The Bard's Requiem
The Bard was what most people would call handsome.
A well-formed face, an easy smile that put people at their ease, and on top of that, a silver tongue well-practiced in the art of charming women.
Aside from a handful of men who kept a wary eye on him for fear he'd steal their lovers away, he was beloved by nearly everyone — a natural-born favorite.
And wherever he went, he inevitably found himself at the center of the crowd.
"The usual!"
A few words exchanged as he stepped into a tavern, and the innkeeper would pour him a drink before he even sat down. Strangers he'd never met would be clapping him on the shoulder like an old friend within minutes.
It was no different when he mingled with other adventurers.
"How about settling it with a coin toss?"
When tempers flared, a single joke would smooth things over, and even those who took an instant dislike to him usually came around after a few conversations.
All of this gave the Bard a fair amount of confidence in dealing with people.
Enough that he quietly believed relationships were something he could steer exactly where he wanted them to go.
Even a man like him had a childhood, of course.
One spent brandishing a tree branch like a sword, felling the Demon King, rescuing people from peril, and in the end, winning the love of a beautiful princess.
The days when he had idolized the Hero.
But that dream had faded naturally as he grew older.
He traded the sword for an instrument, and the Demon King for tavern patrons. Saving the world mattered far less than deciding who to drink with tonight and which songs to sing.
Until that day came.
It happened by pure chance.
In a village where the aimless wanderer had stopped to rest, the Bard ran into the Hero — of all people.
At first, it was laughable.
"Hah. That's supposed to be the Hero?"
His clothes were threadbare in patches, and there was nothing of the legendary figure clad in shining armor, leading heroes and beauties alike. If anything, he looked more like a butcher who'd carved up a few dozen human beings.
Understandably so — dark circles hung heavy beneath his eyes, and his gaze carried the exhaustion of a man who had already witnessed every misfortune a person could see in a lifetime.
He looked for all the world like a walking corpse.
The only thing that drew the Bard's eye at all was the beautiful Saintess standing at the Hero's side.
Even at a glance, her beauty was striking — and this was coming from a man who had known more women than he could count.
That was when the Bard decided, with shallow reasoning, to invite himself into that party.
Half of it was the desire to seduce that Saintess and have his fun; the other half was the notion of joining the Hero's party he'd once idolized and living out his childhood dream.
And so he joined the party of his own accord.
Reality, however, showed no mercy.
Assassins from the Demon King's Army and packs of monsters attacked at least once or twice a day — sometimes more than five times.
Even while they were camping, nine times out of ten something went wrong.
The first day or two had been bearable enough.
He'd known from the start that it was a dangerous journey, and his years as an adventurer meant he had no small amount of experience dealing with monsters.
The problem was that it never ended.
Fend off a morning ambush, and another group would appear around lunchtime. Barely finish eating and start walking, and this time it was the Demon King's Army they ran into.
Night was no different.
No — if anything, it was worse.
The moment he finally drifted off, he was startled awake by screams or the cries of beasts, and even on days when nothing happened, the knowledge that an attack could come at any moment kept him from ever sleeping deeply.
On his old adventures, he would have spent days sprawled in a tavern resting after finishing even the most dangerous of contracts.
Here, come the next morning, he had to walk again. Fight again.
What the hell is this.
Before long, he came to understand why the Hero had turned into what he was.
Enemies came the instant a gap opened, leaving nowhere for the mind to rest, and sleepless nights were practically a given.
Yet the Hero, out of some sense of duty perhaps, stood watch through the night — and even then, allowed himself only brief, fitful naps while the others slept.
And what struck the Bard as strangest of all was—
None other than the Saintess. One of the very reasons he had joined the party.
At first, things had been wonderful, to be sure.
The Saintess had been warm toward him to the point that she could be compared against her treatment of the Hero, and he had even felt a flicker of superiority in it.
But as time wore on, only a single thought occupied his head.
What the hell is wrong with this woman.
The Bard also stood in the rear during battle, playing a supporting role for his companions — and he knew how vital that role was.
But his attitude toward combat and the Saintess's could not have been more different.
No matter how many times the Hero called for help, she would brush him off or act only at the very last moment, when he was a heartbeat away from a fatal wound.
Worse, she would treat the gravely wounded Hero's injuries half-heartedly before retreating to the back —
and then shower treatment after treatment on the Bard and the other companions, whose wounds amounted to little more than nicks and scrapes, all while smiling so sweetly.
"Thank you for your hard work. I'll handle the bodies, so please rest."
"Yes."
Hearing those words from the Hero — whose wounds were still bleeding — and watching the Saintess answer him with nothing more than a clipped reply,
the Bard's blood, oddly enough, ran cold.
He thought he should say something.
But he was gasping for breath, utterly drained, his body and mind both reduced to pulp by the endless fighting.
Not a single word came out.
Even when it was time to prepare a meal for the camp, the Saintess did nothing at all.
Even he, a mere minstrel, would pluck at his strings or lend a small hand while meals were being made.
But the Saintess would not do even that much.
And what frustrated him most of all was the sight of the Hero — silently going about his work, in stark contrast to her resting as though it were her birthright.
Does he ever rest?
No matter how he looked at it, the Hero was less the leader of the party and more a laborer who took on every chore nobody wanted.
He woke before anyone else to scout the surroundings in the morning; before setting out, he checked the food and equipment.
On the march, he always led the way and bore the risk; when battle broke out, he was the first to charge at the enemy.
And when the fighting ended, that was still not the end of it.
He cleared away the monster corpses, gathered the scattered gear, found a campsite, collected firewood, prepared the meals.
Whenever some task went unclaimed, it was uncanny how, in the end, it always fell to the Hero.
At first, the Bard couldn't make sense of it.
Why does the leader of this party do even all of that?
But after watching for a few days, he couldn't help but understand the reason.
It was work that had to be done by someone.
And if no one else did it, it ended up being the Hero's.
Ha.
He — who had once badmouthed the Hero alongside the Saintess just to stay in her good graces — was now feeling his heart stir at the sight of the man's pitiable figure. It was absurd.
What a joke.
It was only a few days later that he decided to leave the Hero's party.
Whatever affection he'd had for the Saintess had long since worn off, and the endless battles and a journey where he couldn't even sleep properly had broken something in him.
He felt like a flower raised in a greenhouse.
Only now did he begin to understand just how comfortable his life had been in every other party he'd traveled with.
And above all, with each battle that passed, the gulf between himself and them grew starker.
The Hero, unshaken even with death breathing down his neck — and the Saintess, with the strength to shoulder battles like that.
Caught between them, the Bard could feel nothing but his own smallness.
So that day, while the Saintess was away for a short while, the Bard went looking for the Hero.
The Hero was offering a prayer to the Goddess, on behalf of those who had lost their lives to the monsters.
"Hey, Hero. Got a minute?"
"As many as you need."
Far too light a reply from a man who had, mere hours ago, diced a wyvern big enough to blanket the entire village with nothing but his sword.
"I — I'm leaving the party......"
"I see. That's a shame."
Only then did the Bard realize something was wrong.
"You're not even angry?"
The Hero gave no answer and continued his prayer.
"You've been treated like a sucker this whole time, Hero."
A strange sensation washed over him — a coolness spreading through his chest.
So this was what it felt like to spew out everything that had festered in his heart. How good it could taste.
The words poured out of him like a confession at an altar.
"I joined this party for kicks from the very beginning."
"Seducing the Saintess was for fun, too. I whispered about you behind your back with her, ignored your opinions, sowed discord wherever I could — all to isolate you."
The Bard raised his voice without realizing it, even though the Saintess might be within earshot.
"I laughed at you the whole time. I went out of my way to upset you, and I even enjoyed watching it."
"Honestly, Hero? I thought I could do your job better than you. I even tried planting a false accusation on you as a test — to get you killed or thrown out of the party so I could take your place."
"......And then I say I'm leaving the party, and you—"
"Bard."
"—What?"
"I am not a fool."
In that instant, the coolness that had filled his chest curdled into a bone-deep chill.
He met the Hero's eyes — the man had his hands clasped in prayer, head bowed, just a moment before.
The same deep dark circles, the same dead gaze as always. And yet a voice so impossibly, eerily calm.
Ah.
Only then did the Bard understand.
The Hero had known. He had known everything from the very start.
What heart the Bard had joined the party with, how he and the Saintess had torn into him behind his back.
He had known every last bit of it — and pretended not to.
No. Perhaps he hadn't even bothered pretending.
Just as a man might look down at an insect and show no reaction whatsoever.
Not a single act, not one word, mattered to that existence—
"Let us part ways when we reach the next village. Will you walk with us for what remains of the journey?"
".....Yes."
The Bard could not bring himself to say anything more.
He only knew one thing: the moment they reached that next village, he would put as much distance between himself and this place as his legs could carry.
This was never a place for the likes of me.