Wretched.
Three days had passed since I’d dragged the stubbornly concealed truth out of Lord Heinreid. Ever since, I’d been in a bleak, melancholy mood, unpleasantly reminiscent of my time serving at the Rodvelia estate. Even I had to admit I’d been through enough to warrant it. I’d been searching for a hint at a solution, but I hadn’t found a glimpse of light—no, I’d come face-to-face with a pitch-black, bottomless swamp. Though my spirit hadn’t broken, it had certainly bent.
After our conversation, all I’d been able to do was ask him for some time. I’d just barely held on to enough calm to recognize how shaken I was, but I’d been scared that if I stayed and engaged with him any longer, this time I really would commit some irreparable blunder.
Did I need time to come up with a way to soothe Lord Heinreid’s pain? Or to resign myself to his suffering, just as he’d begged me to? Even I didn’t know which it was. But he’d accepted my request without any hesitation, and I’d at least gained time to think things through.
That said, I had no intention of stepping down from my role as Lord Heinreid’s caretaker—even ignoring that it was simply my duty and that His Majesty had placed his trust in me. After a sleepless night, still unable to arrive at an answer by the next morning, I’d ascended the tower as always. As I’d opened the door, I’d braced myself for an awkward, uncomfortable atmosphere, but—
“Oh, good morning. You’re up early today, huh?”
His tone and his words had been so utterly casual and nonchalant that for an instant, I’d almost thought the previous day’s events had been nothing but a dream. He’d even had the gall to play dumb, asking me “What’s wrong? Why the weird look?” with a smile on his face. If I hadn’t already fallen for his tricks once before, he might genuinely have taken me in.
I certainly hadn’t been hoping for an awkward interaction. But now that I’d learned the truth about the anguish he was grappling with, I could tell that he was actively making an effort to keep things light and breezy. I’d felt a deep sense of unease that I couldn’t wash away.
There was no way he hadn’t noticed my undisguised distrust, but he’d ignored that as well, putting on a practiced performance of life as usual. He’d shown me anew exactly how little intention he had of working toward a solution. No normal argument would persuade him to relinquish his grip on his sins; he’d simply do his best to pretend that he’d been convinced.
Since then, I’d just been thinking around in circles, unable to find an exit, while time kept on passing. My frustration at being unable to get through to him had birthed irritation, dulling my thoughts still further in a vicious cycle. It really was absolutely wretched.
As I sat there, anxiously lost in thought, a lively voice rang in my ear to shove it all aside.
“C’mon, Craig, what’s with the nasty look? Those wrinkles on your forehead are gonna stick if you keep that up!”
“Mm...”
“What do you mean, ‘mm’? What’s wrong? You mad at me for dragging you out here? You haven’t drunk a drop!”
Even as he chided me disapprovingly, the man gave a jovial laugh and pushed my still-full glass toward me. This was my colleague and friend, Sven Schmidt. His energetic, unrestrained voice rang out loudly, but it blended seamlessly into the background din of our clamorous surroundings—we were in a bar near the outskirts of the capital.
Why was I here, of all places, while I grappled with the heavy worries weighing on me? Because this man had brought me here half by force. Sir Schmidt had been lying in ambush for me as soon as I’d finished my final patrol of the day, and he’d pulled me along with him, brooking no refusal. Since we’d arrived, my friend had been one-sidedly working himself into high spirits while I gave half-hearted replies to his small talk—which brought us to now.
I’d had no desire for a change of pace, but now that he’d ordered me the beer, I decided I ought to at least take a sip. I reached out a hand to the glass beading with condensation...but after a moment’s hesitation, I stopped short of raising it to my lips. I recalled a bitter taste stabbing into my tongue and the awful sensation of all the strength being leeched from my body.
I slowly withdrew my hand and shook my head.
“I’m not upset. It’s just... I drank more than I should have a while ago, so I’m holding off for now.”
Nothing I’d said was a lie. It wasn’t as though I absolutely couldn’t drink, but these feelings of discomfort would well up now and again, so I naturally found myself abstaining. I didn’t remotely suspect Sir Schmidt of mixing anything into my beer, but my lack of caution back then with Lord Heinreid had been my downfall. I knew that was all in the past now, but there was no need for me to force myself to drink.
“Aw, c’mon! Drink up, just for tonight! My treat! Times like this, getting good and drunk is what’ll help take your mind off stuff! Just knock it back!”
Sir Schmidt, of course, had no way of knowing any of that history. With a slightly more raucous, enthusiastic air than usual, he kept on urging me to drink.
Even setting aside his ignorance of my circumstances, I couldn’t help but feel that he was acting a little too unreserved tonight. I knew he liked to look after people, but he wasn’t normally this pushy about it, was he? As he held the glass out to me, I lightly pushed his hand back down to the table, trying to rein in his enthusiasm.
“You’re awfully eager tonight, Sir Schmidt. What’s going on? Is something the matter?”
“No—something’s the matter with you, right?”
“Me?”
What could he be talking about? Well, he wasn’t exactly off the mark, but none of what had gone on in the tower could possibly have leaked to the outside. So what was he imagining had happened?
Before I could arrive at an answer, Sir Schmidt let loose an utterly absurd reply.
“You got dumped, didn’t you? By your sweetheart?”
I stared at him. “What?”
For a moment, I hadn’t been able to understand what language he was speaking. And who could blame me? His words were simply that outrageous.
Heedless of my total confusion, Sir Schmidt continued speaking with a strangely commiserating look on his face.
“C’mon, don’t try to hide it! I’ve done my legwork—I know you bought a bouquet of roses at Isabella’s place last week. Knew you had a soft side in you somewhere!”
What legwork? He was the one who’d recommended that florist in the first place. Come to think of it, when I’d asked the shopgirl for the roses, she’d had a strange gleam in her eye—she’d been oddly eager to assist me as she’d explained the importance of the number of flowers in a bouquet and asked whether I wanted to attach a card and so on. As I’d left, she’d wished me luck very enthusiastically as well. Wheels slowly turned in my mind.
“Anyway, that’s when it all started, right?” Sir Schmidt continued. “You’ve been down in the dumps ever since then. And you’ve had a real scary look on your face the whole time you’ve been at work—it was making all the other guys nervous. Oh, I explained the whole thing to them, so they’re fine now.”
“What? What did you explain...? No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
A broad picture emerged in my mind, and I clasped a hand to my forehead. So that was why my commanding officer and the other knights had been giving me pitying looks these past few days...
“You’ve got it wrong,” I insisted. “It’s nothing like that at all.”
“Like hell it isn’t. When do you buy a bouquet of roses except when you’re proposing to someone?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions too much. That’s not it. Those were for...a get-well gift.”
“A get-well gift?”
“That’s right. I was visiting someone sick. Roses are his favorite flower.”
All the excitement and enthusiasm drained out of Sir Schmidt as he leaned over the table toward me. His face blanched a little, and he nervously retreated back into his chair.
“Um, uh... Sorry.”
“I was the one who invited the misunderstanding. I’ll be more careful going forward.”