Will You Hold Me...? - 5
There is nothing pleasant about watching someone die.
Even the death of a complete stranger aches the heart — how much more so, then, when it is someone you know? And what of the death of someone who has, of late, come to weigh on your mind more than anyone else in the world?
She could not glimpse all of Robert's memories.
Only fragments of what he carried — though whether these could truly be called mere fragments, she could no longer say.
By the time she had observed more than twenty of Robert's deaths, Adrian's heart had begun, little by little, to wear itself threadbare.
Every one of them had been an agonizing death. Untrusted, disbelieved, and in the end abandoned and betrayed — that was how he died. He died at the hands of someone he had loved; he died having failed to protect the one he loved.
Were she to claim she understood all of that, it would be a lie. She could not hope to comprehend even a piece of it — and perhaps that was why he had become so hollow. He had died dozens of times carrying a heart no one could fathom; even the will to reach for something had long since worn away.
"Is there truly... nothing I can do?"
She had lived her whole life under the name of Saintess. To help and to bless others — she had made that her virtue, had lived solely for the sake of others. And yet, did Robert not fall squarely within that same category?
No matter how she turned the question over, no way to help him came to mind, and a hollow, futile color rose in Adrian's eyes.
Before her lay Robert, fallen dead once again.
As she recalled what manner of death this one had been, the corner of Adrian's mouth twisted.
Yuria Taylor. She did not know with what heart that woman looked upon Robert — only that something in it was deeply, certainly wrong. Never once in her life had she seen a woman so twisted, and the same went for that fiancée of his, Theresia, and for the head of House Taylor herself. With people like that at his side, was it any wonder he might have warped as well? If anything, it was a miracle he hadn't.
Adrian brushed a hand down the fallen Robert's cheek and smiled bitterly. Her palm still touched nothing but empty air — she only wished to share whatever warmth she could.
In the lives before, that role seemed to have belonged to Mirajen.
This was already the fourth life in which she had witnessed Robert become her lover. He had become the imperial princess's beloved; once, the two of them had come within a breath of standing at their own wedding. Had Mirajen not died, might Robert have found happiness in that life, too?
She had seen him take his own life more than once — the instant regression began, driving a blade into his own throat; deliberately swallowing poison, choosing death for himself. Watching him suffer so, she had wept as well.
Adrian touched her red, swollen eyes, then carefully lowered herself to sit beside Robert.
"This time, the world isn't scattering so quickly."
Each time Robert lived through one death, the world within the memory crumbled away like dust, giving way to the next. Now her dimming sight, the pale blur spreading before her eyes — what they told her was that this memory was the last.
What death of Robert's would she face next? She was afraid now, and she resented herself for ever volunteering to sift through his memories. To keep watching this over and over brought nothing but pain; a dull ache bored into her chest until her brow knit of its own accord.
...And yet she must not run. These were memories she alone possessed. If not for Robert himself, then she was the only person in all the world who could ever know them.
She wanted to flee that very instant. She wanted to return straight to the Moon Tower and throw herself back into the world where Robert still lived. But she endured, and she faced the deaths. She was the only one who could understand Robert's regression.
It was exhausting, bone-deep — and only now did she finally understand. When this man crumbled at the end of this life, the one person who could catch him was her, and her alone. Without her help, he could fall apart at any moment. She had to step forward before that hollow heart of his shattered completely.
"...It's cold."
The wind of the North was cruel. She could not feel all of it, but Robert — dying alone in this place — must have taken that cold full against his skin. Sitting there in the snowfield, Adrian murmured to herself, feeling the chill seep through her thin clothes as she gazed at the man who by now would have gone entirely cold.
With each gust of wind, the memory slowly came apart. It scattered like scraps of burning paper, and at last Robert, too, began to fade.
It was no longer a snowfield but the outskirts of the Imperial Palace — a tower she had never seen before. Even so, Adrian knew at once what it was: the Moon Tower, the place where she lived. And there was, she suspected, only one reason the scene felt wrong. If the Moon Tower was the setting, then she could not possibly fail to see the woman who dwelt at its peak.
Adrian set her footsteps into the memory.
"Sir Berod, I hear someone has been asking to see me?"
And then she saw her — Saintess Adrian.
It was the first time she had appeared inside one of Robert's memories.
What sort of person had she remained in them? A lover, as Mirajen had been? A comrade, as the Grand Duke was? The thought of Robert as a Paladin struck her as so absurd that she laughed inwardly — and yet, with a nameless worry rising all the same, she faced the memory slowly.
It seemed Robert had come looking for her. She couldn't tell what business he had, but perhaps he had needed something from the Church. Given Robert's standing, an audience would surely have been granted — and as she watched the memory unfold in silence, puzzlement quickly spread across Adrian's face.
Robert had come to find her again and again. Days passed. Suns passed. Moons passed. But her past self never once received him.
Curious for the reason, she stepped into the Moon Tower's interior — and the moment she heard the words leaving her own lips, the color drained from Adrian's face.
"Should I... truly meet him?"
Her past self's hesitant expression had been full of doubt.
She had already known that the rumors surrounding one Robert Taylor were unflattering. But she had never once stood face to face with the man — how could she have said such a thing? However much she wanted to blame something, anyone, the words had been hers.
It was wrong. Even about a complete stranger, she would never have spoken that way. Whose words had she been echoing when she gave that answer?
The question resolved itself in what came next — the very answer that had, perhaps, already been stirring in some corner of her mind.
"His Highness the Crown Prince did tell me recently — that it is wiser to keep away from those of ill repute, and that someone has been after my life these days..."
Berod had nodded along to those very words. She knew better than anyone that Robert was not that sort of man. And yet her past self had swallowed the Crown Prince's words whole, and doubted a man she had never met even once.
Ha. A hollow laugh escaped Adrian, and she sank to the ground where she stood.
It had been her own voice all along. No excuse she could offer, no other reason she could plead, would change the truth of it: in the end, she had abandoned Robert.
He had sought her out because he meant to move before the Crown Prince could kill her. The Crown Prince's shadow lay deep across every one of Robert's deaths — perhaps, through those repeating deaths, he had finally gleaned something.
...And she had let it slip through her fingers. She had struck away a hand reaching out for help, for no reason other than that it might be dangerous. Adrian dragged a hand down her face and forced out a ragged breath.
She could not stomach what she had done. What kind of saintess was she? To be granted the power of god and the name of holiness, only to cast aside the one person who had needed her.
"Haha..."
That was how Robert died. He had hoped for the saintess's aid, and died in vain without ever receiving it. Whose fault was that, if not her own?
She squeezed the rosary in her hand until it cracked apart, shards biting into her palm. Even the sharp sting felt like nothing at all — nothing, compared to what Robert must have endured in that life.
Drip. Drip.
Blood welled from her palm and traced a slow line down to the floor.
The walking of memories was over. But the last one she had seen still burned vividly behind Adrian's eyes.
"...I... it was me..."
If she had heard Robert out even once — would he not have been spared? It was a life already gone past. Robert had never said a word of it to her, but it would not have been strange for him to resent her.
Even as the blood ran, the pain barely registered. She simply rose from where she sat, left the broken rosary lying where it had fallen, and staggered onward.
She had watched so many of his deaths. Sometimes she had raged alongside him; sometimes she had wept with him as she bore witness. She had resented the fact that she could not help him — and yet now it turned out she had taken a direct hand in his dying. Was the pity she had carried for him not, in the end, utterly laughable?
Unlike when she had first arrived here, Adrian's footsteps were nothing but heavy. She walked on legs that held no strength, swaying with every step. She could no longer see ahead. The sight she had briefly recovered while reading the memories had slipped away once more, leaving her nothing but darkness.
"I'm sorry. I... I'm sorry."
That apology, she would never be able to give to the man himself. How could she confess, honestly, that she had seen Robert's memories? She only wanted to comfort him — for the loneliness he carried, for the wretchedness of it all. She wanted to let him know that he was not alone anymore.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She knew better than anyone how meaningless those apologies had become, murmured as they were so many times over. And she knew, too, that the debt could never now be paid — the Robert who deserved the apology was dead, and what meaning was there in apologizing to the Robert of today?
It was already, far too late.
The wind that blew was still cold. Colder even than the wind she had met in that snowfield — and this wind would reach Robert as well. She could not begin to imagine what he felt. How cold must the wind run, through the hollow emptiness inside him. And so Adrian walked.
Forward... forward again. Toward the Moon Tower, where Robert waited alone.
At a faint creak, I glanced toward the window and found it standing open, letting the night wind in. It was long past the hour when everyone should have been asleep — I had been so absorbed in the documents Arwen had sent that I hadn't noticed how late it had grown. The only light left in the room was a single burning candle, and as I gazed at the moonlight glimmering pale through the gap of the open window, I drifted into thought for a while.
"There was a time I couldn't even set foot in this place."
I had tried any number of times, and every attempt had been turned away for one reason or another; never once had I made it inside. And now here I was, not only within these walls but going about my business as I pleased. Fate really was a curious thing.
If I had met Adrian back then, would the regressions already be over? It wasn't that I never entertained such what-ifs. But I had, at least, shed most of my old attachments to the past. Now... well, I could only think that it couldn't be helped. It would have been wiser to seek another way entirely, one that didn't run through the Church — I had, after all, more than a little foolishness on my record.
Such musings scattered at the sound of movement in the corridor. Wondering who could be stirring at this hour, I made my way over — and just then the door opened, and a familiar face came into view.
"Robert... do you have a moment?"
"...Adrian. Your eyes—"
Had she been crying? Her eyes were swollen scarlet, and my hand shot out before I could think. Nothing had been wrong when we parted that evening. What on earth had happened in the night?
I brushed her cheek, careful and slow. I asked what had happened, but Adrian only shook her head and answered with silence.
"It's cold out. Come inside. I confess I'm startled — to find that something has happened to you."
"There's something I want to say. Something I'd like to ask of you, too."
Adrian had stopped just short of the doorway, her lips trembling. Her voice, frayed with tears, sounded ready to break apart at any moment, and for a while I simply watched her in quiet stillness. I didn't know what had happened. But that she was deeply troubled — of that I was certain.
Did she need comfort? After a moment's hesitation, I spoke to her, gently.
"If it's a request, then I'll hear as many as you like."
"...Will you hold me?"
The words stopped my mouth. I didn't know how I was meant to answer — couldn't tell what she meant by them. Adrian looked at me, frozen as I was, and then went on with the faintest of smiles.
"The wind is cold. More today than yesterday."
In one motion, she stepped into my arms, and her hands drew around my waist. She buried her face against my chest and simply wept — and for a moment, all I could do was stand there, my whole body gone stiff and cold with surprise.
Warmth reached me. The tears striking my chest, one after another, and the arms around my waist tightening by degrees.
"...I'm sorry. Truly."
I didn't know what she was apologizing for. Nor why she wept in my arms. Nor why she had come to me at this hour, on the edge of dawn. But to press her now would be poor courtesy; what she needed, more than anything, was comfort.
My hand, which had hovered without knowing where to rest, soon settled softly against her back. I patted it, slow and gentle, the way one soothes a hurting soul — telling her, without words, that it was all right.
"I don't know what you're apologizing for, Adrian. But you have nothing to apologize to me for."
Not even if it concerned a past life. Not once, in all my hundred lives, had I ever resented the woman called Adrian.
So I simply held her, soft and steady, as she wept without a word. Her warmth seeped into me, and the chill of the winter wind scattered against it like breath on glass.
"So there is no need for you to apologize."
Adrian's warmth was gentle. Gentle enough that, for a little while, I forgot the season was winter at all. If the cold truly had been her reason for asking to be held — then her heart had, without question, reached me.