Adaptation (2)
When Benedict heard that Lucy, who had finally awakened from her long, long sleep, had gathered her friends and thrown herself into training, he took it as her way of outrunning her grief.
After all, when the pain was so heavy that even a single stray thought let sorrow sink its teeth into her, the kindest mercy was to leave her mind no room to think at all.
Benedict had done something similar once, long ago. He understood exactly what Lucy was feeling, and so he resolved to simply leave her be until she could soothe her own heart in her own time.
Telling himself, of course, that barging in would only wound her further.
"You're fidgeting like that because you simply have no idea how to comfort her, aren't you?"
After watching him squirm through an entire day of it, the Head Butler finally lost his patience and let Benedict have it. To him, the sight of a man who had been slowly mending ever since that private moment with Lucy reverting wholesale to his old self was simply too pathetic to bear.
"...Head Butler. When you strike a man with undeniable truth, it does rather hurt."
"Then you need only behave in a manner that requires no rebuke, my lord."
"If only it were that simple, do you think I'd be sitting here like this?"
Benedict knew perfectly well what the right thing to do was. It was just that every time he considered going to see her, the image of Lucy collapsed and wailing alone in the crypt rose before his eyes, and his feet refused to move.
"When I picture that moment, I can't help but think—perhaps our sweet girl only forgave her hopeless father because she was worried about him. Out of pity, nothing more."
His eyes reddened yet again, and he fumbled hurriedly for his handkerchief. The Head Butler's gaze went cold and sour at the sight of it.
Watching a man who had once terrorized an entire continent dab at his tears with a handkerchief smaller than his own palm was, quite frankly, pitiful beyond words.
"Is the young lady you imagine so fragile, my lord, someone who consoles others out of falsehood?"
"That is..."
"I imagine she would be delighted to hear you say so."
The butler's tone had curdled into open sarcasm, yet Benedict could summon no rebuttal. Because even to his own eyes, he looked utterly wretched. Because he was disgusted with himself for being less than a daughter who was overcoming her grief and pressing forward without any help from a useless father.
He clenched the tear-soaked handkerchief in his fist.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You already know the answer."
"..."
"I trust, my lord, that you will not flee behind this desk any further. Please, repay that trust."
With a pointed reminder of how much work still remained, the Head Butler withdrew, and Benedict sat staring blankly at the documents stacked before him before letting out a long sigh.
He knew what he had to do. He understood that treating her the way he always had would be enough. But what was a man to do when his heart refused to obey his own understanding?
Knock, knock. Just as Benedict heaved his sigh, a knock sounded at the door.
He knew at once who stood beyond it. The tiny, light footsteps that had pattered up the corridor. The tuneless little hum that leaked out unbidden, too soft for the singer to even notice. The cheerful pat-pat-pat of a small hand striking the wood—everything announced exactly who was waiting on the other side.
"Come in, Lucy."
"...How did you know? I didn't say anything."
"Did you truly think I could fail to recognize my own daughter arriving?"
"Ewww. That's creepy. Like, seriously gross. I suddenly want to run away, I'm so disgusted."
Met with his daughter's expression of pure revulsion, Benedict could only blink and babble like an idiot, at a complete loss for a reply. Hearing his own words played back, he had to admit it did sound rather strange.
As his silence stretched on, Lucy's eyes darkened dangerously and she began backing toward the door.
"No—wait! No, Lucy!"
Seeing her retreat, Benedict shot up from his desk to stop her.
"What do you mean, 'wait'?"
"It's just—I meant—look, I have no bad intentions! I swear it!"
"How am I supposed to believe that after getting a load of your gross pervert-papa eyes?"
Are my eyes really that repulsive?! The moment the wounded Benedict collapsed back into his chair, the wood—unable to bear his massive frame—shattered with a resounding crack.
Even mid-catastrophe, his superhuman reflexes kept him upright, but there was nothing to be done about the wreckage of the chair beneath him.
"Pfft. Pffhahaha. Bwahahahaha!"
Staring blankly at the shattered chair, he turned his head at the sound of his daughter's laughter.
There stood Lucy, doubled over and clutching her belly, exploding into laughter she clearly couldn't hold back for the life of her.
He simply watched—a sight he'd rarely been granted even before her mother passed away—and when, after a long moment, the real Lucy lifted her head again, he hastily composed his face.
"Haah. Honestly. Papa, you're so hopelessly pathetic that teasing you barely even feels fun anymore. When exactly are you planning to become slightly less embarrassing?"
"Weren't you... angry with me just now?"
"Do I look like someone with a rotten personality to you? Was I that kind of person to my idiot papa?"
"No, that's not what I—"
"Pffhaha. You're way too jumpy over a little joke. Dummy~ dummy-dummy."
Only then realizing he was being played like a fiddle, Benedict let his shoulders go slack and slumped in place.
"Lucy. So why did you come looking for this idiot papa, then?"
"For our usual sparring session, obviously."
"A... duel, you say?"
"Yep. Why? Don't tell me you're scared now that you might actually get exposed? Did you chicken out?"
At her needling tone, Benedict gave a helpless chuckle and shoved the documents on his desk carelessly aside. Then he stepped close to Lucy and gently, almost timidly, stroked her hair.
"...What are you doing? Your pointlessly tender touch is making me want to puke."
"Because I'm proud of you."
"Of what?"
"Because our daughter has become a far better person than this old man, and it fills me with pride. My hand moved all on its own."
So saying with a smile in his voice, Benedict scooped Lucy up and settled her onto his shoulder.
"Are you truly confident? This papa of yours holds back for no one—no matter who they are."
"Are you sure you should be saying that, Papa? Keep it up and you'll run out of excuses for later, you know?"
"Haha. Then I suppose I'd have no choice but to admit this papa is a pathetic loser. But no matter. That will never come to pass."
A few days into the new year, Phoebe—who had been granted a leave of absence by the Pope's generous favor—was on her way to the Arlen Estate alongside Bishop Johann.
If she'd wished, the Church's teleportation circle or a spatial mage could have delivered her to the estate in an instant. And yet Phoebe had deliberately chosen to travel by carriage.
It wasn't that she intended to suffer, nor that she wished to burden the Church with nothing. Her reason for riding from village to village along the way was, simply and wholly, to help anyone she might find struggling out there.
Skilled physicians and clergy were hardly plentiful on the continent, yet the people who needed them were beyond counting. And so Phoebe had chosen the long road home, so that she could tend to them as she went.
Examining the little flower-ring a child from yesterday's village had pressed into her hands, she remembered the girl beaming up at her—Pretty lady! Thank you! —and a soft smile bloomed on her lips.
It was right of me to hold back my eagerness to see the Lady and keep moving as usual. Had I not, I would never have seen that child smile.
"We shall arrive at the Arlen Estate shortly, it seems."
At Johann's words, Phoebe peered out the carriage window. In the distance, a cleanly built stretch of fortress wall came into view.
The Margraviate of Arlen—guardian of the kingdom's frontier, the deterrent that kept a dozen nations from daring to invade. And now, the land where Lucy Alrn dwelled: more precious to Phoebe than anyone else in the world, and the steadfast pillar that held her up.
"Are you looking forward to seeing your friends again after so long?"
"Of course, Bishop Johann. Just thinking of meeting everyone and spending time together makes me so happy."
For Lucy was hardly the only person waiting there.
Joy Partran, her friend of many years. Arthur Soladin, who seemed composed and courteous enough but had an odd talent for getting teased. Frey Kent, headstrong to a fault yet all the more honest for it.
After spending every hour in the Holy Land wound tight as a bowstring, how could she not rejoice at the prospect of easy days among friends?
"Oh—Bishop Johann, there's something I'd like to ask you."
"By all means."
"You served in the Arlen Estate for a long time, didn't you? Did you ever happen to observe the Arlen Knight Order's training?"
"I did. Indeed. Even I, who had heard the stories beforehand, saw with my own eyes—again and again—the sight of those men enduring hardships that the Church's own paladins could never be forced to bear."
Johann's thoughts drifted back to the year he'd first been assigned to the Arlen territory.
Back then, when I witnessed the knights' training, I believed the lord was subjecting them to torment purely to pressure a newly arrived bishop. But I was mistaken. That borderline-insane regimen was simply the knights' daily routine.
How stunned I was when I learned the truth of it.
Recalling that old shock, Johann let out a dry chuckle and turned the question back to her.
"But why bring that up so suddenly, if I may ask?"
"My friends are training with the Knight Order right now."
"...Pardon?"
"I imagine I'll be joining them too, once I arrive at the Arln household."
For an instant, Johann thought he had to stop her.
I have come to accept that this woman is more than worthy of the title of Saintess now. The Saintess is someone the Church will absolutely need in the years to come. And yet how could I stand by and watch such a person walk willingly into hell?
Perhaps his bewilderment had written itself plainly across his face, for Phoebe let out a light laugh.
"Don't worry, Bishop Johann. With the Lady at my side, what is there to fear?"
"Still—"
"Besides, I'd have to clear trials like this with ease before anyone could rightly call me a Saintess, wouldn't I?"
Understanding her resolve, Johann pressed her no further and, as on any other day, continued his lecture on divine magic.
And so another day passed, and Phoebe arrived at the Arlen Estate. After paying her respects at the local church, she set out for the Arlen household's manor with Johann.
Seeing how anxious Bishop Johann is, the Arlen Knight Order's training must truly be brutal. But I'm not worried. Because I know that hardship will become my growth.
More than anything, I want to see the Lady soon. The Lady, with expressions now. How precious a sight it must be—I wonder if I'll even be able to look at her properly.
"Bishop Johann. And... the Saintess... herself?"
"That is correct, guardsman. I am Phoebe, Saintess of the Church of the Chief God. I have come at the invitation of Lady Alrn."
The guards holding the manor gates went wide-eyed at the sight of Phoebe, but their flustered state did not last long. Swiftly recovering their composure, they escorted Johann and Phoebe toward the Knight Order's training grounds.
"Hahaha! Everyone's gotten so much stronger!"
What Phoebe beheld upon arriving was her friends sprawled flat across the ground—and in their midst, Benedict, laughing without a single wound upon him.
Huh? What in the world is going on here?
Is... is this some kind of training too? If so, everyone looks far, far too worse for wear...
Blinking at the utterly devastating scene before her, Phoebe startled at the sensation of a soft, warm hand closing around her wrist, and turned.
"You're way too slow, you lazy, pathetic Saintess."
"L-Lady...?"
"Come here. Even a scrub of a fatty tank Saintess with useless excess flab will do for divine power, so I might as well get some use out of you."
"...I'm sorry? I'm sorry?! W-wait, my lady, could you at least let me explain—my lady?! Can you not hear me!?"