Fingers (8)
“Priest Lucio. What are you doing?”
I turned my head. Helena was grinning mischievously, poking my side.
“Helena.”
“Reading another weird book, huh?”
“Weird book...?”
I closed the book I’d been reading. The rough leather cover was embossed with the title 101 Actions for Positive Thinking.
“See? Total weirdo book.”
“It’s surprisingly fun. Want to give it a try?”
“Pfft... no thanks.”
I set the book down on the battered table. Helena had already clamped a cigarette between her lips and was striking a match.
“You really should quit smoking.”
“It’s my one little joy~ Oh, match broke.”
God’s first gift, fire, didn’t come easily to Helena. The striking surface of the matchbox was scarred with desperate scratches, but nothing more.
“Seriously... it takes three or four matches just to light one cigarette?”
“They’re damp... Still, glad the rain stopped.”
“It was endless. The ground’s all mud, trenches full of stagnant rot... Hoo...”
“The soldiers suffered plenty.”
“What, we didn’t?”
Fair point. I remembered volunteering with her for trench repairs, ending up caked in mud from head to toe.
“...When will this war end?”
Sip—hoo... “Will it ever?”
Smoke billowed from Helena’s lips, drifting slowly out of our shelter-like dugout. I peeked outside. Slug-like clouds hurried across the sky.
“Rain coming?”
“They said clear skies today.”
“Who said that? Boerman?”
“Mr. Boerman.”
“That guy’s weather calls are always off. Never right once.”
“Kinda wonder how he got picked as observer.”
Hoo—
The wind shifted suddenly. Her smoke blew toward me this time. I grimaced.
“Can’t you quit smoking already?”
“Priest Lucio, I’ve always wondered—why do you hate cigarettes so much? Booze too.”
“On the flip side, why does a priest chain-smoke like you?”
Helena snorted. Undeterred, she took a deep drag, then hoo—
“The doctrine doesn’t say ‘shun tobacco and liquor.’ So it’s fine, right?”
“...Yeah. If you like it, it’s good.”
We fell silent for a while. She gazed at her smoke rings; I brewed some hoarded black tea.
“You’ve been into black tea lately. Used to prefer sweets, though.”
“You know how it is. Cocoa’s scarce now. Just something to wet the mouth.”
“Or maybe you’ve picked up my tastes, since I drink it so much?”
Helena loved black tea—bitter, deep flavor suited her. To me, it was just cheap rations, bitter as hell.
But even I’d grown hooked.
“Nah. Just felt like trying it these days.”
Truth was, she was right. She got me into it, and bit by bit, I’d absorbed her—tastes, values, thoughts.
“Want some?”
I pulled out another teabag. She smiled back.
“Heh... sure, please.”
That slight upturn of her lips, a gentle grin. I loved that smile.
Not forced, not mad—just pure, simple joy dimpling her cheeks, flushing her pale skin.
I loved it. No clue why. Love goggles, maybe. In war, smiles were fake or broken. Nothing in between.
But hers? I loved it, plain and simple.
I handed her the steeped tea. As she took the cup, she asked,
“Sugar?”
“You hate sweets. Want me to add some?”
“Nah, hand it over. Thanks.”
Helena despised sweets. She’d always given me her ration cocoa.
We sipped quietly. Mine had a few sugar cubes—not too sweet.
“...Bitter.”
“Yeah, bitter.”
Still hit hard. Bitter things never suited me. I watched her alternate between tea and cigarette.
“...What’s a cigarette taste like?”
“Oh? Got curious?”
She covered her mouth, teasing. I smirked, took another swig of bitter tea.
“Just wondering.”
“Hmm... how to describe...”
She inhaled deeply, held it. Curious what she was up to, I watched.
Puff. Puff. Puff.
Donut smoke rings emerged, smaller ones threading through. I stared blankly.
She grinned at me playfully.
“Like this?”
“...What the hell.”
“Haha... just regular tobacco. Minty kick.”
She offered her cigarette.
“Wanna try?”
“...”
It was damp from her lips. I hesitated, then took it.
“Yeah. Put it in your mouth, draw slow.”
“With your mouth?”
“Yep. Mouth.”
Sip—hoo...
White smoke billowed. She beamed at me.
“How’s it?”
“Hmm...”
Another drag, exhale.
“...Not bad.”
“Right?”
Acrid bitterness, then mint. Not bad at all.
She brushed her blonde hair back, took it from me. Her lips brushed where mine had been.
I glanced away.
“...”
That first taste burned into my memory.
Indelible, no matter how hard I tried to forget.
“Priest Lucio.”
“Yeah?”
She set down the cigarette, picked up her tea. I added another sugar cube to mine, turned to her.
“You know I was an academy professor, right?”
“Yeah... said so before coming here.”
“Yep. Actually, kinda famous?”
She grinned slyly again. I smirked back.
“Sure. Superstar. Helena the Great. Hooray.”
“For real... worked at a place everyone knows by name.”
“Hmm... which one?”
She lit another cigarette, set her cup down roughly, inhaled deep.
“Mm... secret.”
“What?”
My face must’ve twisted; she burst out laughing.
“Haha! Look at your face!”
“Jeez...”
“Ha... kidding. Kidding. C’mon, Priest Lucio, relax. My bad.”
I wasn’t really mad. I smoothed my expression, sipped the sweeter tea.
“Famous academy prof, and you volunteered for war? Educators were exempt.”
“Haha... yeah.”
Silence fell. Just her sipping tea, me fiddling with my cup.
“...Guess I’m just a natural idiot.”
“What’s that sudden?”
“Everyone said so. Idiot decision. Why risk it? What’s the point of jumping into hell?”
She smiled bitterly. I stared blankly.
“One day, a theology student I really cared for... said she was dropping out. I asked why. She said...”
“...Said?”
“Her dad died in the war, family ruined. Couldn’t pay tuition. So she’d volunteer as relief priestess, support her mom and siblings...”
“...”
“Heh... begged her not to, but she went anyway. And me? Couldn’t just watch my students walk into the meat grinder like an idiot.”
I waited silently. But she trailed off, no more words.
She looked up. Her eyes red-rimmed. I didn’t ask why.
“I tried stopping her to the end. Called it stupid, idiotic. But Priest Lucio...”
Her cigarette trembled at her fingertips. I gently patted her back.
“Those words I said to her... sound familiar, don’t they?”
“Helena.”
“Weird, huh? Calling it dumb, then doing the same dumb thing myself.”
She laughed idiotically, lips loose, eyes glistening.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here.”
I handed her my handkerchief silently. Pure white, always spotless despite the mud and filth.
She took it carefully, dabbed her tears. Transparent petals bloomed on the cloth.
After wiping, she returned it, asked,
“Mm... You’re theology expert, right, Priest Lucio?”
“Eh, decent... Village deacon gig? Nothing but theology study.”
“Like kids too.”
“Yeah.”
She smiled faintly, like a tragic heroine, weak and wistful.
“If I can’t go back to the academy after the war... will you take over theology for me?”
“...Don’t even joke.”
“What if not a joke?”
I slammed my cup down. Actually mad this time. But she pressed on.
“Priest Lucio... my students mean everything to me.”
“...”
“Born abandoned? Orphan thing? Craving love?”
“Not—”
“No, that’s it. That’s why they’re precious. The academy that took me in? Grateful forever.”
Priestess Helena gazed desperately. I met her eyes.
“So, Priest Lucio... one promise.”
Her tear-glossed green eyes shone emerald-clear, mirroring me, captivating.
“If I can’t return after the war, take theology in my place.”
So, what she meant was...
“...I promise.”
I couldn’t refuse.
That was all.
“...”
My eyes opened on their own. I sat up slowly.
“Here...”
Cracked voice. Thirst hit hard, twisting my face. I scanned the room slowly.
My room. My bed in the Caldea Imperial Academy staff dorm—now familiar.
I stared blankly at the scene.
“M-my arm...”
I felt my right arm. The spasms had stopped. Pain gone too.
Then that finger. The bloodied one from Head Priest Giovanni?
I looked around. On the bedside table: a cloth-wrapped something, with a folded note.
I unfolded it carefully.
Head Priest. Going to check on the wound. If you wake up, stay home. Don't go anywhere.
“Deaconess Sophia...”
A chuckle escaped. Her pouty tone seeped through the note. I had overdone it.
I unwrapped the cloth—not cloth, a stole. Hers, probably.
Inside: the withered finger from before. I rewrapped it in the stole.
Like the finger, I lifted the water glass on the table.
Still cool, full. Sophia’s doing, no doubt. I downed it in one go.
Cold water soothed my throat. Thirst gone, but suddenly, cigarettes called strong.
I opened the drawer, pulled out the pack.
“...Mast.”
The lone survivor. I lit it, headed to the balcony. Leaned on the railing.
Near noon, lively student laughter drifted up. Struck a match—snap, it broke.
“...”
I stared at it. Long, really long.
Pulled another. Lit the cigarette tip. Flame caught quick.
Sip... hoo...
I focused on smoking quietly. Ashes swirled away, looking utterly melancholic.
“...Bitter.”
Lungs full of minty smoke—bitter, refreshing.
Familiar mint.