Chapter 45 - Now It Was Time to Return (1)

"Would this... look like the Heinal Family crest?"

Beneath the orange-tinged sunlight, a green-haired woman was frowning.

Following the woman's frown, the small glasses perched on the bridge of her nose rose with it.

After carefully examining the book the maid held up for her, Oksana turned her head again and brought the needle to the cloth.

"I've never made one of these before. To be honest, when I was young, I only ever watched my mother make them."

"Perhaps that is exactly why they are so precious."

"True."

Unlike the bridge of her nose, wrinkled in concentration, the corners of Oksana's mouth had lifted.

One of the precious traditions now fading from people's memories.

That tradition was now emerging into the world once more from the fingertips of a noble woman.

"Will this do?"

A white tree slowly taking shape at Oksana's fingertips.

A white tree planted on a low hill was embroidered onto the black cloth in the form of elegant needlework.

"Then I suppose I should embroider the next crest now."

"Here..."

"That one is fine. It is firmly etched in my head."

Stopping the maid as she tried to open the book of family crests, Oksana threaded a new strand through the needle.

Oksana was probably right.

The embroidery she was working on now was the crest of a family she could not possibly fail to know.

Amid another deepening frown, the tip of the needle darted this way and that.

Upon the newly brought-out cloth, a steadfast wall began to rise from Oksana's fingertips.

And above it floated a single sword.

It was the crest of Bayezid.

Oksana's drawing room was so quiet that not even the sound of breathing could be heard, as if everything inside had come to a stop.

In that space, where only the tiny motes of dust visible in the sunlight marked the passage of time, a single flag stood upright alone in the center of the drawing room.

A flag with nothing embroidered on it, filled only by a white field.

The white field held by the flag reflected a color like the world that formed the boy's roots.

The unadorned sword given to him by an old man and a girl.

The identification tag vouched for by a priest.

The handkerchief a noble lady had given him with her own name embroidered upon it.

And now, even the white flag upon which the family crests would be embroidered.

All of them were things that would form the boy's roots.

All of them were things the boy had earned.

※※※※

Night on the grassland after the sun had fallen.

No matter how close the weather had grown to summer, a night on the wide-open grassland with nothing around could not help but still be cold.

And so the knights set up a wall with the carriages and carts, then finished preparing to camp within it.

Once the busy time spent preparing camp had ended and a brief rest had come, the knights gathered with the knights, and the priests with the priests, each beginning to spend time among their own.

"..."

Though he was glad to see all of them, the boy, unable to feel a sense of belonging anywhere, quietly settled down where no one else was and lit a small campfire.

SHING.

Listening to the priests' prayers coming from various places, Vlad drew the unadorned sword.

The surface of the sword reflected in the campfire was dyed red.

Though the light reflected from the campfire was scattered here and there by its scars.

'You've been through a lot too.'

As Vlad gazed at the red that reminded him of someone he missed, he took out a whetstone and brought it to the unadorned sword.

SHHK. SHHK.

The sight of the boy tending carefully to the unadorned sword resembled the priests praying up ahead.

Perhaps the boy was praying together with the unadorned sword.

For the people still remaining in the place the boy and the sword had left behind.

The sound of the whetstone sharpening the sword blended with the crackle of the campfire.

At the warmth of the campfire and the peace of solitude he had not felt in a long time, the boy's expression began to soften little by little.

"Why are you sitting here moping all by yourself?"

"... Lord Rutiger."

A black-haired young man approached Vlad's side with a bottle of liquor in hand.

Rutiger plopped himself down in front of the small campfire Vlad had made.

"I asked why you're alone."

"Everyone's busy."

From Rutiger speaking beside him, Vlad felt a warmth just like the heat of the campfire approaching from in front of him.

"What about the fat one?"

"Dorothea took him. Said she had work for him."

"Priest Andreas?"

"He's praying."

At the boy's answer, Rutiger shrugged and held out the bottle he had been carrying.

"Want a sip?"

"I'm tending to my sword right now."

"Turning me down again, are you."

"..."

He had been creating quite a pleasant mood and did not want to be interrupted, but if he refused again, he had no idea what might come flying into Joseph's office.

"It's whiskey."

"A nobleman's drink."

Feeling the oaky fragrance pass down his throat, Vlad looked at Rutiger with a slightly strange expression.

Because the scent of liquor lingering on the boy's tongue now was similar to the drink Joseph had once handed him.

Even if they were rivals fighting over the same thing, it seemed there was nothing to be done about tastes born from the same blood.

"When we get back this time, that sword will need to be looked at."

"... I suppose so."

At Rutiger's words, Vlad once again held the unadorned sword up to the campfire.

A sword made in a back alley by an unskilled blacksmith.

The sword, hammered with everything someone had built up over an entire lifetime, had cut down countless enemies until now and still protected its master in a steadfast form.

"But they said they couldn't."

"Hm?"

Answering Rutiger's words absently, Vlad lifted the whetstone again and silently began putting an edge on the unadorned sword.

"They said the part where the grip and the blade join was made too haphazardly. So unless I go find the person who made it, they'd have to destroy the grip entirely before they could work on the blade."

"A sword as unruly as its master."

Rutiger raised the bottle as he looked at the crude-looking sword.

The Bayezid Family's blacksmith had phrased it kindly, but in the end, it meant the sword had been made so poorly that everything but the blade would have to be destroyed.

But perhaps that had been the old blacksmith's very best.

"So I have to go find the person who made it and ask him to fix it."

"And where is that person?"

Vlad raised the sword upright to check the sharpened blade.

The red afterimage reflected from the blade shone painfully against the boy's eyes.

It seemed to call to mind red hair he must never forget.

"Soara."

"Well, you do go around shouting that you're Vlad of Soara all the time."

Rutiger said it was quite a fitting title as he drank the whiskey, but the boy only looked at the unadorned sword.

A skilled blacksmith had offered to work on it, but the boy had refused.

Because he did not want to lose anything held within this sword.

Each and every mark carved into this sword was like the history the boy had built up.

"..."

Rutiger looked at the boy gazing at the sword.

The boy's blue eyes, looking upon the sword with so many emotions, were slowly beginning to shine.

So that was why.

So that was why my younger brother had been running around so tirelessly.

Rutiger, nodding as if he finally understood, inclined his head and drank from the bottle.

"... Maybe you'll be able to fix it soon."

"What?"

The boy asked back, but Rutiger gave no answer and simply rose from his seat.

"If you wish for something earnestly enough, someone is bound to notice."

"...?"

"It means you've lived well until now."

Vlad looked puzzled as he stared at Rutiger, who was saying things he could not understand, but what came from his mouth was only the sharp scent of whiskey.

"I should go prepare for tomorrow."

Vlad watched Rutiger's back as he walked away, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

"..."

In front of the campfire where Rutiger had left him alone once more, Vlad soaked an old cloth with oil and began the finishing touches.

He felt sorry for the sword's wounds, which could not be helped with whetstone and oil alone, but someday he would be able to repair them.

Because the unadorned sword and the boy had a place to return to.

On that grassland night when the boy quietly made his resolve.

Up on the hill above, a horse as black as the night sky was looking at the boy sitting by the campfire.

Though it was a small light, the horse very much liked the color the boy created.

※※※※

The next morning.

Carriages raced across the green grassland.

And alongside the line of carriages ran a herd of wild horses.

The sight of a band of humans and a band of nature mingling as they ran across the grassland was surely not something one could often see.

The priests riding inside the carriages, and the knights galloping beside them as escorts, knew that fact well.

To take in a sight that was their first and perhaps their last, everyone was watching the herd of wild horses running with them.

"..."

The blond boy, too, rested his arm on the carriage window frame and quietly looked out at the scenery.

At the strange feeling rising from inside his chest, Vlad needlessly twisted his lips this way and that.

Vlad knew.

It was time to part.

Just as he had things he had to do, that pitch-black one also had a duty to lead his herd.

WHINNY!

The pitch-black one running at the very front of the herd snorted and slowly began to stop.

When the leader running at the head came to a halt, the herd of wild horses naturally stopped as well.

'This is as far as we go.'

'As far as we can go together.'

To keep the pitch-black one, growing more distant by the moment, in his sight for as long as possible, Vlad's head naturally turned to the side.

As if seeing them off, the wild horses had climbed all the way up the hill and were watching the party running below.

The eyes of the one blacker than the night sky were filled with the boy's blue eyes.

"... Goodbye."

The boy, unused to speaking of farewells, awkwardly raised his hand and waved.

It was a small farewell, waved as if he were embarrassed for anyone to see, but the pitch-black one could see it.

WHINNY!

Moonless Night raised his forelegs and saw the procession off.

At the sight, as if he were lifting his forelegs in time with the waving hand, Vlad wore a strange expression and pulled his head back inside the carriage.

The pitch-black one with whom he had shared a deep communion, though only for a brief moment.

The depth of a bond was not decided only by the time spent together.

"Do not be too saddened by parting."

The priest sitting across from the boy nodded as if he understood everything.

"... It was just a horse."

"Haha. It is truly difficult for people to be honest."

Andreas smiled and opened the scripture he was holding.

"Our lives are a succession of partings and meetings, and the seeds shed as tears of parting shall one day return as the joy of reunion."

"..."

The boy did not understand exactly what the verse of scripture the priest recited meant, but he at least realized that they were words spoken to comfort him.

"Even in my eyes, it was a truly wonderful bond, so someday you will meet again."

"If it's too late, I'll have to find another horse."

"That, too, would be a bond."

Vlad turned his head again and looked out the window.

Taking in the beautiful scenery, the boy recalled the memory of yesterday.

The feeling of running across the green grassland with the Death Worm trailing behind him.

Because he had come away with an experience overflowing with the freest and most vivid colors of any he had known in his life.

His vacation was over.

Now it was time to return.