Abandoning Faith
Evan was dead.
Before I could do a thing, his life was stolen from me. The blood that poured out told me how cold it had already grown—how much pain he had endured to remain at my side until the very end, how cruelly that forcibly stitched-together life had tortured him. I could see it all in the clots of blood flowing away.
I could do nothing.
No matter how desperately I had begged for a miracle, the heavens did not hear my cry to save the love before my eyes. They had left me free to save the lives of countless patients and the sick who had fawned over me—and then, without mercy, they had taken Evan's life away.
...To call something like this a miracle.
How could this possibly be a miracle?
The shell of a body that had gotten him killed. The indecision that had gotten him killed. The weakness that had gotten him killed. And above all, the god who called himself a force for good—who had simply stood by and let it happen. Everything had tormented him, and in the end, everything had taken his life.
He had loved me enough to give his life, and I had not even been able to return that love. All his love for me had earned him was a cruel, agonizing death so terrible he could not even close his eyes. And all I had received was his cold body.
Gathering every scrap of power left in me, ready even to offer up my own life, I cradled him in my arms and prayed. If this was the price for abandoning the path I was meant to walk, then take the lifespan promised to me—just give me that much back. I repeated the plea again and again. As his consciousness faded, I begged the heavens with everything I had—with a desperation that made the heart I once held while saving those who had wagged their filthy tongues at me look like nothing at all.
He did not listen.
He did not listen. No matter how many times I pleaded, no matter how I clung to his body and wailed without end, the one said to dwell above the sky did not listen. He abandoned me. He abandoned him. He cast aside the reason for my life, and my hope, without a shred of mercy.
...
I remember the ones who held me back. I remember the ones who stood in my way. I remember every last one of them who stood by and let him be kicked. The moment it happened, they hastily released me—and stole from my hands even the chance to kill that madman who kept driving the blade in, who never stopped thrusting the hilt forward, back, forward, back... spattering blood and spewing curses. That enemy. That demon. The one who took everything from me and tore down the last refuge I had left. They stole it. They defiled it.
I remember the face of the one bound to Evan going deathly white. I remember the faces of those who had pinned that enemy down going rigid. His hand still seems to linger—the hand that, eyes unclosed, coughing blood as he looked at me, stroked my cheek again and again one last time.
I cannot wipe the mark from my cheek. I cannot even take off my clothes. If I erase it, it will feel as though he has truly left me.
He will still be at my side. I have raised the barrier once more over the very place where he fell. That hideous, damned thing in the heavens will not take Evan from me—not him, at least. If he felt even a speck of pity for me—if I am truly the work he himself so carefully crafted, as Evan once told me—then he has no right to take him from me.
No. I will not allow it. I will not let that loathsome hypocrite who already stole my happiness take Evan as well. He wanted to be with me, and so I will be the one to grant that wish. I will no longer even pray to the monster who made this fate—who made him die. Only... by my own will, by my own power, will I protect him.
Perhaps that is why.
His body is still warm. The hole the blood came from has long since been carefully healed. I bandaged it over and over, stitched the wound closed long ago. When he wakes it will surely hurt, and he may be startled to see his blood-soaked body. But the thought of meeting him again—flustered, staring at me blankly with that foolish face—brings a smile unbidden to my lips.
So he need only wake. If he wakes, I will care for him. I have already confirmed, already been certain of, the love that made him throw even his body away for me. That he is the one person meant for me alone, whom I will never meet again. The angel who came to save me from every evil and injustice in this world.
But he does not wake. He does not open his eyes. He does not breathe. His heart does not beat. His flesh has stopped. His love, too, has stopped. The only thing that pulled me from the abyss, the only thing that let me go on living, has vanished from this world.
The first thought I had was to follow him into death. Then at least I might meet him in the next life. But there was no guarantee I would remember him. No promise that he would remember me either. And I... did not want to go to the side of the god who had let him die. I loathed that being. He had taken every happiness from me, and still I could not bear that the lives outside kept chirping busily, each setting off in search of their own joy. He had cast me into despair, and still the world was bright. He was dead, and time with him had stopped in that instant—and yet outside, the red leaves slowly falling told me that time was still moving on.
But his body remained intact. Of course it did. I had poured power into him again and again so that he could not leave me.
I will not let you leave. I have not even properly shown my love to the one who loved me. Evan died because of me. I want him to face my love properly this time. Even if he must leave, I want him to receive my whole heart—all of it—before he goes. Far longer than a hundred years—no. Until my own breath stops, I will not let him run. No. As long as I remain myself, I will not let him leave my side like this.
So I will find a way to save him. I will find every way, and I will raise him up. And then, somewhere no one knows, somewhere no one would dare pursue us, the two of us will build a love of our own, and surely we will be happy. This time not only I, but he as well, will be able to smile. Somewhere deeper than the forest. In a darkness so deep no one would even dare resolve to find us.
They came.
If they had any shame, they should not even have thought of leaving alive—and yet they came pleading to me in desperate voices. If they meant to plead, they should have paid for their sins with death first, and then spoken; it would not have been too late. Once they are dead, will they still be able to speak? If they could, how wonderful that would be. I miss his foolish face and that coquettish voice full of bashfulness. Even now he sleeps with his head pillowed on my lap, looking as though he might turn his eyes away and flush at any moment.
It's all right. It's not too late.
So—where was I?
Ah, yes. I could not bring myself to kill them in front of Evan. Had he not been there, I would surely have butchered them—but to him, who cherished life, the sight of me would have been hideous.
Wait—come to think of it, how do I look right now? Am I all right? Would he still find me beautiful?
"...Um, excuse me."
"Be quiet. I'm thinking. I have to look good for him."
In front of Evan I must always be beautiful. I must be perfect enough for him to fall for me every single day. Only then can I see with my own two eyes the way he comes undone—that adorable form of him melting before me. Yes—so of course he is still expressionless. Because my face has not left his for even a moment, it must be ruined, and that is why he will not respond.
"Thea, the Elder of the Forest has summoned you."
"The color Evan liked... was it... pink, I think..."
He who had come to love peaches because of me. I want to feel him again—the way he smiled and wrapped me in gentle eyes, saying he would love anything I loved. If I bring the color of life back to his lips once more, would he like that?
"Thea!"
"Don't put my name in that filthy mouth of yours!!"
Ah—the house is ruined again. With a terrible noise, I have left another great mark on the wall.
"E-Evan, I'm sorry. I'm right here. It's all right. Shhh... it's nothing. Just... uninvited guests again. Hehe."
He might have been startled, eyes so peacefully closed. Is he disappointed in me for wrecking the house? The house we chose together. The plot we chose together. The house that holds our breath cannot be allowed to die. An ominous sound comes from the ceiling, and the wooden walls have holes punched through them...
"Evan, I'll warm you up."
If I kindle a small light in my hand, perhaps he will shiver a little less.
"Has this taken the chill away a little?"
How hard must it have been, for his face to have gone so pale. I should have noticed sooner.
"...So?"
"Pardon?"
"I'm asking why you came."
I made him speak it in front of him. If there is an apology, it is not I who should receive it—he should. Forgiveness, too, is for him to decide.
"Th-that is, the Elder of the Forest has summoned you personally—personally! Calling back an exile is, well, unprecedented in the records, but given the gravity of the matter..."
"And the apology?"
"Y-yes?"
"Didn't you come to beg forgiveness for what you've done?"
Not a single word of admitting fault came from his mouth. Why was the thing that one standing before me, body pitifully trembling, ought to say not coming out?
"You killed my husband. You took my love from me—so why, why, why can you stand there so brazenly in front of me? Where is Tolfen? Is that piece of trash not dead? He killed someone. He killed a human being—so why are all of you still perfectly alive? Hmm?"
Ah—he's running. Sidling, sidling. He backs away, then flings a snare at his companion and vanishes with him straight out the door. Before I can move my hand to loose a spear of light, I see him scream and flee into the forest.
But I do not miss. The golden spear that flies with a sharp whistle scatters black aura and splits into countless branches. Then it punches innumerable holes, and once more makes the surroundings quiet.
"Was that a little too harsh... Evan, how did it look to you?"
I think I killed them rather cleanly, but in the end Evan is what matters. Just as he took care of me, I must do the things he likes. Only if I follow the direction he wants will he be happy.
"It wasn't so bad, was it?"
In place of an answer, he quietly rests his hand in mine. Without pulling away—still and silent.
"Hehe. I'm glad you're satisfied..."
A smile comes of its own accord. The fact that what he wants is what I want makes my body tremble, just a little. This joy that tingles in my chest—had he always been steeped in a feeling like this while he was with me? Why does a small thought that it is unfair slip in?