Even So, Morning Comes
Even so, morning still came.
While Ciela fretted over how to dispose of the ‘essence’ cupped in the basin, outside the Saintess kept exhaling in long, measured breaths, trying to steady herself.
At a glance her breathing was only a little uneven and she seemed composed, yet her mind was every bit as disordered. She simply had no information about what had just happened.
What in the world was that…?
Fearing it would hinder the pilgrimage, she had moved her hands exactly as the Hero directed. For her, the greatest misfortune would be any disruption that kept her from fulfilling her duty. Something so grotesque and massive clinging to her body would certainly have thrown the pilgrimage into chaos. So she worked diligently as instructed, and at last it vanished.
By rights it should have vanished from her thoughts as well. Whether it would rise again she could not know, but for the moment it was no longer a threat. Yet the Saintess could not shake the afterimage. The sensation kept floating up unbidden, making her body flinch and shudder of its own accord.
When she had touched that grotesque, hideous thing it had hurt. The feeling of skin being drawn taut was bizarre; when her nails brushed it the sting made her shrink back instinctively. The thing that had suddenly sprouted was as delicate and hypersensitive as a newborn’s skin. Confronted by an indescribable crisis she could not handle alone, she had turned to the Hero for help.
From that point her memories grew hazy. A strange, unnameable sensation had risen from the grotesque thing and scrambled her thoughts. The firm hand of the sturdy Hero who drove the horse for her, who took on every dirty task for her, who protected her so reliably… for some reason had felt far too soft. Moving her hand in time with the Hero’s, she was flooded with a sensation she had never known in her life. Soon a fierce urge to expel something overtook her… and at its end she felt, with startling clarity, the cool rush of something gushing out of her body in thick spurts.
Even now the memory made her tremble. Unthinking, the Saintess reached down and felt along her lower body. Thankfully there was no trace of that hideous thing.
“Huu…”
Having finally caught her breath, she let out a sigh of relief. Whatever it had been, it would not hinder the pilgrimage; that much was fortunate. If trouble returned, the Hero would help, so perhaps she need not worry overmuch. A truly reliable Hero.
Then came the sound of the door. She turned her head. The Hero who had carried away what she had expelled returned. Recalling the milky-white fluid cupped in those hands moments earlier, the image of drinking flower tea rose unbidden. The shape of the tea that had once rested in her own palms now rested in the Hero’s—contents different, form the same.
Pure curiosity made the Saintess ask in an innocent voice, as if she truly wanted to know.
“Hero, did you drink that by any chance?”
“Pffft! Cough! Cough! What are you saying all of a sudden? Why would I drink that?”
“Like the flower tea, taking it away?”
“…I won’t deny it looked similar to when you offered it, but that isn’t something you eat.”
Ciela’s face was as red as a ripe apple. She explained in a quiet, careful tone, yet her breathing was a little rough, like someone with something to hide. The Saintess did not notice. Instead she felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction at the sight—though she had no idea what the feeling was. Only a vague sense that it would not hinder her, or the pilgrimage. After all, conversation with the Hero could hardly be an obstacle.
“Then what was it?”
“…There’s no need for you to know.”
The Saintess nodded as if convinced, her gaze drifting to the Hero’s lower body.
“Where exactly are you looking?”
“You said you have one too, so somehow…”
“That is extremely rude. Please, I beg you, never do that in front of other people. Looking at other people that way is also forbidden.”
“Okay.”
A sudden wave of exhaustion seemed to hit Ciela; she sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. The Saintess, who had been staring blankly, appeared to remember something and sprang up from the bed.
“Why so suddenly? Is something wrong…?”
“I remembered something I forgot.”
“Something you forgot…?”
“Flower tea. Wait just a moment.”
She took petals from her pocket, set them on her palm, then stepped into the place Ciela had just used and began peering about like a puppy that needed to relieve itself.
“Strange. It’s not here.”
“…Well, I didn’t bring up bathwater.”
“I see.”
“It’s too late to ask for a bath. I’ll go down and fetch a little warm water.”
“Okay.”
The Saintess nodded. It was only right to give flower tea to the Hero who had devoted herself so completely. The corrective power of the tea seemed exceptionally strong; there was no reason to withhold it. Even without that, she simply wanted to do something in return. Thanks to the Hero, the pilgrimage could continue safely.
While she thought this, Ciela returned with a small wooden bucket of warm water.
“Since I brought it, wetting a cloth and washing might be good as well.”
“Okay. But first, lower your head.”
Ciela held the bucket out. The Saintess clearly meant to offer flower tea; there was no reason to refuse. Swallowing that would have been pure madness, but flower tea was another matter entirely.
Without the slightest hesitation the Saintess dipped her hands and steeped the tea upon her palm.
“Drink, Hero. You’ve worked hard.”
“…Thank you.”
Ciela bent and took the tea from the open palm into her mouth. Watching the Hero’s head as she drank, the Saintess felt a faint, inexplicable dissonance. The scene was no different from before, yet something about it niggled at her.
Why…?
She could not say. But seeing the Hero’s face brighten after the tea, it no longer mattered. It felt like proper repayment; though she herself had not tasted a drop, she felt as satisfied as if she had. Why the Hero liked it so much remained a mystery.
In time the Saintess wiped her body with a cloth soaked in the warm water, just as the Hero suggested. As always the Hero stepped out, reappearing only when the Saintess had finished. Looking languid already, the Saintess sat on the bed and asked,
“Hero, are you sleeping there again tonight?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
She felt no particular regret—only that it looked uncomfortable.
It would be nicer if the Hero slept on the bed too.
Always outside.
Perhaps the Hero ‘Ciel’ no longer needed flower-tea correction. The faults from before the pilgrimage seemed already settled. He was an excellent Hero. They had only reached the first pilgrimage site, yet he had already mended his ways. Thinking on it, since the Goddess herself had chosen him, it was only natural.
So did the Hero no longer need flower tea?
Even so, the Saintess wanted to keep giving it to him.
Because the Hero likes flower tea.
It would surely help the pilgrimage as well.
Unaware of the subtle shift in her own perception, the Saintess closed her eyes. Tension drained away and exhaustion flooded in. Her mind went blank a beat later, and she was asleep almost at once.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
A bizarre night had passed, yet morning arrived without fail.
“Hero, good morning.”
“Did you rest peacefully through the night?”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
The Saintess was exactly as usual, as though nothing at all had happened. Watching her, I could almost believe she had forgotten everything the moment she fell asleep.
…Isn’t her adaptation a little too fast?
Or does last night simply not matter to her either way? Am I the only one still fretting over it? When the time comes to ask for ‘cooperation,’ I might get a blank “What’s that?” for an answer. A weakness only counts if the other person thinks of it as one.
…And it’s gone for now, besides.
The irony is that to raise the odds of her cooperating, it would have to grow back—or at least not vanish. But if it really kept growing, or never went away… well. That would be its own problem. There’s no way to suck only the sweet nectar forever, I suppose. Honestly, even accepting flower tea from her palm still pricks my conscience.
Sigh.
Still, if asked whether the present situation was entirely bad, I couldn’t say yes. Ever since that night the Saintess had grown more talkative.
“Hero, the soup is starting to smell.”
“…I looked away for a moment. Thank you.”
Whether it truly counted as talkative I wasn’t sure, but compared to the days when she kept her mouth shut even when I spoke first, the progress was night and day. If getting close to her used to be as hard as a camel passing through the eye of a needle, it now felt more like searching for a needle in the desert.
Hey, at this rate it might actually be doable.
Except…
Whenever the horse jolted and her hand or body brushed against me, my muscles locked. I tensed without meaning to, half-expecting something heavy and hot to suddenly jab me in the back. Thankfully time took care of it. Riding toward the next pilgrimage site now, there was no sign of a male organ rising from her lower body again. She had flinched a few times early on, but that was over. My mind eased, and we continued—until a strange sight appeared.
In a perfectly ordinary-looking village, people thronged in dense crowds. I wondered if a festival was underway, but a closer look showed something closer to a funeral procession.
“So you’re saying you’ve come here as refugees?”
“We’re the first wave. More will probably… follow.”
“What happened that made you flee?”
“Well… we don’t really know. Some say the dead rose. Others say terrible monsters appeared. Nothing’s certain.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Even a coin produced the same answer; clearly they had no real idea what had occurred.
“Something feels off.”
“It does.”
People taking refuge isn’t unheard of, yet given the age it was far from routine. Even in the modern world, moving house demands preparation and resolve; how much more so here? There are no sturdy blue trucks to haul belongings. In this world the place you live is itself your livelihood, which makes it worse. Most of those streaming into this village and preparing to move on were probably merchants or outsiders rather than true residents. The real inhabitants would be fretting in place, unable to leave lightly.
But the fact that those who could move had actually fled meant the threat was real. Ordinarily the proper course would be to wait for a local power to handle it. If you’ve been collecting protection money—taxes—you fulfill your duty. Short on troops? Hire adventurers, mercenaries, whatever it takes.
The problem was that the direction they were fleeing from was the same direction as our destination. Something might already have gone wrong at the pilgrimage site. The Saintess, sharper than I when it came to the pilgrimage, seemed to sense it too.
“Hero, we should hurry.”
“Understood. Looks like we’ll have to give up on an inn tonight.”
Given our purpose, there was no reason not to press on. Circling the pilgrimage sites and performing the rites existed precisely to prevent disasters like this.
If something’s gone wrong, the timing is far too early.
Was the pilgrimage site itself compromised, or had some unrelated trouble simply blocked our road? We would know when we arrived. Either way, we still had to go.
“Order is shaking, Hero.”
“Not a good sign.”
“Yeah.”
Considering whose Saintess she was, the logic was obvious. I’m not an especially pious man… but I am the Hero now, so I have little choice but to follow her lead.
Even so, thinking of the terrified people streaming away and those left behind trembling in place left a sour taste.
…Well, after years spent learning and living beside someone like Uncle Marcus, maybe a little piety has rubbed off after all.
With the Saintess mounted behind me I took the reins and urged the horse forward once more.
I hoped nothing would happen.