The old man in his arms, however, was still. “Sorry, Marcella...” With utmost tenderness, Bernigi moved his right arm to embrace his savior.
Whichever of the two Marcellas the apology was intended for, this Marcella took it in. What was the right response? Bernigi might have been his grandfather, but he was still a former marquis. Marcella did not intend to introduce himself as his grandson, and neither did he intend to join the family. He ought to have simply put on a mask and pretended he knew nothing. He ought to have responded with “I am glad that you are unharmed,” as if he thought the old man was apologizing for the fact that Marcella had needed to catch him. But his grandfather’s arm was trembling, and Marcella could not ignore the truth. “To have my father and mother’s blood in me and to live as I do—I’m happy.”
“...Is that right?”
Through the windows, the light beamed, blinding and burning, and Bernigi had walked so many laps of the hallway as well—it was only natural his downturned face was dripping. The two of them stood there motionless for some time.
By the time Marcella and Bernigi returned, Dahlia had just finished penning the third document.
“My apologies for taking up so much of your precious time, Master Dahlia.” Bernigi swung open the door and walked in with nimble steps, brandishing a delighted expression; it was hard to tell he was wearing an artificial limb. Marcella trotted in behind him. “I walked the hall twice from end to end, and I did not even have problems skipping steps as I hopped up the stairs!”
“Oh, r-really?” As wonderful as it was to hear, she couldn’t help but be concerned about the sudden intense physical activity. Dahlia’s eyes inadvertently flittered over to Marcella, who was looking a little awkward.
“Everything went smoothly, Chairwoman.” There was more to it than just his words—his eyes were moist and his brow was damp. He looked mentally quite spent, likely as a result of having to worry about Bernigi tripping. Dahlia felt sorry for foisting the task upon Marcella.
“Master Dahlia, not only can I do away with my walking stick, but I have found a spring in my step. What an absolutely remarkable prosthesis—or perhaps this ought to be deemed a magical tool?”
“It is equal parts magical tool and artificial leg, so maybe it should be dubbed the magic prosthesis?”
“Magic prosthesis!” echoed Bernigi. “Brilliant!”
Dahlia had no objections to Marcella’s suggestion either; it was to the point and easy on the ears. “An application of leather on the prosthesis to match your boots should disguise it fairly well, I believe.”
The suggestion was made on the basis that nobles preferred prostheses not to be so visible, but Bernigi shook his head. “I prefer it the way it is. It truly is a ‘prosthesis so amazing’ that I should like to condition my body now. Allow me to proudly wear it on display for the world to see—and I ask that you not hesitate to send me your invoice afterward.” He straightened his back and raised his voice; his brown almond eyes looked deep into hers. “Master Dahlia, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.” Bernigi placed his right hand to his left shoulder—the sincerest and most proper gesture of appreciation from a knight.
She jumped to her feet. “I am happy you liked what I made—er, not to put myself on such a high horse!” Her panic soon subsided to make way for despair; it was only now that she thought of better responses. “It is an honor that you would use a creation of mine” or even a “The pleasure is all mine” would have been so much better than whatever she’d blurted out. Well, the prosthetic leg had indeed been made of horse—green horse bone, to be precise—but in any case, her disrespect to a former marquis was not intended.
“I adore it! And with the extra bone in my leg, I suppose one could say I ought to have more spine now.” Bernigi guffawed; how considerate it was of him to roll with her terrible and unintended pun.
“With your mobility restored, perhaps you could be reinstated as a royal knight, Lord Bernigi.”
“Marcella, you flatter me. I may be able to walk better now, but my knee is still an issue.”
“I know of a soup made with chicken skin and cartilage that is good for joints; lots of leek or other herbs can help mask the flavor if you find it unsavory. Many in the Couriers’ Guild make this recipe because—”
Marcella continued to explain to Bernigi how commoners dealt with joint disorders, like a grandson trying his darndest to help his grandfather—how touching, thought Dahlia.
Sometime later, when Bernigi had become used to his new prosthesis, he ventured out to the training yard behind the D’Orazi manor and gathered a handful of the knight-guards who weren’t preoccupied. “I have returned—may we spar?”
The guards in the yard were all in middle age, if not a bit beyond that; they had been with Bernigi since very early on. Was their knight of a master suddenly reminiscing about the blade? Was he here to check whether their skills hadn’t degraded? Or perhaps, gods forbid, that this was his final spar? Different assumptions ran through the knights’ heads as they accepted their master’s request, and they each took a training sword.
Everyone was shocked three separate times during the session: first, their master was able to stand without a cane because of a blue artificial leg; second, the elderly man hardly held back and sparred as normal; and third, their master’s swings and footwork were unpredictably agile, and the knights had had a hard time keeping up. It was difficult not to show their surprise.
Having satisfied himself, Bernigi laid down his training sword. “Thank you for your time. I have yet to become accustomed to this new magic prosthesis of mine, and I feel I lack heft and strength in my body. Allow me to spar with you again after I adjust to it.” Having expressed his appreciation, he left the training yard.
The guards, finally understanding his earlier words, bowed as he left. One of them tightened the grip on his training sword. “Lord Bernigi really has returned...”
Their master had served illustriously in the Order of Beast Hunters as their vice-captain before retiring when he had failed to protect his subordinate and lost his leg. He had trained his youngest son up to be as mighty a knight as himself, and the young man had followed his father’s footsteps, but he had been slain during the battle with the hydra. However, the then marquis and proud knight hadn’t once lamented his loss, hadn’t once shed a tear in front of his guards; they had only been able to stand silently by their master’s side. That heavy burden had weighed upon his shoulders, and, before anyone realized, it had made the elderly man stoop. It turned out that Bernigi’s ailing health hadn’t simply been old age taking its toll—forgoing his cane and standing up straight, Bernigi looked larger than ever.
After sparring, the knights headed toward the changing room to get out of their sweat-soaked clothes. They glanced out the window to see Bernigi speeding around on a horse; his attendant was chasing around the man with a full head and face of white, who was laughing like a boy. It must’ve been so long since Bernigi had ridden alone, but he certainly didn’t look to be out of practice. With a suit of armor and a sword in hand, he’d look ready to ride into battle—fitting for a man who used to be known as the One Who Makes Monsters Cry.
The guards all stared with eyes glazed over. “I think I’ll start training early in the morning from tomorrow onward.”
“You read my mind.” Others nodded in agreement.
Seeing Bernigi, who’d been known for being stout and a skilled swordsman during his time in the Beast Hunters, move so freely brought true joy to his men. To overcome his old wounds and revive as a knight were things to be proud of. But he had “yet to become accustomed to” his magic prosthesis. After he got used to it and adjusted himself to it, the elderly man would easily beat them—what would happen to his active bodyguards and their pride?
“Who the hell gave that thing to Lord Bernigi anyway?! That’s so not fair!”
“No, it is on us to train harder! We knight-guards aren’t going to lose to a lousy magical tool!”
“Yeah, bring on the training!” Their rowdy voices filled the changing room.
The D’Orazi knights conditioned themselves as though they were preparing for something—thus said the rumors that would circulate among the nobility in the near future.