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It was twilight. The day was ending, and everything was bathed in a golden light. It wasn’t the best time for humans, with their poor night vision, to be out and about. All the more so when they were outside the town walls, where there was no artificial illumination. Many of the most dangerous animals were nocturnal, and everyone who had busied themselves with farm work beyond the walls during the day tried to get home early.
Amongst the fields near Friedland...
A man and his wife were walking back to town. The man was wearing work clothes specked with the mud of the field.
“Well, that’s another day’s work done,” he said with a smile, resting his hoe on his shoulder. With his free hand he scratched just under his nose. The gesture was as innocent as a child’s. The mud on his hands wound up on his face.
“Hehe! Dear, now you’ve got mud on your face.”
“Oh! Have I, now?” The man kept smiling.
The woman, who appeared to be his wife, was wearing a plain but clean outfit. It seemed she had not been engaged in outdoor work. Most likely, she had come from town to see her husband home. A wife who would come all the way out to meet her partner was rare indeed; it spoke to what a happy couple they were.
They were still young, in their early twenties. As they walked, an odd distance could be sensed between them—a sort of mutual hesitance toward each other. They would need time yet before they could intuit each other’s thoughts. Most likely, they hadn’t been together for very long.
“Thanks for taking the trouble to come out and meet me every day.”
“Don’t worry. I enjoy it.”
“And that lunch you packed me—delicious!”
“Really? I’m so glad to hear it.”
“You came all the way out to give it to me. I could hardly complain about it, could I?”
“Well, everything tastes better fresh.”
Perhaps they still found it somewhat awkward to walk along together in silence, because the man kept up a steady stream of chatter. The touch of overeagerness in his tone was innocent and sweet.
It seemed the woman didn’t just come out to meet him at twilight; she brought him lunch during the day, too. She appeared to see this as a wife’s duty—or perhaps it was simply an excuse to see the man.
“Today we, ah, we worked on the irrigation ditch and the new fields Lord Yukinari suggested.”
“Oh, did you?” So far the woman had simply nodded along with what the man was saying, but now she asked a question of her own. “I’ve never met Lord Yukinari myself... What’s he like?”
“Lord Yukinari?!” the man said, his eyes aglow. “He’s a wonderful person. He’s taught us how to widen rivers and even change their paths! He suggested new fields and even fertilizer. I was worried when our previous erdgod passed, but I don’t think we need to be concerned about this autumn’s harvest at all!”
The man seemed more than a little excited. Apparently, he really did venerate Yukinari.
“Wow, really? Have you seen Lord Yukinari do one of his mighty works?”
“One of his mighty works? Yes!” the man replied excitedly. “Yes, I have! Oh, how I’ve seen it! Once, there was a boulder practically the size of our house. And he just touched it—his hand glowed, and a second later the whole thing turned to dust!”
He was quite enraptured by Yukinari—by Friedland’s new god. He happily answered all his wife’s questions about “Lord Yukinari.” He talked about the girls Berta and Dasa, who were always by Yukinari’s side; he told the story of how Yukinari himself had gone to Rostruch to initiate trade; and then he recounted the recent battle with the knights of the Missionary Order...
“Wow, really? What about Lady Ulrike, then?”
“Lady Ulrike? Ah, the child-goddess who’s with Lord Yukinari? She’s quite pleasant, that erdgod of Rostruch... In fact, I’m impressed you know her name,” he said, blinking. “In fact... Wait...”
“Yes? Is something wrong?”
“Now that I think about it, didn’t you... Didn’t you meet Lord Yukinari when he took off those things the missionaries had put on us? The Holy Mark?”
When the Missionary Order had first come to Friedland, they had deceived the townsfolk with their words and yoked the majority of them with the Holy Mark, a collar not unlike that which might be used on livestock. The symbol inscribed on it was indeed that of the True Church of Harris, but it was possible for the missionary knights to heat these collars, burning any townsperson who dared to go against them. And of course, the Marks could not be removed by the townspeople.
Yet Yukinari had removed them with nothing more than a touch of his hand. This was the first “mighty work” of his that many of the townspeople saw.
“H-Hey...” The man gave his wife a suspicious look; she hadn’t answered his question, but had fallen silent. “Why’re you so interested in Lord Yukinari, anyway...?”
The woman still didn’t respond, but only gave the man a gentle smile. The man blinked repeatedly at his wife.
“Wait... What the... You’re you, but... are you?” He was very confused. He didn’t quite understand why this all felt so wrong to him. Wasn’t that his wife’s face he was looking at? And yet... “...You... You...”
Humans judge other humans by more than just their most obvious facial features. Subtle changes of expression, posture, gesture, the way someone walks or even breathes—there are infinite combinations of these things, and together they mark out a unique individual. It might be possible to replicate each one, yet taken together, they might still look not quite right.
“Are you really... you?” The man felt like he was beginning to doubt his own sanity. But on the other hand, it was in some sense a display of how much he loved his wife. Even if he couldn’t put his finger on the tiny differences, he knew her so well that he could perceive them.
There was no one else around but the two of them. So there was no one to laugh at the man’s ridiculous question.
Even the woman in front of him stayed silent.
“It’s... It’s almost as if you’re...”
...someone else.
That was probably what he had intended to say. But what came out of his mouth next was not words, but blood.
“Hrggh—?”
The man looked at his own chest in surprise. When had it happened? It had occurred so suddenly, his astonishment was understandable. But now a long, thin sword was piercing him through. The blade had gone all the way into him, through his heart, and out his back. And his wife was holding the grip.
No. No she wasn’t. This woman wasn’t his wife.
The man dropped his hoe with a clatter.
“Wh— y— ...?”
He could form no more words.
The woman let go of the sword and the man fell to his knees, his blood dribbling down his chest, then fell farther to one side. The woman looked at him quietly for a moment. Then she murmured, “Oops, you found me out. Did I get too greedy?”
But the man on the ground couldn’t answer her. He had lost copious amounts of blood, and his death throes had begun; maybe he couldn’t even hear her. But if he could have, he would have realized his suspicions had been right: the woman’s voice was different from before, no longer that of his wife.