Five More Days
Five days, give or take—that much more time had passed. The day when the initial diagnosis had all but confirmed his death. Vera let out a hollow chuckle at the sight of his own body, still clinging to life.
He hated to admit it, but Rene's care had worked. The porridge she'd fed him—made by skimping on her own share—had staved off death by starvation. And the scraps of divine power she'd gathered and kindled had slowed the wounds' festering.
But that was it. Exactly that far, and no further.
"Your condition is improving. Just a little more effort, shall we?"
Rene's words. Vera turned his head toward her and spat his reply.
"Nonsense. My thread of life has just been extended a little, that's all."
Yes, his thread of life had been extended a little. Exactly that much.
The wounds were still gaping open. The pain grew worse with each passing day. The injury, which had steadily worsened over the past week or so, had now robbed him even of the strength to twitch a finger.
Vera exhaled a breath laced with agony and spoke to Rene.
"Why not admit it now."
"Admit what, sir?"
"You've wasted your efforts. I'm going to die soon."
Vera mustered all his strength to sneer those words, but Rene simply smiled faintly and shook her head.
"Who knows."
Vera's brow furrowed.
"Saying that won't change a thing."
"You won't know unless you give it your all."
The same answer, repeated. Once more, Vera felt his chest tighten. It was her stubbornness—making him feel so pathetic—that stirred that sensation.
"Foolish human."
"One overflowing with love."
"Are you a parrot?"
"Hardly. As you can see, I'm only human."
"You won't yield a single word."
"A competitive spirit makes fine fertilizer for growth."
Vera scowled. He wanted to sigh, but the pain racking his entire body left him barely able to manage that much.
"If I were in any shape, I'd have slapped your cheek by now."
"A fine attitude. I'll stay right here, so hurry and recover, then do it."
With that, Rene leaned against the wall beside where Vera lay and drew out her Rosario. Platinum, gleaming unmistakably as a priceless treasure—the mark of Elia's high priests. Whenever she had a spare moment, she always clutched that Rosario and prayed.
He'd once asked her, weary of watching her pray endlessly, what she was praying for. Her answer then: for his recovery. What a joke—a wish no sane person would make.
As memories of that surfaced, Vera found himself muttering at the sight of Rene, diligently praying with the Rosario in hand.
"...If you're not going to throw away that Rosario, you should leave it here instead of carrying it around."
"How could I?"
"You'll die because of that Rosario."
Vera stated it flatly, eyes still closed, gazing toward Rene. It wasn't idle talk. The slums were a place where such things happened all too easily.
Slum scavengers. Called that because they'd rip out and sell even a corpse's organs if it fetched coin. If they spotted that Rosario, Rene would become their target in an instant.
Those vermin would shove a blade into her throat to end her, snatch the Rosario, then slice open her belly to drag out every organ and sell those too—only then would they be satisfied.
"Scavengers live for today alone, mad as they are. They'd risk the Holy Kingdom's pursuit just to grab that Rosario for coin to spend tonight."
Speaking at such length brought on another stab of chest pain. Vera hissed through the throbbing, then grimaced. He couldn't understand why he'd said it—why he'd meddled.
Was he finally losing his mind as death approached?
As that thought crossed his mind—
"How tragic."
That was her reply. Rene opened her eyes, a small smile curving her lips, and continued.
"They must live such harsh lives to need to do that."
"Hah, Karyak would've laughed himself flat on his back."
"And who might that be?"
"The first scavenger."
"My, he even had a name."
"Well, you could say that."
It wasn't wrong—the man who'd forged the slums' deepest darkness.
"They're not worth pitying."
"Is there anyone like that in the world?"
"You live in a flower garden."
"With no sight, I can only imagine one in my mind."
"...Enough."
Vera closed his eyes. He'd never lost an argument in his life, yet talking with her always left him cornered like this. Truly, she suited the title of freak more than saint.
Since bringing him here, she'd never once asked about him. Not his background or past—and not even his name, the most basic thing. If it was lack of interest, that wasn't it either. She devoted nearly all her time to nursing him, never showing fatigue or annoyance.
When his mind teetered on the brink, she'd gripped his hand tight and spoken to him. Though she herself skipped meals, she made sure he ate every one.
One might call it saintly nobility, but to Vera, it felt more alien than noble.
...No.
Vera felt a deflating chuckle escape his lips—pfft.
Truth be told, he judged it so because he didn't want to see it as noble. Her unyielding light, shining even amid such misery, was too dazzling—exposing his filth-covered self. That was why.
Vera humbly admitted it. His past life as the worst of villains, laid bare beneath her light, shamed him—so he belittled her to cope.
She did effortlessly what his past self never could, and it blinded him—so he belittled her.
He'd thought no one would be by his side at life's end. His life had been too ugly to dare hope otherwise. He'd sworn to accept dying alone humbly. Yet her light dulled even that vow.
She gave warmth to a wretch like him, who deserved none.
...Ridiculous.
Vera mocked himself for leaning into her kindness.
His gaze followed her.
...Followed the blankly closed-eyed face.
A grotesque mask, melted by burns beyond recognition. Vera tried to imagine her original face atop it, but the damage was too severe.
"Did you do that to your face yourself?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"...The burns."
"Yes, I did it to myself."
"Was there reason to go that far?"
Vera couldn't comprehend it. If it was just to hide her identity, an artifact would suffice—or a mask if not.
As Vera waited with a face full of doubt, Rene let out a soft chuckle, her tone lightly playful.
"Do you know? Before I made my face like this, anyone who saw me would gasp in admiration at my beauty."
The sudden claim let Vera grasp her intent at once. He knew better than anyone how deadly beauty could be in the slums.
She meant it was her choice to protect herself. But...
"...How does a blind person know for sure? Ever think no one dared call you ugly?"
For some reason, saying it felt off, but Vera replied anyway. Her response carried the same laughter.
"I'm right."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Do you know what it means to be blind?"
Rene leaned toward him as she spoke. Her hand overlapped his.
"It means your other senses sharpen. I can detect lies in words better than most, through what they convey."
Rene's hand stroked the back of his.
"Voices hold countless tremors based on the emotions within. Lies bring choppy breaks; awe brings a melting quiver."
Her hand, stroking his skin, now pressed gently on his wrist, feeling his pulse.
"Pulses reveal it too—stronger as emotions intensify."
"...Why bring that up now?"
"Because nearly everyone who saw me spoke with voices thick with passion."
"Overactive imagination?"
"No. I could tell. The tremors in voices calling me beautiful, the heat they conveyed—they all glowed with hazy longing. That tone, as far as I know, means only love."
"Everyone who saw you fell in love? No shame gilding your own face like that?"
"Just the facts."
Vera felt a hollow laugh bubble up at Rene's shameless delivery.
"Forget it. Stupid question."
"Pity there's no way to prove it."
Her hand lifted from his pulse, the warmth fading from his wrist. Vera felt an odd emptiness at the sensation, exhaled shortly, then clamped his mouth shut.
Was his weakening body softening his heart too? The flicker of emotion irked his pride.
He'd never sought help, never regretted warmth leaving. Yet with her, frailty seeped out.
Shallow fancies spun pointless what-ifs. If we'd met in another time, place, from different lives—would I be different now? If before growing so ugly? Would I live differently? If before you scarred your face, would I feel the love you claim?
Endless hypotheticals. His gut churned with them, so Vera bit his lip to shake them off. They only deepened his misery.
Silence blanketed the space as he banished the thoughts, for a long while.
"...Then I'll step out briefly."
Rene spoke. Vera watched her rise unsteadily, groping the wall as she shuffled, then muttered again.
"Leave the Rosario behind."
"How could I?"
Refusal, as expected. Watching her back as she walked away slowly, Vera's chest tightened unbearably. That was why the words slipped out.
"...All that praying must've been begging to be killed."
"Hardly. I won't die until you get up and leave."
With that, she pushed open the shack's door with a creak and stepped out.
"I'll be back."
Her usual serene tone. That was the last voice of Rene's that Vera ever heard.