Coincidence - 4
There are things in this world cold and caustic. There are things warm and gentle.
If I had to describe this woman named Adrian, she would fall, I think, on the side of warmth and gentleness. She was the sort of woman who made it impossible for anyone who looked upon her to spit out cruel words—who drew out smiles instead.
Innocent and guileless, yet never foolish. For all that she was a saintess who professed purity, she had never once wavered before corrupt temptation. That was why the word noble suited her.
Across the countless lives I had lived, that had always been the impression I held of the woman called the Saintess. So clean, so virtuous, that not a single flaw could be found in her...
That was what I had believed.
"Kids, don't pull my hair... that hurts..."
The sight of her, hemmed in by children and teased without end, sat rather at odds with the saintess I had imagined. How should I put it—perhaps unremarkable was the right word. Even with her hair being tugged every which way, she laughed like a fool, seeming almost to delight in the children's company. And for all that, she'd been hauling one load or another, her clothes thick with dust, something black smeared across her cheek and forehead.
On that one point—the noble saintess—I may well have been wrong. And yet I felt certain that no one alive fit the name of saintess better than Adrian. Perhaps it was not the divine power others lacked that had made her the Saintess. Perhaps it was precisely this nature of hers that had earned her the choice.
Watching her stirred a strange, subtle feeling in me, and I tore my gaze from the Saintess amid the children. I had been doing the work in her stead, her ankle sprained and her movements limited, but I found myself wondering whether I truly belonged here—whether my presence in a place like this wasn't, for no good reason, souring the mood.
I was helping, in part, to repay the grace of her healing the wound at my neck, but no real connection was forming between the Saintess and me. At this rate, was I not simply squandering time?
The cold thought had barely formed before a voice at my side scattered it in an instant.
"So you were here all alone."
The dying sun had stained her hair red; the waves that had gleamed platinum now carried a muddied shade. And yet, even so, they remained clear. Her eyes were closed, but that pure, limpid air still seemed to envelop her.
"How did you know I was here?"
"The children told me you were under the tree. I can find my way anywhere around here without seeing," she added with a laugh, then dropped down onto the grass and hugged her knees to her chest.
So I looked around, and realized it was a rather lovely spot. As though paint had been flung across the vault of heaven, the sunset-red sky slipped away beyond the horizon. A breeze that, for once, carried no oppressive heat stirred the grass, and a lone willow rose just overhead. A scene like that.
The children had gathered into a knot of their own, absorbed in something—it seemed Adrian had struggled to extract herself from their midst. As I stood there blankly a moment, she chuckled and spoke.
"What do you think? I can't see it myself—all I can feel is that it's bright."
"...Hard to say. It's just... like that."
"Liar. You know how much Louis loves this place."
Pointing toward where the children's laughter rang out, she stretched a hand toward the sky. As though trying to seize something, her fingers wriggled in the empty air—then the arm dropped, just like that.
"Children truly see so much. Part of that is my own blindness, I suppose, but sometimes they describe things in more detail than any adult would. Even though they've hardly learned anything yet."
"I suppose there are times like that."
"Louis says he always comes here to watch the sunset. He tells me it's red, but I don't know what red is, so I could never give him an answer. So I've always wondered—is red a pretty color?"
Her closed eyes turned toward me. She wasn't asking out of courtesy. She seemed genuinely, innocently curious whether it was beautiful.
There is a color that can only be seen in this hour. The moment when the sun sinks and the moon arrives—the brief instant when day and night overlap. In a day carved into twenty-four hours, one is lucky to have even ten minutes to see it.
The blue sky, straddling the border of night, had bled crimson. As if to pour out every last ray it possessed, the sun—burning brighter than it had at noon—spat one final scarlet flare and vanished into the coming night. Only because of that could this last gasp of daylight be called a sunset.
I could not put into words all that she wished to hear, so I only murmured, briefly:
"It's beautiful. Very much so."
"Is it... I wish I could see it."
Adrian smiled, looking somehow relieved. Then, after a moment's gaze at the fading sky, she spoke again as the light slowly died.
"The truth is, those children aren't the sort you'd easily come across around here."
"Is that so?"
"They came from the South. Tell me—do you know of the beings called mages?"
"There are any number of magical artifacts in the world, aren't there? I know of them."
Mages—how could I not know of such beings? It was only odd that the word should surface in the middle of a conversation about children. Adrian added that she did not mean those ordinary mages.
"The South is a land the Empire's influence has never fully reached. Perhaps that's owing to the Great Forest and the non-human races that dwell there, but it remains undeveloped—practically a lawless frontier."
That much I knew. But the South and mages—those were words that sat poorly together. And yet it wasn't as though nothing came to mind.
The South, as she said, was a place the Empire's central authority scarcely touched. Which meant it was awash in folk faiths and old superstitions of every kind—and so, once in a while, there were those who practiced rites a person might mistake for magic. To imperial eyes they looked like mages, but they carried a creed far crueler than any mage's.
"Don't tell me... they were taken by sorcerers..."
Adrian flinched, then—after a glance confirmed the children weren't listening—nodded carefully.
"As you know, being the Saintess, I cannot help but be sensitive to anything the gods have not sanctioned. These children are the ones I rescued, some time ago."
"...So that's why they're here."
"It goes by the name of an orphanage, but in truth it is nothing more than me looking after children who were taken by sorcerers. They may be laughing now, but I suspect each of them carries a wound of their own."
Sorcerers held the offering of a sacrifice to be their sacred rite. They performed ceremonies to summon the gods and spirits they worshipped, paying for the summons in offerings. And the offerings they prized above all, it was said, were children—stolen away from their homes. ...Had Adrian not found them, every last one would likely be dead.
Perhaps she knew it too, for her face had dimmed somewhat as she looked toward the children still giggling in the distance. Then something seemed to occur to her, and she smiled faintly to herself, lips moving.
"Please don't tell anyone I told you this. It's truly something I shouldn't speak of to just anyone. You understand, don't you?"
"I have no intention of telling anyone. I'll simply... keep it in mind."
"Then I can rest easy. To be honest, I told you because I knew you would answer exactly that."
The sun had all but set now, and the world around us was slowly sinking into dusk. Adrian, knees drawn tight to her chest, stared quietly into the empty air. She, too, must have realized the sunset was gone—and that the hour to return had come.
And yet some reluctance seemed to hold her; hers was not the face of someone ready to rise. Her ankle should have long since healed, but she let out a small ow and stole a glance in my direction.
"You're still there, aren't you? I can't hear a sound."
"I am. At least until you're up and on your way, I intend to stay right here."
Perhaps my gentle voice reassured her. Adrian smiled briefly, then studied me for a long moment. The last faint light caught her face, and for the briefest instant I noticed the dust on her cheek. It seemed to have been there for some time—and apparently the children had never thought to mention it.
Naturally, Adrian knew nothing of it. She simply carried on at length about how good the children were, then, tiring, began introducing the ones slumped nearby, one by one. Hans, Kato, Louis, Elin... Having explained each name in turn, she caught her breath and went on.
"The children seem quite taken with you, Lord Taylor. I expect it's the first time a noble has ever lent them a hand."
"Come to think of it, aren't you here as well, my lady? Though it seems they don't realize it."
"I don't like 'Saintess.'"
In that instant, night arrived—the last of the light extinguished. A pale moon took the sunset's place; stars settled where the crimson clouds had been, glittering cold and bright. Her hair, which had shimmered, dimmed—but my eyes narrowed at the cluster of light that had brushed past, if only for a heartbeat. It was around then that I realized her eyes were open.
Gray eyes gone dull with faded color—eyes that reflected nothing—were fixed upon the sky. With a look touched by sorrow, she went on.
"I would rather the children remember me not as the Saintess, but simply as a close older sister. It's uncomfortable otherwise. The moment someone calls me 'Saintess,' things turn stiff—and I've known far too many people like that."
"A friend..."
"Mirajen is my friend too, but even so, the Saintess and the Imperial Princess cannot meet often. The last time we saw each other was at a birthday—our first meeting in a whole year."
Her eyes closed once more, and the light that had dazzled mine was gone. Her expression had darkened a little, as though she felt guilty even for saying it.
"Sometimes... just sometimes. I've caught myself thinking, what if I had never been the Saintess. If my eyes could see, I would have lived like anyone else, spending my days with friends my own age. What if, you know?"
There was no answer I could give her. All I could do was listen in silence until she had poured out everything she wished to say. What could I possibly do for a woman called the Saintess?
I did not know her well. We had met for the first time in this life; ours was nothing more than a coincidence. And yet... that feeling, at least, I could understand.
If I had never regressed—or before even that—hadn't I once imagined what it would be like if all my deeds could have been steered down the right path?
"I must look rather pathetic. The Saintess, sitting here like this..."
"I didn't think so."
The words came out flat and certain. If anyone here deserved to be called pathetic, it was someone else entirely. Compared to me—the man who, unable to relinquish his attachment, had resigned himself to an eternity of regression—Adrian could only be called admirable.
I wanted to add something, but nothing came to me. So that she would know I had drawn near, I made a point of walking noisily to her side. Sensing me there, Adrian turned her head.
"Lord Taylor?"
"...Let's go. Isn't it time you headed back?"
"Hm?"
I took the hand resting quietly in her lap; she flinched for a moment, then gently closed her fingers around mine. I drew her up to her feet. Once upright, she slipped her hand free and bowed her head toward me. She seemed, at last, to have accepted that it was time to go.
"You're right. I should be going."
The children's laughter, too, had fallen quiet some time ago. There was something unmistakably wistful in her voice, and a smile came to my face before I knew it.
"You smiled again, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't."
"But I'm quite sure you did, just now."
So she was sharp about this sort of thing. That she had caught my smile surprised me a little, but I denied it and looked toward the children.
"I ought to be off now—but shouldn't you say your farewells to the children first, my lady? Go on ahead. I'll make my own way back."
"The children will be sad to see you go."
"...I won't be able to come often. I have affairs of my own to attend to."
"And I'll be sad, too."
For a moment, I failed to grasp what she had said. By the time the meaning of I'll be sad, too landed and my face began to twist strangely, Adrian was already stepping away from me, her expression perfectly composed. She backed off a few steps, then waved.
"Until next time. I don't know where we'll meet, but... I have a feeling we will."
Her tone carried the certainty that we would meet again. We had met this time, so surely the next as well—that was how it sounded. I gave no answer. I shook my head faintly, though she could not have seen the motion.
Chances to meet the Saintess were rare. I could not be certain she would come to this place again. Only those who belonged to the Church could ascend the Moon Tower. I might join their ranks, I suppose, but that would likely take a very long time. I doubted we would meet again. Unless, of course, this was truly fate.
Until Adrian crossed to the far side, to where the children waited, I simply stood and watched her go.
Where the light had been, only silence remained. Even the moon, so bright mere moments before, had slipped behind the clouds, leaving nothing but a cold glow.
Was it not strange? Only one person had gone—and yet the whole world seemed emptied out.
All that remained was the impression of a woman curious in every way. In place of the pure and noble saintess I had carried in my mind, the impression Adrian left behind had become something else entirely: that of a rather mysterious woman.
"...I suppose I should go."
I stood there only a moment longer before slowly beginning the walk home, brushing away the lingering thoughts of a certain woman that still filled my head.
And yet the dust that had clung to her cheek stayed with me, for some reason, more stubbornly than anything else.