Adaptation (10)
Erin, the third daughter of a minor barony near the Alrn Estate, had heard stories about the Apostle of the Art Order long before she ever entered service as a maid in House Aln. A wanderer who roamed the continent spreading his art. A benefactor who freely gave away whatever he earned to those struggling in hardship. A savior who delivered countless people tormented by the followers of the Evil Gods.
Back when Benedict Aln was shaking the continent with his martial prowess, the Art Order's Apostle Frete was shaking it with his goodness. In a way, among the young women of the era, Frete may well have been more famous than Benedict himself—after all, the wandering bards sang of Frete as an artist blessed with striking looks and a voice like honeyed wine.
The Frete she finally met, all those years later, was more beautiful than even the bards had claimed. As I understand it, Lord Frete is of an age with the Master of the house, so how is it that he still looks like a young man of twenty? Could this, too, be the work of a blessing from the Goddess?
Erin marveled at the sight of him, but her reaction went no further than that. Had this been back in her village, chattering with the girls of the town, she might have let out a shriek of delight. Not now, though. Having stood at Lucy Aln's side and grown accustomed to her lady's beauty, Erin could regard even Frete with perfect composure.
Frete seemed to find her reaction refreshingly novel, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, but he said nothing more about it.
"You are the Lady Alrn's exclusive personal maid, I take it?"
"Yes. That is correct."
"Before I begin her instruction, might I observe how you normally do things?"
"If my lady permits it."
"Don't wanna. I'm not permitting anything."
At the voice that popped up mid-conversation, Erin turned her head forward and looked past the back of Lucy's head to the face reflected in the mirror. A child's face steeped in childish mischief—and the smile of someone genuinely enjoying herself, not the irritated smirk Erin remembered from her first days as Lucy's maid. When she had taken up the post as the young lady's servant, she never imagined she would ever see such an expression.
"Could we not possibly allow it, my lady?"
"Nope."
Any other maid in the Alrn household would have flinched at Lucy's razor-sharp voice and bowed her head. But Erin was not just any maid. Knowing the Lucy of today, she was far from frightened; instead she lowered her head with a faint smile.
"My lady. Would you please reconsider, just this once?"
"...Ugh, when you go all serious like that, what am I supposed to do? You're no fun at all, loser Erin. So~ boring."
"My apologies, my lady."
"Fine. Do whatever you want. But if I don't like the result, I'm gonna mess with you plenty, so you'd better remember that."
"Your mercy is appreciated."
Watching the two of them converse with such easy familiarity, Frete wore a fond smile—but as he watched Erin begin to style Lucy, his expression gradually hardened.
"...How is it?"
"Not bad. For anyone from an ordinary noble house, this would be more than sufficient."
It was nearly a compliment, yet Erin's face did not brighten. She had felt the undercurrent of anger threading through Frete's tone.
"However, Lady Erin. Your mistress is on an entirely different plane from the daughters of common noble houses. One must not employ ordinary methods on someone closer to a goddess than any person I have ever beheld."
The hardness in Frete's voice and the edge in his gaze were heavy enough to make Erin wonder whether the gentle smile she'd seen moments ago had been an illusion. Yet even beneath the air pressing down on her shoulders, Erin's expression remained calm. For a woman who had once endured even the cruelty of Lucy before her transformation, pressure like this was nothing.
"Would you show me what needs correcting?"
"Observe. Lady Alrn possesses a form so flawless that there seems nowhere to touch. And in truth, there isn't—but even a perfect form holds ways to make it more beautiful still."
Erin listened to Frete's teachings in genuine admiration. So there are methods like this. Truly worthy of the man they call the leader of the continent's art.
"Lord Frete, would it be all right if I took notes in a booklet?"
"As you please. No—wait. Let me explain it all again from the beginning, so take notes and carve it into your memory. I could never forgive the woman who adorns Lady Alrn for doing a half-hearted job."
With thirty minutes spent on a single eyebrow alone, Lucy, enduring the tedium, finally let out a yawn.
At that, Frete—frozen mid-explanation—clapped a desperate hand over his bleeding nose.
"Pervert Apostle. Please, go somewhere and die."
"My lady, I deeply apologize, but I cannot. I must see my duty through to the end."
"Saying that while you're dripping blood just makes you look like a pathetic piece of trash, you know?"
"If the Lady calls me a pathetic piece of trash, then surely it must be true. It is an honor."
"...You're genuinely so disgusting I feel like I'm going to throw up."
Bishop Yurik's body was discovered in the bishop's own chambers. His habit of disliking anyone entering his room and handling everything alone was what had delayed the discovery.
When the people of the Art Order realized that their comrade had died right beside them—that they had neither known of his death nor found him in time—they forgot their bickering over the subjugation of the Evil Gods and turned to blaming themselves. They mourned the comrade who must have died in agony.
From the moment Bishop Yurik's body was found and laid to rest, an endless procession of mourning followed, and as dusk began to fall, the doors of the Order's headquarters opened and an angel revealed herself. Red eyes steeped in gravity. White skin carrying the warmth and softness of the sunset itself. The apostles of the Order spoke of an appearance endlessly close to the goddess. And within that seemingly fragile frame, a gaze so fierce it seemed it would not break before any trial.
Lucy Aln took in the world with a presence so overwhelming that even Frete standing beside her seemed erased from it entirely.
Before the glow of dusk, Lucy's eyes did not dim—rather, they shone all the brighter. The believers who faced her head-on felt awe spreading through their hearts and sank to their knees, and that awe rippled backward, and backward again, until before anyone noticed it had dyed the entire street.
Seeing that sight, Lucy pressed her lips tight and stepped forward. Onto her small feet—tiny steps that seemed they might vanish if handled carelessly, yet steps that had never once halted before countless trials—the hopes of the believers piled up. An apology to the comrade they had lost. A prayer that the comrade who met the goddess beyond death might find peace. Self-reproach, and a resolve to atone.
It piled and piled, pressing down upon Lucy Aln's steps—but Lucy did not waver in the slightest. Carrying it all as if it were no burden at all, she strode proudly forward until she reached the place where Bishop Yurik's body lay enshrined.
The Order's bishop keeping watch over the place met Lucy's eyes, bowed deeply, and stepped aside. Arriving before the coffin with everyone's hopes upon her back, Lucy took a deep breath, raised her hands, and drew them together before her chest.
And the moment she closed her eyes, a gentle warmth began to spread outward from where Lucy stood. A warmth that caressed the regret and grief and lamentation lodged in people's hearts, and brought them comfort. Feeling it against their skin, the believers' tears began to fall, one by one.
Frete, watching it all beside Lucy, thought that Bishop Yurik must have smiled when he arrived at the goddess's side. He was certain that every believer lingering in that place had been relieved of at least a fraction of the weight upon their hearts.
So this is the power of one beloved by the Chief God. Truly... truly, how fortunate we are that she is here.
Frete, who had watched Lucy's prayer with a stiff face, wiped his reddened eyes with the back of his hand and, like the other believers, closed his eyes and folded his hands together.
Slipping my eyes open once the prayer was done, I took in the mood of the Art Order's people and immediately shut them again.
Why are the people kneeling in the street wailing as they pray?
And why are the cult leader and the Pervert Apostle, who are supposed to be managing this situation, crying just like everyone else?
Above all, why are Karl the loser-dog and the Bald Knight just standing there staring blankly at me instead of coming to my side!? Aren't you two supposed to be my guards?! Am I not being protected?! Aaaagh! Seriously! What the hell is this situation?!
All I did was offer condolences to someone who lost their life, so how did it turn into THIS?! Come to think of it, the atmosphere was off from the moment I stepped out of the cathedral! Okay, fine, I'll grant that everyone's eyes locking onto me the second the doors opened is one thing—but why did you all suddenly drop to your knees?! Do I look like a king?! Some tyrant who lops off heads for bad etiquette?! And why are you PRAYING to me?! The one you serve is the Crow Goddess! Praying to me is heresy, you know! Aren't you afraid of the Crow Goddess's jealousy?! Waaah! I can't breathe, I'm going to die! What do I do!? What am I supposed to do?!
'...Grandpa! What do I do?! This atmosphere is way too much pressure!?'
<It's fine, Lucy. Just keep your mouth shut and they'll interpret everything on their own, beautifully.>
'That's not the problem here! I'm literally suffocating to death! If I had my way, I'd run for it right this second!'
<Get used to it. As long as you're the Chief God's Apostle, this is the sort of thing you'll go through endlessly. Hmm. Now that I think of it, isn't this exactly the situation you wanted? Look there. Everyone present is sending you not hostility but awe.>
'I want compliments, not worship!'
Just as I was shouting at Grandpa's needling, a chime sounded in my ear.
What now! You loser god! As if this situation weren't chaotic enough, why do YOU have to butt in?! Can't you just talk to me after everything's done?!
[Thank you so very much, Apostle of the Chief God. Thanks to you, our believers have been able to walk toward a better path.]
...Huh.
[I know not whether this will serve as proper repayment, but please think of it as this crow's kindness, and kindly accept it.]
No. Wait. What? WHAT?!