Farewell (4)
The word farewell was something she simply could not get used to.
A month remaining — didn't that mean they still had a month to find Riel?
But she knew it was impossible. She knew that if they went looking for him, it would only hurt him more. And without Riel, how were a handful of orphans supposed to track him down in the first place?
Like broken dolls — like pitiful toys abandoned by the roadside with their sides split open — the three of them only gathered to sleep together after Riel had left to die.
It wasn't because they had reconciled. It was simply that the hollow Riel had left behind in each of their hearts was so vast, the grief so enormous, that the thought of fighting never even occurred to them. More than fighting, they just wanted to be where he had been.
Afraid that Riel might favor someone else? Afraid he might actually marry Rhea? Afraid Claudia might steal his heart? Afraid that praying with Ceria might make him see her as a woman?
None of it mattered anymore. The jealousy and the obsession that had crawled through their hearts like insects had faded to nothing. The three of them buried their faces in the bed where Riel had slept so soundly, and they cried, and they grieved, and they cried again.
From that day on, every time Rhea fell asleep, she dreamed of Riel. Nightmares.
Rhea had seen how Count Loren died. And in her dreams she watched Riel run through by a blade, watched hideous wounds open across his body, watched him weep as he called their names —
Claudia, Ceria… Rhea…
— and die. The dreams were so vivid they gnawed at her mind with equal vividness. She was so terrified that even at fifteen she sometimes wet the bed at night.
When it hurt — when it hurt so much that even Riel grew hazy — she would stab and tear at places no one would ever see or scold her for. The insides of her thighs. Her forearms. Her stomach. Poke. Poke. Poke. Poke.
Ceria was no different. She never left the prayer room. Aside from the hours when they all slept together just to catch the scent of him, she barely ate, pouring everything into prayer.
She no longer prayed for Sister Flora's well-being the way she always had. The tender little prayers that Riel might like her — those were gone too.
Please let Riel live. Please don't let him die. And if he dies, take me with him.
Every prayer was a plea that Riel, dragged off to war, would not be killed. Prayers of pure despair, begging that if he died she be killed as well. And then…
"…Hic— I-I was the bad one. I don't want forgiveness. Just kill me instead—"
Remembering the day she had sent him away, she prayed over and over to be killed instead.
"…Ceria, y-you have to e-eat, hic— c-come on…"
Claudia clung to the two of them with a pathological devotion. Even without reconciliation — even if they pushed her away and said they hated her — she kept at it.
As if she had completely forgotten that Riel had left for the battlefield to die. Believing, and believing again, that he would come back the way he always had. Claudia tried to care for Ceria and Rhea so that Riel wouldn't have to hurt.
The way Riel had always cared for her. As if imitating his every gesture were the only way not to forget him.
She never considered what either of them actually wanted. As if scooping the grief out of them with her bare hands, Claudia forced open Ceria's mouth as the girl shook her head and said she didn't want to eat, and shoved the food in.
"Ghk— hah—!"
Just as the other two had come undone after Riel left, Claudia too was twisting and breaking, little by little. What she called care was indistinguishable from violence.
Riel. Riel. Riel.
I miss you. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I love you. I like you.
But even if they all cried out those words now, nothing would change. Prayer would not miraculously bring back the boy who had been taken. Self-harm would not make him scold them and tell them to stop.
One day passed. Then two. Then three.
The grief that had filled the empty spaces in their hearts grew thinner by degrees. Or rather — it was replaced. When the pain is too great to endure, too great to overcome, the mind naturally seeks another way.
Praying was easier on the heart than grieving. Self-harm was easier. Forcing care on someone else was easier. Blaming someone was easier than being sad. And the easiest thing of all was reminding yourself that you were not the reason Riel left.
Rhea looked at Claudia and Ceria. The bitches who hadn't even managed a goodbye — who had simply let him go even after he came back. The bitches who had forced themselves between Sister Flora and Riel and ended up hurting everyone. She saw the two women who had driven him to his death.
"…Hey."
She no longer bothered with bandages. She left the wounds bare, festering, the pus welling up and bursting free. Rhea tilted her head, buried her face between her knees, and asked with a faint smile —
"…Why did you do it?"
Why. She didn't scream the way she used to. She didn't sob. But the question that fell from the tip of her tongue seemed steeped in something beyond resentment — hatred. Her red eyes fixed on Claudia, who still refused to leave Riel's blankets, and on Ceria, whose eyelids were swollen from endless crying.
"…And you."
Ceria was the same. She rationalized. It was true she hadn't said goodbye to Riel. It was true she had hurt him. But she believed — she told herself — that it had all started when Rhea went down to the slums.
"…If you hadn't gone running off saying you'd make money, Riel never would have had to kill a noble."
Ceria twisted the corner of her mouth the way Rhea had, answering just to wound. It's not my fault. It's yours. You're the one hurting the most, so you're the one who's bad. She repeated it and repeated it.
"…"
Rhea stared blankly at Ceria for a moment, mouth shut. Then she gave it back with the words that would hurt the most.
"…So that's why you made him cry?"
Riel cried? At that question, the color drained from Ceria's face until it was pure white.
"…W-what?"
It would have been better if Riel had died instead of Sister Flora. Those cold words she could never forget. The sight of Riel weeping. The sound of his sobs.
Ceria wiped away the tears that spilled down without her noticing, her face blank. As if time had briefly rewound to that day, she watched the scene play out in her mind and her hands began to tremble.
She couldn't argue. Because Riel really had sobbed in front of Sister Flora's grave. Because it had been a moment that shattered every value and every scrap of common sense she had lived by. Because the one who had spoken the words that hurt him most — that had been Ceria herself. So instead of arguing, she gripped the cross of Sister Flora's that she always carried, and —
Whap—!
— hurled it hard at Rhea. The cross bounced off and fell, smeared with Rhea's blood. The kind of blood that seeps out when you've cut yourself too many times.
"…Shut up. What the hell do you know to say something like that…!"
Rhea looked at Ceria and smiled again.
"…You made Riel cry. You hurt him. Because of you, he wrote that letter while he was crying. No send-off. No goodbye. He became a discarded orphan and ran from us like he was fleeing."
"…I told you to shut up."
"What, you don't want to hear it? Why don't you want to hear it? You did it. You did this. Because of you, Riel left—"
Her red lips parted. She had kept them closed so long that a string of sticky saliva seemed to stretch between them.
"…You killed him. You killed Riel."
One cursed sentence. Ceria couldn't hold back. She lunged at Rhea.
Crack—!
"I told you to shut your mouth, you fucking bitch—!"
A curse she had never once spoken in her life — the kind of word the scary men spat when she sometimes followed them into the village — filled her mouth as she slapped Rhea's cheek and climbed on top of her.
"What do you know? What the hell do you know! You were just sprawled out sleeping, and you— you fucking— what do you knooow!"
I killed Riel? I made him die?
No. No, that's not right. You killed him. You went running around trying to make money, and that's why Riel almost died.
"I-it's not my faaault—!"
Ceria wrapped her hands around Rhea's throat. Rhea thrashed, but Ceria kept squeezing.
"…You— you— you did it because you were going to sell your bodyyy—!"
"Ghk— haah— hic—!"
And then, at some point, a tear fell onto Rhea's cheek.
Drip. Drip.
The strength left Ceria's grip. She had never had enough power to choke someone properly in the first place. She had never trained enough to hold it, and her hands went slack almost at once. Rhea gasped for air. Ceria, still straddling her, gasped too. Then Rhea, still lying there, coughed and choked out —
"…Then kill me too. I can cut myself, but I'm scared to die by my own hand. So you do it. The way you killed Riel."
She said it through tears, still looking at Ceria the way you look at a murderer, her eyes full of hate.
"If I die because of the same person, maybe I'll get to see him."
Silence settled over them.
Tick. Tock.
The clock that had always been there since the days they spent with Riel kept moving its second hand. But the three of them had already come too far to turn back.
"…Guys, w-we should go to sleep…"
Claudia watched the whole scene and still looked at the clock and said they needed to sleep. Even as she said it, she wrapped around her belly the tail Riel used to brush for her and walked carefully toward them. As if, no matter how filthy it had become, it was precious simply because his hands had touched it.
Thud—!
Claudia tried to lift Rhea the way Riel once had, and toppled forward. Something sharp drove into her; blood poured from her nose in a thick stream. The blood soaked into the floor, and Claudia got back up and lifted Rhea again. Or rather — she just dragged her.
Somehow she got her onto the bed where Riel had stayed, then grabbed Ceria, who was shaking with guilt, and dragged her onto the bed as well.
Skin touched skin.
Rhea's blood smeared across their bodies. Unpleasant, nauseating rage sat between them — and still, none of them left the bed. Because this was where Riel had slept.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock kept moving. Everything else had changed, but the clock in the bedroom where they had stayed with Riel ticked on without end.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Time passed. By the time several more days had gone by — after grief had turned to hatred and pity to resentment — Rhea and Ceria no longer spoke to each other at all. Only Claudia still moved as if she were imitating Riel.
Cronian came every day to clean and bandage their wounds. He looked after them as best he could, but he had his own work, and he couldn't stay with them constantly. When Laika came and cooked for them, they wouldn't eat.
Instead they crushed the food underfoot or threw it in front of her, deliberately. In their eyes, she was nothing but a hypocrite — someone who hadn't helped Riel and now pretended to care.
So they grew visibly thinner. Visibly more broken. It looked as though the three of them would die before Riel ever did — before he even reached the battlefield.
In the end, the adoptions were moved up. A decision the guild members made for the three of them — or rather, for Riel. Fearing resistance, they even hired mages. Mages who would cast sleep spells.
From a month down to two weeks. When that still wasn't enough, from two weeks down to ten days. And finally, one week. The adoptions were set for a week later.
And when that week had passed — Riel's traces still lingered throughout the church, but because each of them had tried in her own way to hold on to him, even those had grown faint.
The bedwetting from Rhea's nightmares, Ceria's endless crying, the sour stink of Claudia's unbrushed tail — all of it had finally erased even the faint scent that used to drift from the bed they had loved so much because it was his.
They still hadn't sorted through their grief. Unable to process it, it had twisted into hatred and rage and only grown larger. And still the moment of parting arrived, and all of them felt it coming.
There were no goodbyes. Each of them gathered the things Riel had given them. They visited every place that held a memory of him and wept, and carved words into the walls. We'll wait. Come back. Please live.
They searched for his traces, and searched again. Even the faint ones. Even the fragile ones. They searched and searched. And when at last no trace of Riel remained — when all that was left was Sister Flora's grave —
Rhea suddenly looked at Ceria. Ceria looked at Claudia. Claudia looked at Rhea.
The traces Riel had left behind. The love he had left behind. The things he had cherished more than anything.
"…Ah. Hic—"
Rhea was the girl Riel had said he liked. Ceria was the girl who had remembered Sister Flora with him. Claudia was the girl he had cared for with everything he had.
Only at the very end, in each other's eyes — they saw Riel. It was as if they could see him. They realized that the greatest trace he had left behind was themselves.
Reconciliation was meaningless. The feelings of hating Ceria, hating Rhea, hating Claudia — none of it meant anything. The three of them clung to each other just to remember him, and when the three baronial houses came to take them for adoption, they screamed as if trying to flee.
"…I-I don't want to— w-we have to make a place for Riel to come back to—"
"R-Rhea— I d-don't wanna go— aaaah! Stop iiiit—!"
"Why would Riel die! We don't need the money, we don't want to be adopted— please let us go, pleeease—!"
But nothing changed. For Cronian, there was Riel's last request. He didn't want to believe it, but it was the final will of a comrade — the guild's youngest — who had left as a mercenary of the Rueshatia family, a house too weak to avoid being stationed on the front lines. He had to honor it.
"When Riel comes back, if he doesn't see you living out your dreams, it'll only hurt him more. You know he lived for you."
Cronian soothed them desperately. They wouldn't listen to anything, so he told them that if Riel returned alive and found them like this, he would feel pain instead of joy. And then…
…Rueshatia said they'd keep sending the patronage money at least until the family starts to collapse.
Judging that even if the head of the Rueshatia house died, Lediche would still be there — that a baronial house wouldn't simply vanish — he had no choice. To plant even a little hope, he told them a lie.
"The fact that the Rueshatia family is sending patronage money means Riel has proven his worth. In other words, it's proof he's alive. So write letters. I'll find a way to get them to him somehow. As long as the money keeps coming, Riel will come back."
As long as the patronage money arrives, Riel is alive. The baronial houses will keep sponsoring you for decades, so believe he's alive — and please, live happily the way he wanted you to. That was the kind of lie you tell the family of a comrade who has gone off to die.
"…Hic— h-he's aliiive—"
All of them sobbed at the words that Riel was alive. Into hearts already filled with worry and grief, hatred and rage, and now a bitter love for one another — it felt as though hope was pouring in.
"…Before Riel gets hurt any worse— hic—. I-I'm going to become a mage—. I'm going to go help him—"
Rhea's words lit the fuse. The children who had hated the thought of being torn apart accepted the farewell for Riel's sake. Instead of reconciling, they said goodbye. Just before they left — just before they were scattered — the children asked Cronian one last thing.
"…Hic— r-really—. Can we send letters?"
If he was alive, they wanted to write to him at least. They knew well enough that letters wouldn't reach the front lines in any decent condition, but…
"…Yeah. Of course."
Cronian nodded.
And so they were torn apart. Scattered to different houses. Adopted into the families Riel had said would help them chase their dreams.
Every one of them wrote letters more than four times a day. They kept it up for over three months. Of course no replies ever came, and the letters piled up not on any battlefield but in Cronian and Laika's office. But they never skipped a single day.
Hope took root.
One month. Two months. Three months. Four months. Five months.
Because the patronage money from the Rueshatia baronial house never stopped coming. They held on to the hope that maybe — just maybe — Riel would come back whole.
Life alone in a strange noble house felt like hell, but they endured it somehow, clinging to hope. Every night they wrote letters that would never reach him, and every month they waited for the patronage envelope like a lifeline. Just as Cronian had said, the money was proof that Riel was alive.
But on the day six months had passed — after the seasons had turned only twice, around the half-year mark — what arrived from the Rueshatia family was not patronage money, but a letter.
…Due to the death of Baron Köln of Rueshatia, patronage is for the time being no longer possible…
"…Huh? Why— a-all of a sudden. R-Riel—. N-no, right? I-it's not that, right?"
"…N-nooo…. No—. It's a lie. I-it's a lie. C-Claudia held it in and didn't cry this whole time…"
"…The money must have gone to Rhea and C-Claudia. S-someone's p-playing a trick, yeah, i-it has to be…"
A letter arrived for each of them stating that, with the family's very survival now at stake, further patronage was no longer possible. And at the same time, rumors began to spread.
Rumors that Lediche, the young heir of the Rueshatia baronial house, was taking the field in the baron's place. The fact that most of the nobles and their forces who had been sent to the front after the defeat had been killed. Dark, dreadful rumors that the bulk of House Rueshatia's troops had been annihilated.