Chapter 115 - Coming of Age

The moment Renée followed with her question, Bera’s very first thought was, 'So it has finally come.'

He already knew how she felt and what she meant by those words. How could he not? It had all been so obvious. The signals and feelings she sent his way had scarcely made any attempt to hide themselves.

He had known, yet turned away. He had felt it wrong to respond, and he did not know what effect doing so might have on her.

He had ignored those feelings, kept his distance, and struggled to avert his eyes. Now they loomed before him in a form he could no longer evade.

Bera felt a sorrowful ache rise within him.

“Saintess...”

“Tell me.”

Renée’s face flushed a deeper red than ever. Its heat traveled through his palm to him.

At the sight, an answer threatened to escape him unbidden. But before it could take shape, Bera scattered the words that had come to mind.

'... I must refuse her.'

He had to. He could be a harmful influence on Renée. Her light might become unable to illuminate itself—or the world.

His expression crumpled utterly as his lips moved.

... But no words came.

Reason and emotion based their judgments on different things, held different values to be right. And Bera had always been a man who put his desires first.

He could not suppress his feelings with rational judgment. So he began taking a long, circuitous route toward the words he could not bring himself to say.

“... I am a man who habitually harbors wicked thoughts.”

“This again?”

“Please hear me out.”

Renée pressed her lips shut. Watching her, Bera drew a deep breath and continued.

“When dealing with a problem, I value efficiency. There is no morality in that efficiency. Thus, whenever I face a problem, the first solution that occurs to me is violence.”

“But you haven’t done that.”

“No. In the end, I have not. More precisely, since meeting you, Saintess, I have not carried out such acts.”

His ability to carry them out was a matter of the fear within him.

“I now know it is wrong, so although the thought occurs to me, I do not act on it. Yet that does not make the thought disappear. It does not erase the nature that makes me consider wicked deeds first.”

Bera knew himself well. He knew how vile he could become, how deep and dank the lowest depths of his nature were.

And because he knew, he knew to fear them.

“I am afraid. Afraid that one day I might surrender to these wicked thoughts without realizing it. That an act I carry out believing it harmless might, in truth, be evil. Because I have these fears, I must suppress my emotions.”

When he let emotion guide his judgment, he was hideous. He was a man who could not distinguish good from evil, and so he needed a universal good, and an embodiment of that good.

He was a man who had to entrust his judgment to that embodiment.

“Thus, I do not want my colors to rub off on you, Saintess. I do not want these wicked thoughts to pass to you, or for you to mistake that evil for good. That is why I do not wish to reveal what lies within me.”

Renée felt the sincerity in Bera’s voice as he spoke. It saddened her.

“... Everyone has bad thoughts. Whether you act on them or not—that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“I cannot allow myself that.”

Bera dismissed her words at once.

“What I wish is to become a man capable of good thoughts. A man whose first thought upon facing a problem is of goodness. I cannot permit myself otherwise.”

Bera bowed his head.

“... Please do not lead me into temptation.”

His long, drawn-out refusal ended in that earnest plea.

Renée felt the heat that had enveloped her abruptly drain away. The desperation in his words, and their sorrow, began to strangle the fluttering excitement within her.

She felt on the verge of tears. Unable to accept this situation, she managed a protest.

“I’m not so easily influenced.”

She had finally conveyed her feelings—feelings she had kept locked in her heart for so long. She did not want to back down.

“If you have a wicked thought, I could point it out to you. If we knew each other better, we could do that. So why do you only think that I’ll take on your colors?”

Her words were accusing.

His answer was:

“... Because you are still too young, Saintess.”

The words were a sharp dagger.

Young.

That word meant far too much. It dredged up questions she had not considered deeply, questions she had put aside because she could find no immediate answers. Renée felt as though something were slicing through her heart.

Her face twisted. She bit her lip so hard her teeth ground together, and a sharp pain rose.

Renée opened her mouth, pouring out her swirling emotions without restraint.

“... Compared to whom?”

CLUNK!

Bera’s hand against her cheek gave a violent twitch. Only then did certainty dawn on Renée.

'... It was the past.'

What Orgus had shown her was the past. The person Bera had truly cherished, the heart-wrenching sobs she had witnessed—all of it had already happened.

... Bera’s light had once been somewhere else.

“Who are you looking at, Bera?”

Her voice trembled. She lowered his hand, which had been against her cheek all this time.

“What are you seeing through me?”

An indescribable sorrow tore her excitement to shreds and took its place.

She did not know the full chain of cause and effect, yet there were things she could understand. Why Bera had been so devoted to her from the moment they met. That there was something he had sought to see through her, through the title of Saintess.

That he had known how she felt and had been turning away from it.

“... Are you looking at me?”

Renée layered anger over her sorrow. She hated Bera so much for not answering that the words she spoke were steeped in fury.

“Bera.”

“... Yes.”

“Answer me.”

Bera felt his heart plummet at her sudden words. What did Renée know? What was she about to say?

All of it was beginning to frighten him.

His face bewildered, his heart racing under her demand for an answer, he barely managed to speak with his head still lowered.

“... I am looking.”

Like a child being scolded by his mother, he followed with an answer that seemed intended only to escape his immediate predicament.

“I am... looking at you, Saintess.”

His voice trembled. And of course, Renée of all people could catch the clumsiness betrayed by that tremor.

“... You really are a bad man, Bera.”

A single tear slipped from Renée’s eye. Bera belatedly raised his head, his eyes widening.

“Sain...”

“Do you know what? I can tell so clearly that you’re lying right now.”

Renée continued, her voice thick with wounded anger.

“You weren’t looking at me just now. From the moment I asked whom you were looking at, your gaze went somewhere else.”

Tiny sounds. Movements. Heartbeats. She perceived them all, and so she could be certain.

As soon as she finished speaking, Renée felt a bitter taste begin to seep from the lip she had unconsciously bitten.

It had probably split. This bitter taste was probably blood.

“It’s been three and a half years.”

She should have tended to it, but instead she spoke first.

“That’s how long I’ve liked you. Ever since we first met, it’s always been you for me.”

There was something she wanted to tell him.

“Even if you only see me as a child, even if you’ve been pretending not to know. Now I know that, but still...”

Even as her heart broke so miserably, a longing still held her fast. Renée did not stop.

“... It will still be you for me.”

She simply conveyed her heart.

Even if Bera had initially been looking elsewhere, there was no rule that he must do so forever. His heartbeat, his warmth, the time they had spent together—none of it had been a lie.

Then she must not give up.

She would not sink to the ground in despair. Having resolved that, Renée could not retreat over a mere refusal like this.

She reached out. Fortunately, he was close enough for her to catch hold of him.

Resting both hands on his cheeks, Renée spoke.

“So look at me. I’m that light you’re so mad about. Your light wants you. Look at me.”

She brought her face closer, so that she alone would fill Bera’s vision, so that he could see nothing but her.

She felt him flinch. Felt his cheeks grow hot.

“Look at Renée—not the Saintess, not the apostle of the Supreme God.”

She spoke from so close that their noses might touch.

“And answer me again.”

She knew his heart was fluttering for her.

“Do you love me?”

She forced him, her demand disguised as a question.

Silence followed.

Renée knew. Bera would not answer. Even with his heart fluttering for her like this, he would turn away from it.

He had confessed the reason himself, explained it in a manner so very like him. Renée could understand that.

But understanding did not mean backing down. Three and a half years of waiting, and the thirst that had grown from it, had already brought her beyond what she could endure.

Renée moved her face a little closer. Tilted her head to one side.

She pressed her lips to his with an audible smack.

For a brief instant, their breaths mingled. A little saliva passed between them. There was a taste of blood.

Then a thrilling sensation ran up her spine, making all those things seem inconsequential.

Beneath her fingertips, Bera had gone rigid as stone.

“Pfh...”

Renée drew back only far enough to part their lips, and breathed her words into his mouth.

“... You weren’t going to answer, were you? So I did what I wanted.”

She spoke as though she meant to hammer every last bit of her intent into him.

She was being unreasonable.

“You rejected me as you pleased, so I’ll do as I please too. You said I’m too young and might take on your colors, didn’t you? Then this is what I’ll do.”

She lifted the corners of her mouth arrogantly, as though daring him to wait and see.

“I’ll dye you in my colors. I’ll turn you into a fool. I’ll leave you no time for wicked thoughts or good thoughts. I’ll make you think of nothing but me.”

Bera’s pupils quivered.

“Saintess...”

Just as he tried to offer some reply, Renée kissed him again.

Their breaths mingled once more. Bera felt as though his entire body were burning. Thought receded into the distance, leaving only instinct in its place.

The fear that had lodged within him all this time swelled as never before.

Just as it grew beyond what he could bear, Renée pulled her lips away.

“... Don’t argue. Don’t reject me either. I’ll make an exception and wait for you. Until you tell me you love me, I won’t bring this up again.”

Breath coming fast, her body so hot she might sweat despite the cold, her head dizzy with drink, Renée made a declaration she would never retract.

“But in return, I’ll make it impossible for you not to say it. I’ll kiss you like this, or hug you, or shower you with embarrassing words. If you don’t like that, all you have to do is tell me you love me.”

Renée thought she might truly tear her blankets apart from embarrassment tomorrow.

With all these words coming out of her half-drunk, she surely would.

But she would not regret it.

“If you really want me to become a brilliantly shining light, just nod. Your light needs you. It can only be complete with you. And that light is giving you an order right now.”

The future she had chosen for herself was Bera. Her reason for wanting to become a brilliant light, for stepping out into the world, for loving herself and others like this—all of it was Bera.

“And don’t think of taking it back with the same excuse. I’m not a little child. I’m not a child you need to look after. I can judge good and evil for myself.”

With Bera as her reason, she was affirming all those things and moving forward. She would not regret it.

“Hurry up. Nod.”

She pressed him again. Bera flinched a little once more, then very slowly began to nod. Renée smiled.

“Good.”

Renée stroked his cheek, then embraced him.

“Never call me young again.”

She whispered it as she held him captive in her arms. Even amid this outpouring, those words kept bothering her, irritating her enough to say it.

“To me, you’re much more of a child.”

Whatever had happened in the past did not matter. She was the one beside Bera now, and she would remain so. In the end, she would have him.

Renée hugged him with all her strength, so he could go nowhere, so that only her scent would cling to him. Holding him that way, she continued in a soothing voice.

“Your light is already bright enough to move forward on its own. Don’t worry about that.”

They were words to reassure Bera, and words to spur herself on.

A pledge that she would not crumble, and a resolve that she would win him without fail.

On the tiny terrace, Renée held Bera in the lingering cold and stroked the back of his head, almost as though showing off her own maturity.

It could well be called a kind of ceremony.

If asked what the ceremony was for, Renée would answer:

It was a ceremony to strengthen her resolve to stop merely waiting, to act and seize what she wanted herself.

An oath to pour out everything she had to make him hers.

A slightly premature, private coming-of-age ceremony she performed for him—and, at the same time, a ceremony of becoming a saint.