Abundant Western Territory - 7
A massive tree stood at the heart of the Elf Sanctuary. Beside it rose a solitary three-story building. While every other structure clustered tightly together, this isolated house alone served as both the elder’s residence and the elves’ meeting hall. Its symbolic weight made it a place even fellow elves dared not approach lightly.
A human tourist setting foot in so precious a building was unprecedented, yet not a single soul could show excitement or curiosity.
I hope this goes well.
Seated on the sofa, I stared bitterly at the stairs. The rest of our party sat dazed on the first floor, while Beatrix had gone up to the third with the elder.
After meeting the elder on the road and learning that Beatrix was her granddaughter, the elder had led us straight to her home. She had not yet spoken of her daughter, but a being who had lived more than six hundred years seemed to have roughly guessed the truth—from the fact that her granddaughter had come alone without her mother, and from Claris’s dark expression.
Of course, the desperate hope of a mother praying that it was not so was written plainly across her face.
"Will she be all right?"
Luise, who had been endlessly turning her empty teacup between her fingers, finally spoke. Her trembling eyes and rigid face made clear just how tightly her nerves were wound.
"She’ll be fine. Don’t worry too much."
Understanding how she felt, I offered the most ordinary reassurance I could. To Luise, Beatrix was not only a fellow fiancée who would share the same husband; she was, first and foremost, the precious teacher who had taught her magic. The benefactor who had shown a grieving girl the path of magic after she lost her older sister at a young age.
And now that benefactor and beloved master had to deliver the news of her mother’s death to her maternal grandmother—to a grandmother who might even hate her. As a disciple, it would have been a lie to claim she was not worried.
"That’s right. It’s Beatrix we’re talking about. I’m sure she’ll be fine."
Irina, sitting beside Luise, took her hand and added her own comfort. An imperial duke, a woman who stood at the pinnacle of magic—surely she could overcome any hardship.
When Margeta nodded as well, lending weight to Irina’s words, Luise’s expression finally eased a little. Or perhaps she was only forcing herself to look composed for the sake of everyone else’s comfort.
Please let nothing go wrong.
Truthfully, I was anxious too. In human society the Magic Lord was invincible, yet right now she was nothing more than Beatrix, a granddaughter.
All I could do was pray that things would turn out well.
In the room farthest back on the third floor—likely the one Grandmother used as her office—I found myself alone with her.
Having been accepted as a guest, I needed to speak soon. I had to deliver the news of Mother and learn how this woman regarded me. Yet I could not open my mouth.
I had seen Grandmother’s face on the way here. Features hardened by despair yet lit at the same time by desperate hope—the expression of someone whose reason whispered of a terrible catastrophe her heart simply could not accept.
Mother…
Fingering the teacup from which I had not taken a single sip, I thought of her. Just then I felt a little resentful toward Mother.
Why had she never told me anything about her maternal family? Why had she quarreled with Grandmother and severed all ties? Could there not have been, even a little, a better way?
"My granddaughter, you say?"
Grandmother spoke first.
"Yes. My name is Beatrix."
I answered with a polite bow, but silence settled once more. Of course it did. Having confirmed that I was her granddaughter, she now had to ask after the daughter who was not present—yet the answer that would come if she asked was all too plain.
How, then, could she dare open her mouth? If she asked and the guess that her daughter was dead became reality, how would she endure it?
"Where is Ariadne?"
Yet Grandmother voiced that terrible question. Whether it was a mother’s duty to accept her daughter’s death, or a fragile hope that the answer might simply be that her daughter could not come for some reason—either way, it took considerable courage.
Regrettably, I had to repay that courage with despair.
"One hundred and one years ago, she returned to Enen’s embrace."
The moment the words left me I squeezed my eyes shut. I had no confidence to look at Grandmother’s face after hearing my answer, and no courage to receive her resentment.
The silence that followed was again broken by Grandmother.
"I see."
A short, matter-of-fact reply—or rather, one that pretended to be matter-of-fact. The moisture and emotion mixed into it could never be called calm.
"She fled from this mother’s arms, only to leave forever."
The words that followed could not even feign composure. The more Grandmother spoke, the longer her sentences grew, the emotions inside them poured out like something bursting free.
"She drove a stake into my heart and left… and far from pulling it out, she drove in something even worse…"
It was heavy. Every single word from Grandmother seemed to press down on my shoulders. I could not lift my head the way she did, and so I kept it bowed.
Of course Mother’s death was a tragic misfortune. I too was a victim who had lost her mother, and I bore no fault for that misfortune. Grandmother and I were simply comrades who had lost the same family; we were not perpetrator and victim.
And yet, why? Strangely, I felt as if I were the sinner. Delivering news of a daughter’s death as a granddaughter meeting her grandmother for the first time—to someone who had not seen her child for a hundred and fifty years, whose last conversation had been a fight—this itself seemed like far too great a sin.
"…I dislike humans."
At those words my body went rigid.
Grandmother, who could not help but hold a grudge against humans; Mother, who had gone out into the human world despite Grandmother’s dissuasion; and I, who carried human blood.
"My husband met with misfortune in the Apels era. Not only my husband—most of the elves departed on the long journey then."
I quietly bit my lip. I knew from history that the other races had suffered countless losses under the Apels Empire. I had heard before coming here that Grandmother had suffered as well. I simply had not known that her suffering included parting with my maternal grandfather.
"The World Tree our god bestowed upon us burned. Our spirit friends never showed themselves again, and the fairies fell weeping."
I knew this too. The World Tree the elves had regarded as their very life, their spirit companions and the fairies—all of it had crumbled at Apels’s hands.
"Of course I know the present empire is different from Apels… but a single stroke of fortune does not erase the misfortunes of the past, does it?"
"…Yes. That’s right."
"Thank you for understanding."
A voice with the faintest hint of a smile. Yet Grandmother’s words were nothing one could laugh at or pass over lightly.
Although she had benefited from Creplofen, the years of torment under Apels had been far too long to forget the pain humans had inflicted. She would not resent Creplofen, but her will remained clear: she never wished to associate with humans again.
"That is why I stopped Ariadne from leaving for the human world. Not every human is a demon, but there is no guarantee one will meet only the good ones. I did not want Ariadne to come to harbor the same hatred I carry."
And that will flowed into concern for her child. Having already lost her husband to humans, she feared her daughter too might come to harm at their hands—or that her daughter might learn to hate and fear the human race as she did. That fear had been more than enough for Grandmother to try to stop Mother.
But she had failed. Their final words had been that if Mother would not listen she would be treated as a stranger rather than a daughter, and the two had parted that way.
"In the end… it came to this…"
The maternal love that had only wished her daughter unhurt went unanswered.
In this situation, what on earth was I supposed to do? As a granddaughter, should I comfort her? Or as a sinner with human blood in her veins, should I simply bow my head?
I did not know. No matter how hard I thought, I did not know. It might almost have been easier if Grandmother had simply resented me—
"Child."
My childish thoughts crumbled the instant Grandmother spoke. The mere possibility of receiving resentment brought more fear than relief.
"Could you tell me how Ariadne lived? What you remember will be enough."
A gently formed smile, a voice that seemed ready to break into tears at any moment. Before that pitiful contradiction I could only nod quietly.
A mother’s request was a natural right.
I told her everything I remembered. What clothes Mother had liked to wear, what foods she enjoyed, what weather made her happy, what hobbies she pursued.
How she had been kind to the household servants, loved her husband, been tender with her daughter, and respected her mother-in-law.
That although their races differed, the difference had never become a wall. That she had been a beloved presence in the ducal house and the duchy.
"…I see."
Each time, Grandmother nodded with a faint smile, as if carefully refraining from interrupting the memories I was calling forth.
"Fortunately, it seems she forgot this worthless mother and lived well. I’m glad…"
At those words my mind went blank. That conclusion must not stand. What Grandmother needed to know were Mother’s happy memories, not a life lived without her. She must not think of herself as a mother erased from her daughter’s memory.
Otherwise, truly, truly, the last memory between Mother and Grandmother would become nothing more than a quarrel of harsh words.
"That’s not true."
And so I dared to speak my thoughts.
"Mother would not have forgotten you, Grandmother."
Grandmother’s threat that if Mother left the sanctuary she would be regarded as a stranger. Mother had not simply accepted that threat at face value and cut every tie.
"When Mother disliked something, she made it very clear. Whenever she had complaints she would hold me—still little then—and pour out her grumbling."
In truth it had not been a pleasant memory. She would mutter about politics and high society that even a child could not understand. How hard those moments had been.
"So if she had disliked you, Grandmother, she would have told me every complaint. Mother must have said nothing because she still felt guilt and longing toward you."
Grandmother’s eyes widened for a moment, then she smiled again.
"What a mess of logic that is."
"Pardon?"
"If she had forgotten me, she would never even have thought of disliking me—so of course she would have said nothing."
…
Is that… so?
"Come here."
Just as my head began to bow under embarrassment and the sense that my persuasion had failed, Grandmother gestured.
"Beatrix, was it?"
"Y-yes…"
Her smile deepened.
"It must already be about three hundred years ago. When Ariadne was still small, I used to sit her on my knee and read her fairy tales."
Saying so, Grandmother took my shoulders as I approached and drew me onto her own knee.
"It was a fairy tale written around the time Creplofen drove out Apels—a story about friendship between elves and humans. I never particularly liked it… but Ariadne was especially fond of that tale, so what could I do? I had to read it to her."
She laughed softly, remarking that Ariadne had shown her true colors even then, yet I could not laugh at all.
It was mortifying. At my age, sitting on someone else’s knee. This would be embarrassing even for a toddler—and it was Grandmother’s knee, no less.
"I could never understand why she liked it. Hastily made, the plot a mess, hardly any fun, and the consistency none too good either. That is why it is a fairy tale long since forgotten."
Now she was stroking my hair as she spoke, so I could not bring myself to move.
"But it became a fairy tale that remained forever in Ariadne’s heart."
The hand stroking my head stilled. Then I felt her slender arms wrap around me.
"…Unlike me, like in the fairy tale… she learned love from humans…"
Her arms trembled faintly. No—not only her arms; her entire body embracing me shook.
I carefully lifted my own arms and held her in return. Right now this action would mean more than any words.
"Like that fairy tale… she left behind a treasure…"
And Grandmother fell silent once more.
Yet strangely, this silence did not feel awkward at all.