Chapter 50
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 50
Chapter Title: Ariete (6)
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"That's a relief. Your sternum blocked it, so you didn't suffer any serious injury. You were lucky."
"Thank you. You worked hard."
If Ariete had aimed a little lower with her dagger, or tilted the blade to strike right at her heart, she would have died.
But in her frenzy, she had plunged the dagger straight down into the center of her chest, and Ariete's slender arm hadn't been strong enough to pierce the sternum.
It had only left a small gash across her chest, and she had passed out from the shock and excitement. Only then could Richer finally breathe a sigh of relief.
How on earth had things come to this? The girl who had never been any trouble before—when had she changed like this?
Had the madness of war seeped into Ariete's mind?
Richer gazed at the sleeping Ariete and let out a sigh.
Dozens of days passed since then.
"Master, hug me."
"...All right, come here."
As time went on, Ariete's spoiled behavior grew worse. She demanded casual physical affection without hesitation, even in crowded places. Out of concern for his disciple, Richer couldn't bring himself to push her away.
Richer's first sore spot. Ariete.
The fact that Richer was still indulging Ariete's whims meant she hadn't been sent back home.
Richer found that fact unbearably frustrating. If she had actually left his sight, he probably would have spent every moment worrying.
No one knew the full story of the incident. Not even Ariete and Richer themselves.
Ariete herself didn't fully understand why she had done such a thing. Richer knew the circumstances, but he couldn't comprehend her psyche.
If the two of them were like that, what could the commander possibly know? He didn't even grasp the circumstances properly. The only difference was that they had no real interest in Ariete's feelings.
Mental breakdowns among novice War Mages were extremely common, and no War Mage hadn't attempted self-harm at least once or twice.
Richer himself had a long scar running from his left side across his abdomen.
The leading cause of death for War Mages wasn't death in battle—it was suicide.
That was why Ariete wasn't repatriated. It was commonplace. And she had no desire to return home.
In a world without psychotherapy or psychoanalysis, if you attempted suicide but didn't die or suffer major injury, it was as if nothing had happened. For someone like Ariete, who got away with minor injuries, it was ideal.
Like artisans who shatter all but their finest pottery, War Mages had to undergo a first culling to truly become War Mages.
From the Imperial Army commander's perspective, Ariete had simply passed her first quality inspection with flying colors.
No problem at all.
If she had died, it might have been a slight loss. But no artisan sheds tears over the pottery they shatter themselves. Flawed pieces were meant to be broken.
That was why War Mage deaths or mental issues weren't considered major problems. As long as they didn't attack allies, it was fine.
And the mage corps surrounding the War Mages existed for exactly such situations.
The corps served as a shield to protect the War Mages, but at the same time, as the dagger closest to them, capable of killing them.
Ariete spent her days in relative bliss, unaware that winter was approaching in her life.
Cold winds would eventually blow, but even in winter, warm gusts came now and then. True winter arrived only afterward.
But Ariete had no desire to worry about future cold and loneliness.
The warm breeze blowing now made her happy, and the fact that she could always nestle into Richer's arms was pure joy.
Richer's face always bore an uneasy expression when he held her, but that was a trivial matter. With her face buried in his chest, she couldn't see it anyway.
No matter what expression Richer actually wore, the Richer in her imagination always smiled tenderly, as if he couldn't bear how lovable she was.
That was enough. Ariete was happy.
That day, too, Ariete nestled in Richer's arms, indulging in her spoiled whims to her heart's content. It had been a happy day from morning to night, as always.
Until she stepped out of the tent.
For the first time in a while, Ariete headed somewhere she didn't usually go, eager for some fresh air.
Her destination was behind the kitchen area. She had heard that tiny birds had been gathering there lately. Birds smaller than the palm of her hand.
After spending such joyful time in Richer's arms, watching the little birds before dark would make for a perfect day. Ariete's steps toward the back of the kitchen were light as could be.
As she waited with excitement for the birds, voices drifted over from beside the kitchen.
It wasn't anything special. Crude soldiers were gossiping filthily about Ariete.
To Ariete, this was utterly commonplace and natural. In a camp full of over a thousand men, there was only one woman.
It was absurd to think no dirty talk about her would circulate. Ariete was well aware of that.
And she was woman enough to love all humanity, not to be disappointed by such talk.
Normally, she wouldn't have eavesdropped—she would have slipped away quietly to avoid startling the soldiers.
But today, Ariete was in high spirits, and a spark of curiosity rose.
Tuning her ears, she heard a thick voice. Like all gossip, it was one she recognized.
His name was Hoel, was it? The soldier with the bulging eyes and gift for gab.
"When Ariete was only up to my waist, I rode her, I tell you. Or maybe she rode me. Tiny thing, but she gave me those sly bedroom eyes. Born for it, that one."
A burst of raucous laughter rang out.
"Go borrow her from Richer just once. Let me have a go."
"You wanna share? You know how many rounds she was doing a day even as a kid? Bet she doesn't even know if it's three digits or four."
An even louder explosion of laughter erupted.
Pfft, four digits? Nah.With that prim look, probably just three.No way, could be four. If anything, four's more likely.
Another man's voice cut through the chatter.
"Richer seems to fuck her just fine, though."
"Guess you need a strong stomach to be a War Mage. Think it's easy becoming one? They're elite!"
The biggest laugh yet boomed out.
Ariete stood frozen, listening.
She covered her ears. But the voices pierced her palms, and her legs wouldn't move.
She remained there, motionless, until everyone had left.
The autumn evening was chilly. Her body felt a little cold, and her heart was ice.
Ariete now knew what had been missing from her life all this time.
Am I loved?
Can I be loved?
Am I even really by his side?
Ariete staggered toward her tent but veered toward Richer's. It was late, but the light was still on.
When Ariete entered the tent, Richer let out a small sigh.
It was a scene he had seen countless times, but that sigh hit her like a storm, shattering her heart. She felt her very soul quake.
No matter what she was thinking, Richer spoke quietly.
"Can't sleep? Want me to hold you a bit more?"
"Yes. Hold me."
"Come here."
Ariete undressed slowly, layer by layer.
Look at me. Don't look away. See me.
Richer startled at the sight and said,
"You know that's not what I meant. Put your clothes back on."
"No. That's exactly what I mean. Hold me. Harder. As tight as you can."
"Don't do this. You think that'll make me hold you like that?"
Ariete smiled faintly, poignantly.
"As I thought. Master doesn't have much of a stomach for it. I figured. After all, quite a few people have poked me."
Calm words, utterly devastating. No—the calm made them all the more terrifying.
That voice felt like it sliced a chunk from Richer's heart.
"What does that mean? What happened in the meantime?"
"Nothing. I just sat alone and thought about it."
Ariete didn't mention the soldiers' talk. Instinctively, she feared they might be punished.
What kind of worry was this? Did it even make sense? Ariete found herself so ridiculous she let out a chuckle.
Richer realized the situation was even more serious than he thought. Instead of gathering her clothes, he pulled her into a tight embrace and said,
"No. No. Calm down. Tell me what happened. Talking about it will help."
"No. I just realized what kind of person I am. Nothing happened, I said."
Ariete smiled radiantly.
But anyone could see she was breaking apart.
Good heavens. What on earth had happened to wound this girl who loved everyone so deeply?
How long had the cracks been there?
"Don't worry. Just hold me. Really. That's all I need."
"You know I devoted everything to Mila."
"Sending your love to Mila from here won't reach her far away. Don't waste it on the ground—share just a little with me. I'm so tired."
No need for all your love. Just give me the scraps tossed away worthless in the street.
Was there a more pathetic love confession in the world? It was less a confession than begging.
Even as she said it, Ariete didn't cry. Instead, Richer did. It was the first time she had seen him cry.
Richer couldn't continue, so Ariete picked up in a heartrending voice.
"I... I want to die."
"I don't know when it started. Can't explain exactly, but I think I do want to die. Feels like a long time. I tried thinking back to when."
"Seems like it was always there, even before meeting you, Master. So natural, I didn't realize it was a desire to die."
"I've lived too long. So give me the strength to keep living."
"You're my master, aren't you?"
Ariete said this as she clutched the waistband of Richer's pants.
Richer couldn't shake off her hand. If he did here, this girl would vanish to find a place to die.
This wasn't vague conjecture. It was painfully clear truth.
War Mages fell into two categories: those numb to death, or those who loathed it to their bones. Richer was the latter. And so was Ariete.
To hate death so viscerally yet resolve to embrace it—how much agony must she have endured?
Richer couldn't overcome his affection for his disciple. Ariete was his sore spot, and he couldn't bear to see it broken.
Ariete blankly watched Richer's tears.
But his tears couldn't stop her, and without hesitation, she climbed atop him.
That night.
Ariete cried out at the top of her lungs in ecstasy.
To let as many people hear her moans as possible. To show the world how vast her love for Richer was.
And Richer wept through the night.
Sorry, pitying, tormented.
One wept, the other screamed in response—a rather fitting master-disciple pair.
In the end, hadn't they filled each other's voids?