petals.

Common wildflowers. Plain, unremarkable, nothing special about them at all.

It lasted only a moment, but relief and self-reproach crashed over me all at once.

This boy….

I had nearly failed to recognize him. It's been so long. You've grown so much. Even those words, I couldn't bring myself to say.

I….

Hadn't I taken up the sword precisely to prevent tragedies like this? My first and foremost wish had been that no child would lose their parents as I had. That the weak would no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠longer be tormented by those with power. That there would be no more innocents wrongly accused — I had prayed for it. That those with courage would receive the rewards their effort and passion rightfully earned. That a world would come that was just, and fair.

…But what was reality like?

The strong oppressed and exploited the weak. The wicked deceived and used the good, reaping unjust gains. Even the weak themselves shoved aside and scorned those weaker than they were. Good intentions were repaid with wickedness, and those who lived uprightly were condemned as fools, as incompetents. Such was the world.

My teacher's old words rose unbidden to my mind. What had I said back in reply, I wondered.

But.

"If no one else will do it, then doesn't it have to be me?"

Yes. That was all there was to it — that one conviction, nothing more.

As if the world had been any kinder back then. As if the wicked had been any fewer.

Someone admirable, he'd said. The first time I saw him, he had proudly declared himself a knight. And yet in the end, he could no longer even bring himself to use the phrase — a fine knight.

Had he been discouraged? Or had he despaired? Perhaps he had simply resigned himself. …Or perhaps he had been broken.

And so — because I hated seeing him like that. Because I wanted him to find his strength again. I wanted to offer words of comfort: It's all right. You did more than enough.

But I had never been gifted with silver words or clever turns of phrase back then. So instead, I said the only thing I knew — that was enough for me. That was what I had told him.

His face was hidden beneath his helm, so I couldn't see it, but a note of puzzlement crept into his voice.

"That's enough for you? Why?"

Regrettably — whatever I said next, I could not recall a single word of it.

…And yet.

What I had to do now — that, I understood with perfect clarity.

As a boy, simply following behind her had been all I could manage. It was the only way out of the pain. In those moments of running headlong toward a goal, mind emptied of everything else, I could somehow escape this unbearable, burning ache in my chest. Escape this heart that ached as if it were bleeding out.

That was why I had kept my distance from her, too. What could a wretch like me do to make anyone happy? How could I presume to carry anyone's burdens?

Look only forward, you told me, Father. Mother.

But… that was impossible. Surely you must have known it was impossible.

"This stone grave here — is it your father and mother's?"

Straining to hold down the trembling in my voice, I asked, calmly, quietly.

"Yes."

"How did they die?"

"…Father died defending the village. Mother… she died trying to protect me…."

He might as well have swung a farming implement for all the good his weapon would have done. In his youth he had climbed mountains and played at being a hunter, but by then, hunting for him meant little more than setting snares. And she….

"They said it was an army. They took every scrap of food in the village, the farm tools, everything — all of it."

"……."

I had guessed as much from the traces. For a simple raid, the devastation had been far too thorough — the entire village wiped clean. Most of the survivors were the elderly and young children. As for the young ones who lived through it, without exception they would have been taken away as slaves or prisoners. With little ransom to hope for, their fate was plain to see. Leaving the old and the young behind was deliberate — a burden planted in enemy territory, a thorn in its side. The way an army is bogged down, its manpower crippled, when it pauses to collect its wounded from the field.

For years, I had drifted through battlefields great and small, springing up all around. I had fought in proxy wars, settled dozens of duels, and somehow survived it all. Those efforts of the past had not been meaningless.

But that, as my teacher had said, was a matter of advancement — nothing more. It had seemed that if I climbed high enough, I could change the world. Yet to do so, the present had to be sacrificed. I would have to kick my comrades from behind and drive my subordinates into the jaws of death, amass merit, carve out accomplishment — only then would the path open. I sometimes pushed myself to the front precisely because I hated it, but the truth was I had survived on skill alone.

"What will you do now?"

"I have to live."

It was an obvious answer. And yet that obviousness weighed on me with terrible heaviness.

"Just because a harvest fails doesn't mean you stop farming, right?"

"I… suppose that's true."

Of course it was. Why was it that I received such plain, self-evident common sense — sense they all knew without thinking — as something so bleak?

What was the point? The dead do not come back. What failed to be protected does not come back. Only what has been lost remains. That emptiness — there was no way on earth to fill it.

"Father used to say that giving up is arrogance, and pride. He said people only give up because they can still afford to eat."

"……What?"

"He said things never going well is just how it always is. Success and failure come together, always. So you pray for success every time, but when it doesn't come, there's nothing to be done about it."

"……."

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠see. So that was the impression my teacher had left with people. I felt pity for him — and, at the same time, gratitude.

And still, the boy had survived. I had thought he had lost everything — but something remained. Something was still there.

"Ruel, was it?"

"Huh? You know me?"

"How could I not? Building this log house your family lived in when you were little — I did it alongside your father and mother. Running through the mountains and all through this region… it's all still vivid to me."

"Wha— then you're Sir Knight? Are you the knight, mister?"

A knight.

I had forgotten. The knight my teacher spoke of did not exist anywhere in this world. Knight had been nothing more than a word my teacher invented.

"Your father and mother used to say it. Your name is Cariel, right, mister? They said you'd become a fine knight. That's why I asked — what's a knight? And then…."

"One who overcomes the impossible."

The words left my mouth as if I were spellbound. And then—

"One who can die for a noble ideal."

The boy picked up the next line. And so it went, one after another, each of us taking our turn.

"One who conquers even the most unbearable agony."

"One who knows to repent of his own faults and mend them."

"One who loves righteousness and goodness more than anyone."

"One who strikes down wicked enemies without hesitation — and."

"One whose heart carries the courage of dreams and love, of hope and faith, to run to the very ends of the earth."

It was, quite literally, the stuff of dreams.

His face had been hidden beneath that helm, and I could not see it — but his voice, the way my teacher had recited it back then so boldly, so boastfully confident, so sure of himself — even now, it rang in my ears with unbearable clarity. Vivid. Flickering at the edge of my mind.

"Then, Ruel. Do you know what it is we must do now?"

"We rebuild the village. Before that, people will need time to grieve. But more important than any of that is what we eat tomorrow and where we sleep. That's what matters most, isn't it?"

The boy laid out the tasks ahead, one by one, with perfect logic. The drizzle still fell, thin and faint — but here, with no ceiling and no roof, even this would become hardship. Trial.

"That's right. You're right."

The man — Cariel — nodded.

"Then let us do what we must do."

Only then could the boy place his bouquets upon the two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠graves. Watching that small, small back as he knelt in silent prayer, the man steeled himself — and steeled himself again. Because it was the only vow he could make before those two stones.

Time flowed swiftly.

The village was rebuilt, the shortage of hands somehow muddled through. Cariel gave up one of his two swords to be reforged into farm tools. Drawing on the skills of his youth, he felled trees and hauled the timber, and with clumsy hands, raised houses.

Fortunately, a few of the elders had real expertise in such things. That they could build more than bare log shacks — that they could plane and shape the wood into sturdy plank houses — may well have been sheer good fortune.

Bandits, poking their heads out after mere days ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to see what could be pilfered, were driven off. A handful of drifters, wary and hesitant, joined in. If you set aside the stretch where they leaned on the forest's mercy and scoured it half to death, tearing off bark to eat, they had endured, as memory had it, with almost ferocious stubbornness.

Fewer mouths to feed meant fewer hands to work — but everyone held on, tenaciously. By the time they finally thought to pause, to breathe, to complain a little, a full year had slipped past.

Collectors came to gather taxes, and seeing the state of the territory, tried to press on regardless. Cariel barred their way, resolutely. Perhaps reputation was not entirely meaningless after all — they withdrew without another word.

But the next time they came, they would come with intent. So Cariel went to see the man who had once ruled this land as its lord — for the lord of this whole region had been him.

The man would not grant him an audience. Instead, Cariel received nothing but a one-sided proclamation: given the village's ruin, its taxes would be waived for five years.

…Cariel found it rather thin gruel. He had hoped, faintly, for some actual aid — but when he returned to the village and delivered the news, everyone was overjoyed.

…He felt his shame rise all over again at that, but he did not let such feelings show.

Once the village settled a little, those who coveted it began to multiply. Some tried outright banditry. Others infiltrated disguised as vagrants, and still more came seeking to join the village while hiding who they were — their numbers only ever growing. Cariel dealt with all of it, always within the bounds of letting no great harm spread.

His teacher had once told him to carry both courage and wisdom. And he had honored that demand, faithfully.

More time passed. That year's harvest was comparatively abundant. Small in scale, for hands were few — but it was more than enough for us. Merely looking out over those golden fields brought a fullness to the stomach again and again.

The boy had grown into a young lad. And the village had grown, if barely, to the size where a self-defense militia could be formed. It didn't even number ten, but even that was something.

Around that time, the first wandering peddler made his way in. The village wasn't his destination, only a stop along the road, but by offering up the hides we had stockpiled, we traded for a few farm tools and implements. He promised to return with far richer goods next time, and made his intent to visit again plain.

More time passed.

Once we had a little more to spare, the regret came flooding in — that we should have traveled to other territories and searched out the children's parents. A small measure of comfort, and the guilt arrived with it.

And then, as if by miracle, they escaped on their own and returned to the village — and the whole village was drowned in weeping.

The boy — Ruel — looked upon that scene and rejoiced from the bottom of his heart. But that night, I went to the stone graves that held their shape only barely, and in a darkness where even the moon held its breath, I wept at last — muffling the sound, refusing to let it go, all the way to the end.

So the years passed. Roughly six, perhaps, since the vow I had made in my heart before those stone graves.

The man who had once dreamed of being a knight had become an ordinary villager.

And then—

A wandering priest suggested, quietly, that they ought to try building a small church. He lingered a while, surveying the ground for it — and then he died, suddenly.

…And a plague began to spread.

The epidemic swallowed the village without warning, in the space of a breath. Even the priest's death, for reasons no one understood, spread to the neighboring villages — and their home came to be called ground cursed by demons.

Those who heard the news, wherever they heard it — not one of them reached out a helping hand.

Not even the servants of the Lord. The ministers of heaven, who of all things should have been the most merciful.