Become My Squire (8): The First Page of a Masterpiece
The name of the person who had set foot on the same peak as I was Marshall de Logres, the Duke of the North. The first words he ever spoke to me were:
"Shall we cross blades once?"
A challenge to a duel. To show up out of the blue and offer a duel as his very first greeting—I was so dumbfounded by the absurdity of it that I tried to ignore him and walk away, but then he added:
"I have always been curious. Who is stronger, the mage or the knight?"
That single sentence stopped me in my tracks. Who is stronger, the knight or the mage? The sword or the magic? It was a childish, common topic that never failed to pop up in any tavern. Yet, that very same juvenile question flowed from the lips of the Duke of the North. He, who had climbed to the pinnacle through the sword, had thrown such a naive question at me.
I don't know why I stopped for such a trivial thing, but I let out a dry laugh at his query.
"How childish."
"Men are naturally drawn to childish things."
Even at my indifferent response, he just laughed and nodded, as if that were only natural. "That is why I came to you, to seek an answer. I want you to resolve a dream I held since I was a boy."
Childish. Why would he harbor such a dream? He, who stood at the summit of every swordsman's longing—why would he cling to such a thing? Was it just the recklessness of youth? If so, he wouldn't have carried that dream all the way to this point. Why, then, does that man still cherish such a childish dream?
"They say magic is a gift the dragons gave to humanity. The sword, however, is the answer humanity carved out for itself to walk its own path."
"What is it you are trying to say?"
"It is a truly childish question, but that is precisely why I wanted to know."
Magic and swordsmanship. Both are weapons and techniques of humanity, but they differ in their origins. Magic belongs to the dragons. There are many hypotheses—that 'the dragons took pity on humans and taught them,' or that 'humans analyzed, interpreted, and reproduced the dragons' power to claim it as their own.' But the fact remains that it began with dragons. Magic is the shadow cast by the dragons upon us.
But the sword belongs to humanity. This is because swordsmanship is something humans created for themselves. It is the answer and the tower built by humans who had nothing, piling effort upon effort to protect themselves from external threats. In other words, swordsmanship is the fire that humans obtained on their own, without learning it from dragons.
If so, then—if magic is the shadow of the dragons who possessed everything from the start, and the sword is the path walked by humans who had nothing—can weak humans, who were given nothing, escape the shadow of the dragons who had everything? Can humanity reach the dragons?
That was the question he had come to ask out of the blue. It was a question that even the skeleton, who had climbed to the peak with the sword just like him and lay exhausted beside me, had never dared to ask.
However, there was no one who could answer that question. Because:
"There are no dragons. Not in this world."
There are no dragons. The dragons, who possessed everything from the beginning, no longer exist in this world. Therefore, there is no one who can answer his childish question. The beings who could have proven his question have already vanished.
And, didn't the story of the knight who hunted a dragon already exist, one step ahead of us?
"And, the story of the knight who hunted a dragon does exist."
It was a question with an answer already provided. It might be futile for a man who had run this far for the sake of his reckless, youthful dream. It was a problem with a known solution, one he could have solved without even climbing up here.
"Congratulations, you have found your answer."
It was a waste of time. Though for someone like me with infinite time, the word 'waste' shouldn't exist, I didn't know why I had stopped, and I didn't particularly want to know.
"I know," he said. But he didn't look disappointed. "I know that there are humans who hunted dragons. But... that dragon did not use magic, did it?"
I let out another dry laugh at his words. He was right. The dragon that fell to humanity was not a being that wielded magic. But that wasn't why I laughed. It was his useless obsession. I was dumbfounded by his fixation on such a strange thing.
"Is the fact that a dragon must use magic really that important?"
"Don't go shattering a man's romance like that. A dragon that doesn't use magic isn't a dragon."
What kind of 'man's romance' is that? A dragon that wields magic. Does this man think that he has only truly defeated a dragon if he overcomes one that uses magic?
"In that case, you will never know the answer for eternity."
"Why is that?"
"Because I am only half a dragon."
I couldn't answer his question, for I am not a true dragon. I call myself the last dragon remaining in this era, but my blood flows with something other than dragon's blood.
"Wake up from your childish dream now. Dreams are just dreams. Such naive fantasies, the kind you'd only hold when you're young and immature... isn't childhood enough for that?"
How long do you intend to dream like a child? Isn't it more than enough to be childish only when you are young? Having faced countless children, having seen their brilliant colors and sent them off, that is what I think. That being childish is enough for one's youth.
"I refuse."
However, he shook his head, rejecting my words. Like a child clutching a toy, refusing to let it go. He kept that childishness intact, never letting it slip from his hands. Why? I could not understand the thoughts of that man. The absolute being who could awaken him from his dream remained only in stories. There is no one left to resolve his question. Yet, why do you seek to solve that dream? It is a childish dream, one that isn't even important enough to require an answer.
But to my question, he replied:
"Just like how you can only eat one snack a day when you're young, but you can buy a whole mountain of them once you become an adult."
He shook his head. He simply wished for the dream he had in those childish, immature days. "Isn't that what it means to be an adult—to finally do to your heart's content the things you couldn't do when you were young?"
Because it is a childish, useless dream that offers no help, perhaps he is all the more determined to verify it. To see if, as an adult, he can finally reach the small dream he harbored in his reckless youth.
It is just... so childish.
"You really were a madman."
"I am honored. To hear such words from the last dragon."
The way he spoke so cheekily, the way he talked about his childish dream so seriously—it was all so childish.
"I am not a real dragon."
"If you use magic and have horns, what else would you be but a dragon?"
"What on earth do you think a dragon is?"
"Something huge, breathing fire, using magic, and looking cool with horns."
I don't know. Why didn't I ignore him even after hearing such a childish dream? Why am I even arguing with him like a child? I was just so dumbfounded.
"You smiled."
"I know how to smile."
"No, not a dry laugh. You actually smiled, didn't you?"
Yes. Perhaps I did smile back then. That a swordsman who reached the same heights as that guy would have such a childish, immature dream. Since that skeleton also had a side like that, perhaps all swordsmen are that kind of breed. I became interested in that childish dream. I became intrigued by such gaudy, childish colors. I became curious about the story he was painting. To put a period at the end of the childish dream he had held since his youth, I fought him for about seven days. And so, for the first time in 500 years, I gained a human friend.
***
The guy became my storyteller. And I, became a fan of his stories. I loved the tales drawn by a man who had such a childish dream. It was a feeling I had never experienced in my 500 years of life. I never expected such gaudy, childish stories to sprout from the midst of my emptiness.
"I don't know why you like such childish stories."
"Living for 500 years, I've found that even these childish stories aren't so bad."
"Oh my, then I suppose I'll never know that feeling for eternity."
Occasionally, I would visit him. "Sorry, but I'm busy right now."
"I am not busy on this side."
"Good grief, there's no such thing as a 'vacation' here."
Listening to his stories and ruminating on them became my own personal hobby. And that continued on, even until he found his own partner.
Then, it was one day.
"Are you not going to marry?" Marshall asked suddenly.
"Marriage, you say?"
"Yes. I've never heard a word about you falling in love in all your 500 years. Don't you have any heirs, either?"
Love. Love, huh.
"It is merely childish."
"Has your taste changed already?"
Love. I looked at him with a complicated expression as he said that. I have never been in love. No, I hadn't even thought about it. Because before I could build a relationship and realize what love was, everyone had already left me. It was all because of the blood flowing through my veins. The dragon's blood gave me awe, but at the same time, it built a wall. The time we stood in was different, so the time we spent together ended up being so short.
"I have no interest in such things."
"Perhaps it's because you're a long-lived species. But it wouldn't be bad to try love at least once. You are still young, after all."
"...I am about 500 years old. I am older than you, Marshall."
"Isn't it a life lived while remaining young forever?"
"Marshall." I cut him off. Even though I had never interrupted Marshall before, I was surprised at myself for cutting him off. And with it came a sense of discomfort. I don't know why. Seeing him joking around in his usual cheeky yet earnest way, a sense of displeasure rose up within me for some reason. Why? I had never felt that way before. Regardless, I didn't want to hear any more love stories from Marshall's lips. As a fan of your stories, I truly wished for your happiness, but how should I put it—this displeasure was truly bothersome.
"You wouldn't understand." And then, "Because I am a dragon that has been stuffed and mounted."
The dragons I could call my kin now remain only in stories, and I am left alone in this world as a half-breed. A life that everyone admires but draws a line against as a living creature. A life that everyone looks up to, yet no one truly sees. There were various colors of all kinds, but there was no color that would be stuffed and mounted alongside me. There aren't many people standing in the same position anymore. Marshall is human, so he will have the limitation of a lifespan, and the skeleton is undead, so he might live long, but we cannot share a connection.
"What is the meaning of a life where I have wings that can fly anywhere, but cannot fly together with anyone?"
I have unbreakable wings that can fly anywhere. Because these wings sprout from my shoulder blades, I can fly anywhere, for eternity. Alone. Only alone. Only I can fly.
"I want to fold my wings."
I wanted to fold these wings that could fly anywhere and become a person who could go nowhere. If I could go nowhere, and we could grow old together like that, how wonderful would that be? But my blood did not even permit that.
"Please forget it. It was just a complaint."
"So even you know how to complain."
I simply folded away this unpleasant heart and read Marshall's stories. Just as a single fan.
***
And when Marshall met his second wife and had his second child, unlike with Cassian, Marshall did not reveal his child to the world. It was a move I couldn't understand even more, as Marshall was a stubborn man who had turned his back on politics and buried himself only in the North. Why did he not reveal his second child? I was curious, but I assumed there was a reason, so I didn't ask, nor did I visit the North for a while.
Then, one day.
"Ash, could you come for a moment?"
Suddenly, he called for me. He, who never called me unless I visited first. Why did he call me? "Was there something you were hiding?"
"That is why I am calling you."
The reason he called was because of the child. The child he had stubbornly hidden despite the numerous rumors flying about. He would show him to me? Why? Why show the child to me? Why the child he had hidden until now?
"Why?"
"Because you are a good listener."
Seeing Marshall cut the conversation short after saying something incomprehensible, I just thought it was strange and flew to the North. And so, I was able to see the child Marshall had tried to hide. I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help but be startled when I saw Ian.
"Marshall."
"How is it? I want you to speak without reservation."
"He has no color."
The child introduced as Ian de Logres had no visible color. Just as Marshall had his childish colors, everyone who is a person has a color. He wasn't dead, but the color that should be visible in a living person was nowhere to be seen.
"I see, so it wasn't just visible to me and Alfredo." Marshall nodded as if relieved.
"Right now, Ian is empty. He is not dead, but..."
"........."
"He never speaks as if giving a predetermined answer, nor has he ever ordered anyone to do something directly. I don't mean to say he lacks agency as a Logres. An empty story."
"I don't mean to say he lacks subjectivity. It's just that he is empty; he has no color of his own."
A pure white sketchbook with nothing written on it. Even though he is not a newborn, the story written for Ian is a blank page. How should I put it—is that why? My eyes were drawn to that story with nothing written on it. Because it was a blank page without a pen held to it, there was nothing there, but because of that, it was a story where anything could be written.
However, because he could become anything, he could turn into any color. Was that why he didn't reveal Ian?
"I do not intend to send Ian out into the world until he finds his own color."
That was what Marshall said. Does he mean he won't permit any color until he finds his own? But there is no guarantee that Ian will find his color just because time passes.
"But what if he cannot find his own story?"
"If he cannot find it..."
"In that case, Marshall's story..."
"That cannot be." Marshall shook his head. "His color is his own. I am only helping so that he can paint it. His color must not become mine."
"But there is no guarantee that he will find it just because time passes."
"Then, I will just wait."
I couldn't say anything to Marshall, who asserted that so firmly. Because I could see the stubbornness in Marshall's eyes. The same childish, childlike stubbornness I had seen before we fought.
"Even so, what if the color Ian finds for himself is a mediocre work?"
Being able to become any color means he could become a bad color. Wouldn't it be better to have him paint Marshall's story instead?
However:
"What if it is a mediocre work? So what?"
"Pardon?"
Marshall smiled faintly, as if asking why I was worried. "There are fans who watch such childish stories. There are people who fall in love with childish stories. If there is someone who watches it even if you disparage it as a mediocre work, then it is not a mediocre work."
"........."
"And if no one watches it, then I can just watch it myself."
At those words, spoken so calmly:
"I don't want to see a masterpiece made by someone else; I want to see the mediocre work that Ian writes for himself."
Ha. I see. I just let out a dry laugh. Is this dry laugh a sneer at the stubborn Marshall? Or is it a sneer at myself, who fell in love not with the Logres who is the Swordmaster of the North, but with the story of Marshall, who held such immature and childish thoughts? Yes. If you are going to disparage and erase it because you think it will be a mediocre work—what would that make me, who fell in love with Marshall's childish dream?
And so, we parted ways. That is right, Ian. This was my first meeting with you. Though it seems you do not remember it.
It was a color found and painted by you, Ian, not Marshall or anyone else. I saw you for the first time at the entrance ceremony with that color painted on you, and for the second time just now in the infirmary, but it was truly childish. Did you call it chivalry? Chivalry, of all things. How should I put it—it was a different kind of childishness from Marshall's. And it was even clumsy. And it's a bit of a shame. The talent you showed was real. It would have been even more interesting if my color had been added to it. But you refused, so it's a bit of a pity.
However, I don't think that kind of childishness is bad. Though I'm not sure if I'm a fan yet. Is it because it's the beginning? That must be it. The story written with that color is still in its opening stages, isn't it? So, please scribble away without reservation. I might just fall in love with that story and become the second fan of Ian's story. I, too, like those kinds of childish stories.
***
After the Headmistress left, I had to welcome other guests. It was a visit to the infirmary. With Dolnesia at the center, the club members, and even Dante. Iris and Haede didn't seem to be able to come because they were busy, but the people who gathered at the news that I had woken up, while not a huge crowd, were enough to fill the infirmary.
Just as I was about to be moved, thinking that I hadn't lived my life in vain, I couldn't help but break into a cold sweat.
"Ian."
I don't know why, but their tone was incredibly sharp. Especially Dolnesia and Isabella? It didn't seem like these girls had just come for a simple hospital visit. For what on earth?
"What's with the ring?"
"What ring?"
What are you talking about? Why bring up a ring all of a sudden?
"I'm talking about the ring you gave to Lady Iris."
If it's the ring I gave to Iris... .........Ah. I remember. The Ring of the Holy Maiden. Since it was a ring filled with holy power, I thought it would be helpful for Iris, who had to awaken as a saintess, so I gave it to her through Haede. But why?