Once they’d reached the first layer, the others headed up to campus, while Oliver and Chela alone went to their hidden base. They might miss the first afternoon class, but neither cared. It was clear to both what their priority was.
Together, they moved wordlessly to the living room and sat down on the couch without even making tea. There was a very long silence. Unable to find words that sounded right, Chela abandoned her attempt and wore her heart on her sleeve.
“…Um, Oliver. I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t force it. Let me say my piece instead.”
He took the lead. In his mind, he already knew what to share with her. He had just been readying himself for that during the silence. Saying this out loud took a lot out of him.
“There’s something you should know. Something…I’d prefer you keep to yourself, not a word to the others. So far, only Nanao knows.”
“My lips are sealed. I swear on our Sword Rose,” Chela said, hand to her heart.
Oliver understood this was her solemnest vow and meant more than any contract possibly could. Putting his faith in it, he nodded and took a breath.
No need to tell her the whole story or any details. Just a summary of the salient points.
With that in mind, his lips made to speak.
“I was forced into unwanted sexual relations. While still young. Family reasons,” he began. “And—the daughter resulting from it perished.”
“!”
Chela’s face froze like she’d been hit by a blizzard. Doing his absolute best to keep emotion from his voice, Oliver pressed on.
“This is why I’m resistant to sexual contact. And why I was so insistent on contraception in our second year. I don’t want any friends of mine to suffer like I did. This history makes me incompatible with typical sexual practices for mages. Even if there is logic to it—no, especially if the argument is a logical one—my body and mind viscerally reject it. This is why last night’s incident got to me.”
There, his admissions ended. All too brief considering the events involved, but Chela’s reaction showed she got what he needed her to know. She had a strong imagination and knew how to speculate with precision. What he’d said would let her fill in the rest. Even without the fine print, she’d know the unspeakable grief and horrors that had beset him.
“…That’s…awful…”
An agonized gasp escaped her. She was forced to reevaluate last night’s events—flipped by a single blow. A witch’s victory turned to a memory of the highest cruelty she could inflict on a friend.
“…I feel as if I finally understand the true meaning of the phrase an unpardonable sin. How badly I hurt you, how deep the cut must go, how cruelly I twisted that knife…”
“Don’t go too far with that. The wound was already there. You simply got your finger caught in it unawares.”
“Ignorance is not an excuse! Not with something like—!”
She broke off before she could shriek.
Chela had realized she was in no position to get emotional and restrained herself. Her heart rocking like a ship on a stormy sea, she forced herself to think. What could she do? How should she face the wounded heart before her?
“…That’s hardly fitting. Beating myself up for it will just make you miserable. Give…give me a moment. Not to ease the burden on me, but to choose words for you.”
With that, she buried herself in her thoughts, well aware this was an insurmountable problem. No true comfort could be found, and even knowing that, it was hard to truly be there for Oliver. Apologies and condolences would serve no purpose. So what should she say? In light of all potentials, what could she do?
In time, she reached her answer. No better options presented themselves, no matter how she fought.
Therefore, she merely needed to descend to the depths in which he stood.
“…I’m done thinking. And gathering my nerves.”
“?”
Her tone sounded weighty, and Oliver wasn’t sure why. Chela turned toward him, her eyes like mirrors to his—and she took a step down the stairs to the abyss below.
“I have an admission of my own. It may take a while, but I’d like to swear you to silence as well.”
Those few words made it clear what Chela was asking; to her, this was tantamount to flinging herself upon the pyre.
Oliver realized she was not saying sorry or trying to cheer him up but attempting to restore balance. In other words—offering up a history as grim as what he’d shared.
“I swear. On our Sword Rose.”
The same vow she’d made. Chela nodded—and began.