Alliance
Alliance
Once they returned to Nechagni Fortress, Aslan decided they needed to rest rather than act immediately.
In truth, they had no choice.
Tiyamal had lost his bow. Leaving aside his visible dejection, the loss of the Master of the Bow's weapon meant a significant drop in their fighting strength.
And Tiyamal was far from the only companion who needed rest.
First, Richard.
Richard was an ordinary human implanted with mana tattoos. He wasn't durable enough to endure both the forced march to Nechagni and the Sword of the War God's assault unscathed.
The same held true for Rumel. She and Richard were ordinary people by any measure, and neither of them could go on without recovery. No one argued that point.
Ereta, Fay, and Angie possessed regeneration, so they were fine, but those two—who fell squarely into the realm of ordinary humans—and Tiyamal needed rest and preparation.
For that reason, the party remained at Nechagni Fortress.
The fortress where the Sword of the War God had shattered the ramparts with a hurled divine armament, where the wind moaned faintly through the gaps.
Within that fortress, Aslan walked beside Rumel.
They strolled through the courtyard, a place rendered oddly forlorn by the grass growing in sparse tufts under the bleak northern wind.
Aslan paced alongside her before asking idly, "Is there anything you need, Lady Rumel?"
"Something I need..."
"Anything at all. Tiyamal asked for a bow. Richard said he'd like nothing more than a proper rest. I wondered if you might have something similar..."
At that, Rumel allowed herself a faint smile and started to shake her head.
That was her familiar modesty. She meant to politely decline and withdraw, but then something seemed to occur to her. Her head stopped mid-turn, wavering indecisively.
Her braid slipped over her shoulder and fell against her back, and something like emotion gathered in her guileless eyes.
"Would anything truly be acceptable? Even if it's... a bit strange. Would that be all right?"
Strange?
Aslan regarded her with open skepticism, and Rumel, flustered, colored slightly while waving her hands.
"Ah, I did say strange, but! It's not... not that strange."
A vehement denial. The flustered woman then ducked her head, hiding the bridge of her nose behind her braid.
"No... the truth is, I hope it won't seem too strange... Though it might be a little strange after all..."
"...Mm. May I hear it first and decide?"
"Then, well... I hope you won't laugh once you've heard it..."
A resolute expression flickered across her face. When Aslan stopped and turned to face her fully, that resolution promptly crumbled, and she spoke with a dazed, unfocused look.
"Um—could you... drop the formal speech with me?"
"...Drop the formal speech?"
"Yes. Back on the battlefield... when you asked me to rally the cavalry..."
Ah, so that was it.
As Aslan's expression signaled belated recognition, Rumel smiled softly, as if pleased.
What followed was almost an excuse.
"You see, I never had an older brother. I was the eldest daughter, the firstborn... so the way you spoke to me then, Lord Aslan—how should I put it? It felt refreshing."
The reasoning didn't quite hold together. Aslan offered a wry smile. "It doesn't sound like 'refreshing' is the whole reason."
"...Mm. Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
A bashful laugh escaped her. As the vivid emotion sliding through her light-brown eyes drew a slight quirk of his lips, she fidgeted with her braid.
"The truth is, I wanted to be a little spoiled... Is that not allowed?"
That was likely the real answer.
Aslan could guess the reason behind even that.
Anton, who had treated her like family—however briefly—was dead. And before that, she had lost her entire family in her homeland. She was clearly starved for familial affection.
Aslan, who had lost family himself, understood.
He remembered the day his father had perished in the fire and returned to him as a cold, small urn. He understood all too well.
So Aslan smiled gently.
"I'll do that for y—... I'll do that. Rumel."
She hadn't expected him to agree so quickly. Rumel let out a stifled breath of delight at the words from Aslan's gently curving lips.
Vivid joy slipped through her tightly shut eyes. He wondered if it was really something to be that happy about, but then a certain recollection surfaced, and he accepted it.
The night he had met Rowena—the declaration Rumel had made, that she would go on with her one-sided feelings regardless.
If that declaration still stood, then he could understand her emotions now.
'Clever.'
She meant to fill the need for familial love while also receiving affection.
But he didn't mind. Considering what she had accomplished on the battlefield, considering the pain she had endured, this much was forgivable.
"Should I treat you like an older brother would?"
"Ah—yes. If you would..."
"You could probably call me more comfortably too, Rumel."
"I—I couldn't possibly—"
She twisted her body, face flushed, openly radiating happiness. Aslan smiled and offered, "You can be spoiled. I'll indulge it."
"...Is that truly all right?"
Her face held a quiet heat. Aslan nodded at the expression. "Of course. I said I'd treat you like a brother, so—"
And before he could finish the sentence, he faltered—because Rumel had flung herself into his chest and wrapped her arms around him.
A sudden, forceful pressure struck the area of his solar plexus. A soft, pillowy sensation weighed against him.
Even through the fabric, there was an immense mass pressing against his shirt.
It wasn't heavy enough to recall the Sword of the War God's attack, nor oppressive enough to evoke the Dragon-king, but Rumel's impact carried its own weight.
The most recent comparable experience was a few days ago—Angie's chest against him as they'd headed for the War God's sanctuary within the fortress.
A mass that would force difficult choices upon most men.
Unlike Angie's dense, firm chest, this was a bosom endowed with overwhelming size and softness.
A softness that could only be described as the tactile expression of maternal affection.
Aslan froze under the sudden assault of that sensation, his eyes shifting. Rumel, nestled in his arms, rubbed her deeply flushed face against his abdomen.
So this was Rumel's softness.
The thought crossed his mind, and the moment he recognized its rudeness, he caught her by the shoulders and gently pushed her back.
When he separated them, Rumel wore an openly disappointed expression.
"Ah—is it not allowed? It was too forward of me, wasn't it?"
And then, as though worried she had done something wrong, she twisted her braid around her fingers with a sad look.
Aslan let out a sigh. "No, it's not that it isn't allowed..."
It wasn't that it wasn't allowed—but it was troublesome.
Troublesome in multiple ways.
Whether she knew that or not, Rumel appeared considerably disappointed by the fact that she couldn't embrace him.
In the end, Aslan surrendered. He let Rumel bury herself against his chest again, enduring the pressure she delivered to his abdomen in several uncomfortable respects—in several different meanings.
When Rumel, who had been clinging to him for a long moment, finally lifted her head, her eyes were teeming with another desire.
"Um, well... Lord Aslan..."
"Mm."
"Could you... stroke my hair?"
Her hair?
It wasn't an unreasonable request, but perhaps she found it odd herself—Rumel, her face slightly flushed, added, "The way you do for Lady Angie or Lady Fay... I'd like it if you stroked my hair a little."
Her expression held a certain earnestness. Compared to the embrace, this was a far simpler request, so Aslan reached out and laid his hand atop her hair.
And stroked.
His fingers followed the grain of her hair, smooth and steady. As his touch brushed her scalp and glided down, the woman's expression melted into something soft, and she buried her face against him.
A gentle breath. The subtle, soft scent of a woman who deliberately masked her natural body odor.
Under the tantalizing fragrance teasing his nose, Aslan stroked her hair while blinking repeatedly and reciting the national anthem in his head.
When he moved his hand from her hair to her face, Rumel gazed up at him with hazy, unfocused eyes.
A look cast upward. Meeting those dazed light-brown eyes, Aslan gently ran his hand along her cheek.
The exploring touch seemed to tickle her; a hint of vitality returned to her eyes, but soon another emotion clouded them, turning them turbid.
At the very least, it was unquestionably a shade of satisfaction.
Aslan figured that was enough and moved to withdraw his hand, but Rumel clearly disagreed.
She caught his retreating hand and deftly interlaced her fingers with his.
"...Rumel?"
"Lord Aslan."
She didn't fumble or trail off. Her eyes were dark with some emotion.
When Aslan glanced down at their clasped hands, Rumel followed his gaze, then looked back at him with an expression that blended embarrassment and desire.
"Do you remember when I asked if it was all right for me to go on liking you one-sidedly?"
"...Ah—yes. I remember."
A sheepish answer. Rumel regarded him for a moment before speaking. "The truth is, what I'm doing right now is part of that. I'm pressing forward... aggressively... to make you like me back, Lord Aslan. Did you not realize?"
Only then did Aslan grasp her intent.
Rumel wasn't ignorant of such things the way Ereta or Angie were, nor did she possess a body that made that kind of appeal impossible the way Fay did.
If Rumel was acting this way, the reason was obvious.
It had probably come from a novel, most likely.
As Aslan recalled all of that, his expression registering fluster, Rumel shifted their clasped hands and slowly traced her finger through the gaps between his knuckles.
A ticklish sensation crawled from his hand up his spine, and Aslan's shoulders twitched before he could stop them.
"Do you understand now?"
Rumel's lips curved in a small smile. Aslan hunched his shoulders, turned his head slightly, then found himself frowning.
Because it struck him as strange that Rumel was suddenly acting this way.
Making a sexual appeal to the person she had a one-sided crush on—that, he could understand.
It was a way of advertising her own merits to make herself liked.
The proactive approach was understandable too.
The key issue was the timing.
Aslan suspected the battle at Nechagni was closely tied to the reason she was behaving like this now.
So he erased the expression that had seemed on the verge of blushing with embarrassment and looked down at Rumel seriously.
Beneath his gaze, Rumel's pupils were trembling faintly.
Her fingers were trembling.
Given those signs, every action she was taking now was likely close to a human instinct—the urge to leave some trace of herself behind.
Aslan belatedly realized the cause.
Anton was dead.
Countless people were dead.
Among them were those who could have been called heroes, and even Anton, who had possessed magic akin to resurrection.
Rumel had clearly been shaken by that.
She had clearly realized that the same thing could happen to her.
She was clearly afraid, now that she understood the gulf between the adventures she had only read about in books and the actual malice wielded by the priests of the Evil Gods.
As proof, a flicker of consternation crossed Rumel's eyes.
A woman who flinched at the realization that Aslan had figured it out.
He looked steadily at her—a woman who, natural talent aside, was not so different from any ordinary person—then drew her into his arms.
Holding her close, he placed a hand covered in black scales against her back and patted it, while his other hand stroked her hair.
"It's all right."
As he did so, he gave her the words she needed to hear right now.
"You won't die, Rumel. You won't."
At those words, Rumel flinched, then slowly reached out and wrapped her arms around his back, pressing her face against him.
Aslan stroked her hair slowly so she could calm herself.
Until the trembling subsided.
Companions like Fay, Angie, or Richard—the straightforward ones who didn't overthink things—might be different, but all the others surely had their own private reflections and fears, just like Rumel did now.
Aslan understood that fear.
Rumel felt it, and so did his other companions.
The people of Geladrion, who had never seen the end of this world, had no choice but to be afraid.
Of the enormity of the approaching enemy and the ferocity of the coming storm.
They had no choice but to lack certainty.
The victory they'd barely seized was incomplete—a victory built only upon sacrifice.
And in the midst of all that, Aslan could understand Rumel trying to leave a mark.
Because he had once done the same.
He blinked to banish the image of Rowena's face that surfaced unbidden, and Rumel, having steadied herself, finally lifted her head.
The faint redness around her eyes left a lasting impression.
"Are you all right now?"
At Aslan's question, Rumel shook her head, her gaze still uneasy.
Was something still troubling her? As Aslan wondered, Rumel spoke in a voice damp with unshed tears. "I'd like you to keep speaking to me informally, from now on as well."
"...From now on as well?"
"It feels like you're keeping me at a distance. I don't like it."
She squeezed his arm tightly. Aslan bit his lip at the words, the request, the gesture—as though they presented a dilemma.
But the answers available to him were few.
In the end, Aslan yielded.
"All right."
He was too damn fond of people to reject kindness when it came to him.
Only then did Rumel finally relax, her smile clearing. Beyond that bright smile, she let out a small laugh. "This right now... it's so tender. Just like a novel I once read."
She spoke with a soft, laughing expression, then added with a sly smile, "I never imagined I'd have this kind of romance... but somehow, it feels nice."
At that, Aslan could only let his serious expression dissolve into laughter.
Partly because he was relieved to see Rumel's usual demeanor, rendering all the weighty thoughts he'd had moments ago meaningless.
Rumel seemed to feel the same. She pretended to sulk, grumbling, "Don't laugh!"—but her mood was clearly light.
Aslan, satisfied with that, withdrew the attention he had been pouring into her, and because of that, he didn't see it.
The way she pretended to grumble while staring openly at his lips, barely suppressing something she wanted to do.
A blatant desire that showed all too plainly.
Rumel licked her lips, as if regretful.