The Crimson Land (2)
Beyond the mountain range, the sun never set over the Crimson Land. Still, on the eve of a decisive battle, going without sleep was hardly an option. The party settled on a watch rotation of two-hour shifts, starting with Glen.
"You could've slept a little longer."
Thirty minutes before the change of watch.
Glen, gazing into the campfire, suddenly sensed a presence drawing near.
"I'm the type who can't sleep anywhere but a proper bed. Just couldn't drift off."
Shiron dropped down across from Glen and fished a bottle from inside his coat.
"So I figured I'd have a drink instead."
"...That's a funny joke."
"I'm not joking."
Pop.
"Do you enjoy a drink now and then?"
"I'm not the sort to turn one down when it's offered."
"Then... how about a glass yourself, Father?"
After a moment's deliberation over what to call him, Shiron set a full cup in front of Glen.
"What kind of liquor is this?"
"Uncle recognized it on the spot."
"Your uncle never lets it show, but he does love his drink."
"Nothing special. Just something from the cellar at Dawn Castle."
Shiron poured himself a measure. Glen found the sudden drinking session a little odd.
Looking to borrow some liquid courage, is he?
"Is there something you want to ask me?"
"We finally meet after all this time and it feels like we haven't really talked. Doesn't a father and son deserve an honest conversation now and then?"
"..."
"I want one."
Shiron knocked back a mouthful of whiskey and let out a sigh laced with alcohol. He'd already had a glass before turning in, and the warmth of it still lingered.
His condition wasn't bad, though. As Hugo had said, asking someone when you were going to die was a heavy subject no matter how bold you claimed to be.
I still haven't heard it.
"Do you remember the letter?"
"...Letter?"
"The one I sent through Yuma. Five years ago... or was it six? It's been so long you must've forgotten."
"Ah."
Glen drew a worn scrap of paper from his coat. It was the letter Shiron had sent through Yuma six years prior.
"You've still got that?"
"Of course. The contents were nothing short of vicious, but it was the first letter you ever sent me. I've kept it close like a talisman—"
Snatch.
Shiron plucked the old letter from Glen's hand and, right before his eyes, flung it into the campfire.
"Gives me the creeps. I'm burning it. I gave it to you, so that's fine, right?"
"Uh..."
"Anyway. I've spent a long time turning over philosophical questions like when I'm going to die. I've got a prophet for a father—shouldn't I finally get an answer by now? Yeah. That's where I've landed."
Shiron ignored the look of quiet regret on Glen's face.
"Being a father forced to tell his son when he'll die... that feels a little cruel, doesn't it?"
"I can be pretty selfish."
"...So you can."
Glen exhaled a long breath at Shiron's reply.
"I've peeled back any number of veils and glimpsed the future, but among them all, not once have I seen yours."
Glen looked up at the sky as he went on.
"I don't know either. Having the gift of prophecy doesn't mean you can see every future—that's another matter entirely—but no matter how hard I try, a murky veil always settles over it."
It was the same even now.
He poured his will into trying to see Shiron's future, and it hovered just at the edge of clarity before his vision clouded over.
Shiron checked the watch from his coat. There was still time before the next shift.
"Then let's talk about something else."
Shiron was keenly interested in the Apostle Glen had foreseen.
"Who is the Apostle we're facing? What's he look like? What weapon does he use?"
"I don't know who the Apostle is. He never gave a name. In appearance he looked like a knight in crimson armor, and the weapon he carried was a greatsword."
"How strong is he? Strong enough that we, still green as we are, can handle him?"
"You won't know his strength until steel meets steel."
"Then... how many of us are supposed to face the Apostle? Don't tell me I have to do it alone?"
"Joining forces would be wiser."
It wasn't Glen who answered. Yuma, her appearance still a little unkempt, settled near the campfire. As always, a pouch dangled from her hand.
"Combining your strength and giving the Apostle everything you have would make for a better spectacle as well."
"Wouldn't that make it hard to rank us, though? If the title of Young Family Head goes to whoever lands the final blow, then the one who does the most damage ends up at a disadvantage. The coming-of-age rite was supposed to help pick out the next head of the house, wasn't it?"
"That won't be a problem."
Glen turned his gaze toward the middle distance. At the boundary between the mountain range and the Crimson Land, dozens of demons were watching them.
"They'll be the ones to decide."
Meanwhile, a pair of girls were eavesdropping on the conversation.
Whether out of consideration for girls at a sensitive age or not, Lucia and Siriel shared the largest of the three tents.
Siriel spoke softly toward the ceiling.
"Lucia, you asleep?"
"No. Who could sleep through a conversation like that?"
Lucia's voice was a little hoarse.
The campfire wasn't far from the tent, and her keen hearing picked up every word between Shiron and Glen whether she wanted it to or not.
"Same. All that talk about someone dying... I can't sleep either."
She answered flatly, but Siriel's mind kept circling back to the exchange she'd just overheard.
Lucia let out a cloudy breath toward the ceiling.
"They said Apostles are insanely dangerous. I'm not religious and I don't buy into superstition, but when people start talking about who might die right before a big fight, it feels like someone actually will die."
"...Could you keep it down a little?"
"Right? Zero consideration. Why do they always have to say things that get under everyone else's skin..."
Lucia clutched the blanket tight, anxiety coiled in her chest.
Like father, like son—neither Glen nor Shiron showed the slightest sign of holding the other back.
At the foot of the snow-covered mountains stood the forward base of the subjugation expedition raised by the Emperor's command.
Inside the largest tent flying the banner of the Azure Heavens, a considerable number of people had gathered.
"Fortunately, there's no serious injury."
Cardinal Duvialle, who oversaw the expedition's medical care, lifted his hand from an arm thick as a tree trunk.
"Even so, I recommend a full week of rest. Continued combat will inflict permanent damage on the body that even holy power cannot heal—no matter who you are."
"...Understood."
Hugo inclined his head at Duvialle's diagnosis, then rose and turned toward the tent flap.
Still in his armor.
"Sir Hugo. You need to rest."
Duvialle sighed at a patient who refused to properly acknowledge his own condition.
"I'll be back shortly. Just a few things to put in order."
"..."
Duvialle watched Hugo step out of the tent in silence.
The expedition was nearing its end, and his absence alone would leave a gaping hole in the front line. For that reason, Duvialle could not bring himself to stop him.
"How is the Commander's condition?"
At the question from Hugo's adjutant, Yohan, Duvialle shook his head.
"Frankly, not good. The upper dantian is fine, but the meridians running from the lower dantian to the heart grow thinner by the day. The mana concentration in his blood is fading as well."
"Then."
"Yes. As you've no doubt noticed—it's the frailty of age."
Duvialle thought of the red hair shot through with gray.
Is Hugo's era drawing to a close as well?
He knew full well the renown of the Empire's foremost knight, and so he did not give voice to so unseemly a thought.
But it was plain fact that Hugo was no longer the man he had been.
In Lucerne, Duvialle was a cleric of considerable expeditionary experience, and he had seen Hugo's exploits up close more times than he could count.
Today, though, he could find none of that former self in the man before him.
Hugo's injury had not come from a beast. He had dodged the onslaught of monster attacks and carved the massive creature apart—but he must have been thoroughly exhausted, because he failed to clear the falling bulk and was pinned beneath it. A mere three years ago, Hugo would never have made so absurd a mistake.
Sir Yohan, too, has long since missed the time to step back from the front.
Duvialle regarded the wrinkled face of the old knight.
Yohan Urheim—his hair and beard had gone entirely white. That an old man who looked ready to drop any day was still holding the line was a sight that ran counter to the Empire's stature.
"It may not be my place as an outsider to say this, but you'll need to make a choice soon."
Duvialle decided to speak the thought he'd been carrying for some time.
"A choice?"
"I recommend increasing the frequency of reorganization."
"But there are still too many beasts left uncleared. Pulling off the line too often will leave a critical gap in our strength."
"A week is not long for a body to find its footing again. Every other week should suffice for now."
"And what about the soldiers who die on the line in the meantime?"
"......Soldiers dying on the front is only natural."
Duvialle rubbed his dry eyes. Consecutive house calls had left him thick with fatigue as well.
"And that isn't all."
He began packing his bag for the next patient. Hugo had been the most critical, but many more still needed care across the camp.
"You need to find a successor to fill Sir Hugo's place."
"..."
"As long as he is human, Sir Hugo will only grow weaker. Not tomorrow, perhaps—but if he keeps driving his body like this, within a few years he won't be able to swing a sword at all. Ahem. Hm."
Duvialle turned his back on the old knight's blank expression.
"Waiting until after Sir Hugo is dead will be far too late."