Thoughts of Eccentric Artists
Thoughts of Eccentric Artists
I fled that place as if escaping a disaster.
Isabella had no choice but to keep running, pulling Rosaria along until her trembling stopped. Only when they reached a secluded spot, far from prying eyes, did she finally allow herself to halt.
Leaning heavily against the wheelchair, Isabella gasped for breath.
She had literally run without stopping, driving herself to the point of total exhaustion.
"...Thank you, Isabella."
Only once they reached that quiet place did my condition improve. The moment I felt the nausea and dizziness subside, I lowered my head and clenched my fists.
Frustratingly, it was only then that I could properly take stock of myself.
'...What kind of bullshit was that?'
I'd forced my way out, acting all high and mighty. I'd come out with a vague confidence that I could handle it, even spouting off to Isabella about how I'd take full responsibility. And this was the result?
I acted that way just because some attention was on me?
'...I was the same kind of person.'
I would've been just like them, staring in admiration. Come to think of it, wasn't that the truth? If a celebrity were right in front of me, I'd do the exact same thing. I'd think it was fascinating and stare endlessly.
Just because the tables were turned, my actions were so contradictory.
'...And after that, what was I even saying? That I wished the Saintess wasn't around? The Rosaria Revolution? Pushing forward humanity's milestones? Give me a break.'
It seemed I wasn't as great a person as I'd thought.
Just thinking about it made my blood boil. My pride—or perhaps something even more primal—was severely wounded.
"A-are you alright... my lady?"
Her usually neatly styled hair was soaked. Isabella stood clutching her wildly pounding chest and her stomach, which felt like it might tear apart. She'd been taught never to show a disheveled appearance. Yet now, she'd run without a second thought for such propriety.
She did it all for Rosaria.
"...I'm fine."
If anything, I was the one who wanted to ask.
Was Isabella okay?
Even though she'd gone so far as to risk getting scolded by the head maid for my sake, did she not hate me for the way I'd just acted—the very cause of this mess?
"...Then I'm fine, too."
Isabella answered before I could even ask.
"...You got in trouble because of me."
When weighing the risks, Isabella had far more to lose. Rosaria was the lord's daughter, but Isabella was just an ordinary maid. If Rosaria had gotten so much as a scratch today, Isabella could have been fired.
And even if Rosaria wasn't hurt, she could still be punished for taking her out without permission.
But Isabella didn't seem to mind.
"That doesn't matter. I get scolded often anyway, even when it's not because of you, my lady. In fact, I was feeling stuffy myself, so I'm just grateful you asked me to come."
Isabella let out a laugh. "Ahaha."
She was a bad liar.
Not long ago, she'd been breaking out in a cold sweat, saying she didn't want to go. If I hadn't stubbornly insisted, she definitely wouldn't have come. She would've lived quietly as usual without any incident.
"And, despite appearances, I am an artist. Most artists are eccentrics. Spending a lot of time with such people, I've picked up a habit."
Isabella began fixing her hair. Having somewhat caught her breath, she steadied herself and started straightening her clothes—a form of psychological armor—as she continued.
"That habit is not paying too much mind to the gazes and judgments of others. You see, my embarrassing friends, those eccentric artists, attracted a lot of attention. I mean, one of my friends once performed bizarre performance art in the dead of winter, stripping naked and praying while painting—how could people not stare, even if they tried?"
Isabella giggled as she spoke. Was she reminiscing about the past? Or was this just another made-up story? At that moment, I couldn't be sure.
"Maybe because they live like that, artists are constantly exposed to all sorts of gazes. Some delight in the sight, some scorn it. And then there are those who look upon the artist's work as if they've attained enlightenment."
Before I knew it, Isabella had returned to a neat and tidy appearance. Tying up her brown bob, damp with sweat, she finally added:
"After a while, you get used to the attention, and eventually, they say it becomes enjoyable. They claim that in the end, someone staring at you means they're looking at a person who has something they lack. And the moment you become a person who has something they don't, that's the moment they look at you."
Saying this, Isabella smiled slightly.
"In short... it might be a bit presumptuous for a mere maid to say, but I wanted to tell you, Lady Rosaria, not to fear the gaze of others so much."
A subordinate comforting her superior, huh.
It might have seemed a pathetic sight. Yet rather than feeling pathetic, I was grateful to Isabella.
It was pure, unadulterated concern with no ulterior motive.
She'd told me all that because she feared that after being terrified by the stares on my first outing, I might refuse to go out again even when I was fully healed, haunted by the memory of this day.
"...It seems I've shown you quite a shameful side today, Isabella."
And Isabella had brought up that story precisely because she was afraid she might be the one creating that traumatic memory.
Whether the story was true or false didn't matter. What mattered was the intent and purpose behind it.
It was a story Isabella had conjured up with the purpose of ensuring I wouldn't grow afraid of the outside. And it had helped me, quite successfully at that.
"...Thank you for the interesting story, Isabella."
It's said that a phenomenon is perceived differently depending on the person. If you think it's misfortune, it becomes misfortune; if you think it's happiness, it becomes happiness.
"My eyes have been opened, thanks to you."
If I saw myself as a caged animal, then a caged animal I was. But if I saw myself as an object of admiration, a star to be envied—then couldn't a caged animal become a star in the sky?
It was the moment another useful line for my autosuggestion was added to the list.
"So, what will you do now, Lady Rosaria?" Isabella asked about our next destination. She recovered her stamina quite quickly; her cardiovascular endurance didn't seem low at all.
"Let's stop by the smithy, buy you some tasty dessert you like, and head straight back."
At the word "dessert," Isabella's eyes lit up.
"I'll guide you there immediately!"
She really was a simple person. But perhaps because she was so simple, she could have such deep thoughts. Today, I'd learned a thing or two about life from that kind-hearted fool, Isabella.
*
Generally, fossilized old-timers who've achieved everything there is to achieve—so much so that they've started to rot—tend to stuff all their accomplishments into their inventory and dance around the village square in nothing but their underwear.
Kal, the local blacksmith, was also that type. Though, of course, he didn't dance around in his underwear.
As a blacksmith who'd even earned the title of Meister, he'd already achieved everything he could. So he'd passed it all on to his disciples and settled down in this quiet countryside to live as the local smith.
Then, thanks to a faith he'd found later in life, he signed a contract with the Holy Kingdom and spent his days manufacturing various equipment for them as a village blacksmith.
It was around this time, while Kal was quietly living the peaceful life he wanted, that Isabella came to visit him. Since he was also a resident of this territory, it wasn't rare for maids or butlers of House Bersian to stop by.
"Ah, Isabella, it's been a while. What brings you here today—another farming tool you need? Or is it an issue with the kitchen knives again?"
The reasons maids came to the smithy were almost always the same. He was about to handle the job like he always did.
"It's not that... I've come at Lady Rosaria's request."
Rosaria. The moment he heard that name, Kal felt a spark of interest.
It wasn't simply because she was something of an urban legend. As a former Meister who'd even signed a contract with the Holy Kingdom, Kal had met the Saintess a few times through his contractual obligations.
And that Saintess had once directly and earnestly told him one thing:
—If it's a request from House Bersian, especially from Rosaria, you may go ahead and prioritize it over orders from the Holy Kingdom.
If she'd only mentioned House Bersian, he would have let it go. No matter how much the Holy Kingdom threw its weight around, it was still a contractual relationship, and the unspoken rule among blacksmiths was to handle the work of the locals who'd helped them settle in first, before dealing with the rest.
But it was fascinating that she'd emphasized an individual's name. Especially since it was the Saintess, the reincarnation of God, personally taking an interest in a rural noble's daughter.
And now, that very Rosaria had made a request of him. He couldn't help but be intrigued.
"...This is a contraption I've never seen before."
It was his first thought upon seeing the blueprint Isabella handed over. A chair with wheels? Was it some kind of toy?
"It's a device devised by Lady Rosaria... can you make it?"
The fact that he was a Meister was a secret from the town, so Isabella asked hesitantly, wondering if perhaps he couldn't make it. But there was nothing a Meister couldn't make—except holy relics, those miracles of God.
"How could I not? You underestimate the old man."
"...It's just, you kept staring at it with a frown."
"I was looking at it because I wondered what in the world it was used for."
Something felt like it should click, but it didn't quite connect. And Kal was familiar with this sensation. It was the state of being unable to shift one's paradigm. His thinking had become rigid, entrenched in common sense, failing to flow flexibly.
Just as Kal was about to forcibly bend his thoughts and try to piece them together, Isabella, unable to watch any longer, spoke up.
"Lady Rosaria said to think of it as a small carriage that one person pulls, made for someone with mobility difficulties."
The answer was simpler than he'd thought. And it was Kal who hadn't even considered that simple answer.
A considerable shock ran through him.
'...Why didn't I think of something so simple?'
If something like this existed, people with mobility difficulties could easily move around with the help of an attendant.
Why hadn't he thought of such a simple thing?
And how had Rosaria thought of it?
At that moment, a milestone not yet due was dragged forward into the present.
Of course, it probably wasn't something from such a distant future. Even left alone, someone would likely have made it eventually. But it was a device that no one could have made right now.
It wasn't that people in the medieval era lacked knowledge or ability. They simply hadn't faced the catalyst, so it never occurred to them to think of it. But Kal had recalled it thanks to Rosaria's help.
And then, the blueprint appeared differently before his eyes. It was crude and messy. Even the structure was strange. It was the blueprint of someone who knew the concept but lacked mechanical understanding.
Even so, Kal did not dismiss its poor quality. He considered it a thing that had given his fossilized brain a fresh jolt.
"Since it's the first time making it, I can't promise it'll be perfect, but I'll give it a try."
Perhaps there was a reason the Saintess had gone out of her way to say that.
From that moment on, Rosaria became a being that held more than just interest in Kal's mind.
*
The wheelchair sold like crazy after that. It was something that had never existed in this world, suddenly appearing. From hospitals to nursing homes, even to the aged saints of the Holy Kingdom whose bodies were failing.
Though word of mouth hadn't fully spread yet, it had already begun selling like hotcakes. It was such a hit product that there were soon blacksmiths dedicated solely to manufacturing wheelchairs.
If the trend reached the cities, its market value would grow even larger. Especially for elderly nobility, was there any reason not to buy one? On top of that, they loved luxury. They'd likely order custom-made ones tailored to their personal specifications.
'...You must have known that, which is why you wrote this contract.'
There was a contract stating that if the wheelchair was sold, a fixed percentage of the profits was to be deposited under the name of Rosaria of House Bersian. As someone whose livelihood depended on credit and whose status wasn't overly high despite being a Meister, Kal couldn't afford to break a contract with a noble like Rosaria.
Not that he was bitter about it.
After all, if left to his own devices, he probably wouldn't have thought of this even by now. He didn't cling to the money taken by the contract; he was simply grateful for the enormous profits he'd earned thanks to her.
Thus, Rosaria became a benefactor in Kal's heart—a benefactor who had allowed him to turn his eyes toward a path different from the one he'd always walked.
Thanks to this, Kal spent every day sketching and envisioning countless devices. While he'd enjoyed the quiet life of retirement, he was, after all, a man who'd once been a Meister-level blacksmith. Like a musician reveling in the faint, elusive melodies that kept surfacing in his mind, he took joy in the delicate inspiration that hovered just out of reach.
It was around then that, while out for a stroll and buying materials at the market, he happened to see someone actually riding a wheelchair. From the looks of it, the person pulling it was Isabella, and judging by its appearance, the wheelchair was an early model.
Had Isabella saved up money to buy one for a younger sibling with mobility issues? Thinking he'd refund her the cost out of gratitude, he called out to greet her.
But that person wasn't Isabella's sibling.
"This is Lady Rosaria. She expressed a desire to see the outside, so I've dragged— no, I've accompanied her out."
Just as Isabella introduced her, Rosaria turned her head.
In that instant, Kal began to feel something.
Those who have reached the peak develop a unique intuition. And it was a type of intuition that Kal, having climbed to the pinnacle of smithing, also possessed.
Kal was one who could perceive a certain light emanating from people, and through that intuition, he could directly feel a person's vessel.
He'd lived his life seeing all types of light. From royalty carrying the blood of blue, to Sword Masters who'd reached the apex of martial training, to great mages ceaselessly pursuing their research.
He'd witnessed them all with his own two eyes, dealing with them as clients trading goods or as contractual associates.
And the most brilliant among them had undoubtedly been the Saintess. Befitting one called the reincarnation of God, a beautiful and noble radiance had appeared before Kal's eyes—so much so it was hard to believe she was human. It was enough that he, a former atheist, took faith into his heart from that moment onward.
Yet somehow, he saw that same light in Rosaria, standing right before him.
It might've been a bit rude. It might even be called blasphemy. Still, Kal did not deny it.
If the Saintess was the moon,
Rosaria seemed like the sun.
Though, ordinary people probably wouldn't understand. They couldn't see this light, after all.
But for those like Kal, those who'd stood at the peak of a single field, who hadn't been satisfied with the five senses they were born with and had discovered their own sixth—he thought they, too, would do the same the moment they saw the Rosaria before him.
Kneel down and pay their respects.
Just like the ancestors of old, praying toward the sun.