The Saintess and Robert — 2

It was a thought she returned to often: a day spent in the Moon Tower was tedious beyond measure.

Even without her sight, there was a great deal she could do. Were she only permitted to go outside now and then, things might have eased a little — but a life where even an outing was not hers to choose, where the hours drained away in nothing but prayer, was another matter entirely. Had she been raised a saintess from birth, perhaps she wouldn't have minded. Adrian, who had been brought to the tower as a small child and grown into the role, found herself sinking into boredom all the same.

However accustomed she became, it would have been a lie to claim she felt nothing toward this endlessly repeating life.

A faint sigh slipped from Adrian's lips as she prayed with her hands pressed together. Why, lately, did she find herself unable to focus on her prayers? She already knew the answer — yet whenever that name rose in her mind, her thoughts seemed only to tangle further.

Dozens of lives, lived by one and the same person. Was that something a sane world could allow?

Robert Taylor. At the name — one she could now speak with something close to ease — Adrian's brow furrowed.

What she had witnessed were mere fragments. Yet those fragments alone numbered more than ten, which meant she couldn't so much as guess how many lives he had actually lived.

Reading his memories was like gazing out at a world drained of color. She watched the story of the one who bore Robert's voice, fleeting moments rendered in black and white — and every chain of those memories ended the same way. In death. If what she had seen was true, at the hands of Yuria, his own elder sister.

At times, other figures surfaced in Robert's memories — Mirajane, or the Grand Duke who guarded the North. But never herself. Which meant, perhaps, that she had only ever read the memories in which she did not exist.

More than any of that, what gnawed at her was the simple fact that one man carried the memories of many lives. Among the relics she knew of, there was nothing that enabled regression — and without communion with the Church, a relic's power could not be invoked at all. Since no other explanation could account for a single soul reliving the same stretch of time again and again, Adrian had come to regard Robert's regression as all but certain.

'Twelve times.'

Twelve images of Robert dying, each one she had witnessed. In those memories he had died a dozen different deaths — hanged from a gallows, the noose biting into his neck; poisoned by a woman who could only have been Yuria Taylor. What she had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watched most closely, through all of it, was his bearing. Calm in the very face of death, like a man who had died countless times over — a composure so complete it bordered on the grotesque.

No one is unafraid of death. However heroic a soul may be, its nature is to cling to life, however wretchedly, when the end arrives. So how could he be so composed? And yet — once, just once, Robert had wavered before death.

The memory Adrian had seen was a fragment, and nothing more. Mirajane, her sword leveled at Robert, whose body was covered from head to toe in wounds and scars. The corpses of countless knights strewn across the ground, Mirajane the sole survivor, looking down at where Robert knelt. Her expression was utterly blank — rage over the knights she had lost, tangled with bewilderment at his claim of having watched over her for so long. It was a face Adrian herself had never seen, yet the expression worn by the man who looked like Robert was stranger still. He simply smiled at Mirajane, softly, as though death were the very thing he had been longing for.

There were wounds deep enough to show bone, and his breath came in ragged gasps, as though he might slip away at any moment. Something about the sight made her chest tighten.

The incomprehensible words went on and on. A memory belonging to Robert alone — one neither Mirajane nor Adrian herself could begin to understand. And Adrian realized that this was one of the memories she had never been shown.

Had Robert and Mirajane once been something special to each other, then? But unless Robert chose to tell her, she would never know. For now, all she could do was stack speculation upon speculation — and even that was flawed in too many ways to call accurate.

Mirajane, who had listened to Robert in silence, simply raised her sword and swung. Her face said his words were not worth hearing. But Robert was still smiling. Right up until the blade crossed his throat and death claimed him, he went on smiling, as if everything — every last bit of it — had been a blessing.

"...What memories must he carry, to smile like that even at the moment of his death?"

And what could he have been to Mirajane, that he harbored feelings so tangled? These were things the Adrian of today could not easily comprehend. If they traveled south together this time, she thought, she might find a thread to pull. The relics hidden in the South — among the relics she had once studied, surely something could explain Robert's regression.

And so her mind churned. Robert Taylor's inexplicable memories, and that hollow, empty heart of his — both of them grated on her.

Come to think of it, he had said he was still in the North, hadn't he? Adrian was recalling the messages she had exchanged with Mirajane a few days before, slowly rising from her seat, when—

"Saintess, a message has arrived from the imperial family."

At the Paladin's voice from behind her, she paused to think for a moment before realizing it must be Mirajane reaching out. It was rather early for them to be in contact — had something urgent happened? She followed the Paladin to her chamber, where the crystal orb was humming with a low, resonant drone.

"Mirajane? Has something urgent come up?"

"...Oh. You picked up."

Her voice was darker than usual. Even without seeing her face, Adrian could practically see the gloom pressing through the crystal orb. She had scarcely begun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to wonder what on earth had happened when Mirajane's next words made her shoulders jolt.

"Apparently your Lord Taylor has something he wants to say to you. He contacted me, and when I asked why — honestly, does he not realize I'm not a crystal orb relay?"

"M-me?"

"Yes. Anyway, I'll connect you, so take the call. And I'm done taking Lord Taylor's calls from now on. Don't forget to pass that along."

"...Uh, understood."

Something he wanted to say — to her. For an instant, the truth of his regression flared up in her mind, but no. He would never speak of such a thing to her. If he intended to tell anyone, he would have told Mirajane long ago. And Mirajane, for her part, showed no sign of knowing anything of the sort — so Adrian, concluding it must concern some other matter, slowly steadied her voice.

...She had been thinking of Robert mere moments ago. And now, through some piling of coincidences, he was calling.

A strange tension set her trembling faintly; she breathed out, calm and slow. Once. Twice. Just as the saintess's composure settled back over her like a mantle, the voice arrived.

"Adrian. It has been a while."

"Eep—!"

A voice arriving at such an unexpected moment was more than enough to wrench open even Adrian's sealed eyes. Startled into a scream like this... hadn't she lived through this exact situation once before? Robert, chuckling low in his throat, spoke quietly.

"Seeing you so startled — that, too, has been a while."

I hadn't the slightest intention of teasing her, yet Adrian seemed convinced I would mock her for being startled. She absolutely had not been frightened, she insisted — she had merely bitten her tongue at a voice arriving so abruptly. Was that not, by any definition, being startled? If anything, I thought it made her all the more charming; she was, I supposed, protective in her own way of the dignity the word saintess carried.

By the time the memory of her shriek had begun to fade, Adrian cleared her throat and ventured, carefully, "So — what business brings you to contact me? I heard you were still in the North."

"The truth is, I'm already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the Central region. Or would 'the capital' be the more precise word."

"The capital... quite some time has passed since you set out from the North, then."

"There is something I must ask of you, Adrian. Though 'permission' may be the more fitting word for it."

Permission? Adrian seemed puzzled by the word, but she soon grasped what I meant and pressed on. If I had come to the capital at this time of year, it could only be for one thing — not a difficult guess to make.

"If it's Mirajane you intend to see, you hardly need my permission. You could meet her at the imperial palace just as well as the Moon Tower."

"Why on earth would I go to the palace? And as for Her Imperial Highness, I saw quite enough of her in the North."

"...Ah. Now that you mention it, that's true."

Why could she never remember that I was the one coming to see her? Her thoughts seemed to drift off in some other direction, and I decided a touch more directness was in order. It wasn't as though I'd be returning to the ducal residence — which meant staying with Adrian was the whole point.

"I am on my way to see you now, Adrian."

"...Pardon?"

"The reason I hurried back from the North, and the reason I came all this way to the capital — both were to meet you in person. It's the new year, isn't it? We're to travel to the South together, so we ought to meet beforehand. Wouldn't you say?"

Adrian did not answer right away, as though turning the question over in her mind. A brief silence stretched — and then a somewhat flustered voice reached my ear. Had something rattled her? The slight rise in her pitch coaxed a smile out of me.

"Ah — ah! Of course. I was meaning to speak with you about the South regardless. You mean to come here in person?"

"Hence my request for permission. There is a great deal to be done in the South, is there not?"

Recovering the relics — and, beyond that, visiting the Temple of the Moon. On top of it all, I had to see my investigation into Theresia and the Evil Dragon through to the end. Could it truly all be done within a single month? The reason I had pushed my preparations as far forward as I possibly could was precisely to shave time off this interval, little as that might be.

"There's hardly anything to permit. If you wish, we can meet this very moment — will you come straight to the Moon Tower?"

"Of course. As for everything else I have to say, we can leave it for when we meet."

"Well, um... there was something I had been meaning to say."

Adrian hesitated, deliberating for a long while before finally parting her lips, her voice very small. So faint the artifact could barely hold it.

What her gentle voice carried was my name. Her earlier words — that calling me by name had been difficult — flickered through my mind. She still seemed to struggle with it, and yet I could almost see her before me: straining, forcing the syllables past her lips. If those snow-white cheeks of hers were flushing red as she said it, there in front of me — what expression would I be wearing?

"I can call you by your name now, too. And Robert... you call me Adrian, don't you?"

"Did we not already agree as much?"

"I think it means something a little different now. In a way, you might even call us friends."

Friends. When I let out a small laugh at the word, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Adrian went on.

"Shall we meet a little later, then?"

She seemed faintly embarrassed. Perhaps getting my name out had truly cost her; her small sigh came through the artifact, clear as day. I had no idea what calling a name meant to her — but I imagined it would come easier with time. I had never dreamed I would be on such terms with a saintess, of all people, that we would call each other by name. Still, if this life, too, were to end in failure, it seemed there would be a great deal, in many ways, to regret.