A violent storm tore through the quiet of the night. Such weather was unusual for this place.
The raindrops striking the window glass were as loud as machine-gun fire. The howling wind was so turbulent it threatened to reduce the man’s simple home to rubble.
He was alone in his hut.
The dark glass of the window poorly reflected his visage. He appeared to be in his thirties, though his hair was stark white. His robe, a similar shade of white, bore an antiquated pattern.
His eyes were an icy blue.
The humble room was adorned with simple furniture and illuminated by the warm glow of hearthfire.
The man sat on a stool before a half-finished painting.
His gaze shifted to the window, but it was pitch-black outside. He couldn’t see a thing. The heavy rain, the dark of night, and the shaded glass made for the perfect storm.
But the man continued to stare out the window. He wasn’t as concerned with what he could and couldn’t see. The mere act of looking out the window was enough to fuel his creative process—it gave him the power to imagine.
Upon the canvas, he had painted a sunny sky over a grassy field—and a girl standing at the center in an unsullied white dress.
His brush hand worked tirelessly. It was as if his eyes truly beheld the girl in the grassy field through the window.
Then there came a loud bang.
Something had crashed into the glass.
Something red.
At first, he thought the window had been hit with a torrent of blood.
But upon closer inspection, it was a woman.
A woman in a red military uniform had leaped into view from the edge of the window.
All at once, time seemed to stand still.
I could never mistake that. Not me…
The woman’s mouth flapped open and closed. It seemed she was saying something, but her words were drowned out by the forceful wind and never made it to the man’s ears.
There came another loud bang.
The woman slammed into the window again.
Time flowed once more.
The woman was demanding to be let in.
Oh God, may I invite her into this hut?
A moment later, the man went to the door.
Seeing him move finally, the woman also raced toward the front door.
✦ ✦ ✦
It was a struggle to open the door. The wind outside was so brutal it was as if the hand of God was forcing it closed.
Once the door was cracked open enough for a person to slip through, the woman tumbled inside. A deluge of rain came in with her, nearly soaking the man’s clothes.
“Sorry. Thanks.” The woman pushed back her wet bangs.
She appeared to be in her late teens. Her glossy silver hair drew the eye. When it swayed, glittering droplets scattered this way and that.
She was pale beyond comparison. It was as though the very concept of pigment was alien to her. It had to be because she’d just been out in the wind and rain. Her lips were turning purplish.
But her eyes were red.
<I knocked on the door several times, but it didn’t seem like you could hear me. I knew it was rude, but I had no choice but to start banging on your window,> she said.
Examining the woman’s military uniform, the man said, <Soldiers aren’t common around here,> as if he didn’t know the woman at all.
With a troubled smile, the woman replied, <I’m sure.>
<I’ll get you something to wipe yourself off with. Wait in the room with the hearth.>
The woman thanked him.
✦ ✦ ✦
The man returned to the fireplace room carrying two sheets of linen cloth. The woman had taken off her uniform and was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace. Her deep-red uniform, made of high-class cashmere fabric, had been abandoned like a snake’s shed skin.
She wore a lace camisole. The light of the fire dyed her hair a brilliant crimson. Her lips had also changed from purple back to a healthy pink.
She smiled at the man. <Sorry again for being so indecent. You’ll have to forgive me. My uniform was soaked through, and it was sticking to my skin most unpleasantly. It was heavy, too. Being ceremonial, it has a lot of decorations.>
Handing over the linen cloth, the man said, <I don’t mind, but it would be best not to expose yourself like this in the house of other men. Lust and desire are sins, after all. You don’t want to seduce a man and go to hell, do you?>
<Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m going to hell, lustful endeavors or no.>
<Because you’re a soldier?>
<Yes. I’ve killed many. I’ve manipulated men, too. And on top of that…>
…On top of that, I’m a dragonslayer.
The man’s blue eyes widened. <…You’re a dragonslayer.>
<I was quite famous for it in the Norvelland Empire. My name is Brunhild Siegfried.>
<Sorry, I’m not familiar with the name.>
What the woman—Brunhild—said was true. The house of Siegfried was an old and respected clan of dragonslayers, and Brunhild herself was also famous for her noteworthy accomplishments in battle.
It was just that the man had lived in total isolation. On sunny days, the man had spent his time picking fruit, playing with animals, and talking to flowers.
<Well, it’s no wonder you wouldn’t know.> Brunhild gave another awkward smile. It didn’t come across that she was scoffing at the man for his ignorance. <Will the rain let up once the sun rises?> she asked.
<Only God knows,> said the man. Living so far away from civilization, his spirituality was different from that of ordinary folk. <It was by the grace of God that you were able to come here, as well. God has allowed you to come to this hut and warm yourself.> He pulled the stool close to himself and sat down. And then after a moment’s pause, he said, <If you don’t mind, could you tell me your story?>
The man looked at his canvas. The room was decorated with many paintings the man had made. All of them bore the motif of bright scenery and a girl in white. <If I hear your story, I might be able to paint something better.>
Seeing the girl in the painting, the woman said, <Could this girl be…> She was very good at reading people’s hearts. <…your…?> She changed her mind, adopting a softer lilt in her speech.
<Mm-hmm. You look like my daughter,> the man replied.
The woman lowered her long eyelashes. <I look like her? In other words—>
<Ah-ha-ha, no, no. I’m sure she’s still alive out there, somewhere. Though, wherever she is, I hope she’s not wearing a military uniform. I don’t want her to be in such a bloody profession,> said the man.
And he said this even while knowing who this woman really was. Who could say if this was a religion-based criticism or his vain struggle against acknowledging the truth in front of him.
Silence.
The soldier didn’t know how to respond…
…and the man did not continue.
<The only story I have is a bloody one… You don’t mind, do you?>
<If that’s all you have, then so be it.>
The woman was silent for a while, but eventually she opened her mouth as if she’d made up her mind. <…I am a not a good person. I’ve killed many people. I’ve deceived the innocent and the kind. And it wasn’t for justice or a higher cause. It was all for myself, for my own satisfaction. But I have no regrets. Even now that I have seen this place for myself.>
Still sitting on the carpet, she looked up at the man seated on the stool.
The story she was about to tell…
…was, for her, a remorseless confession…
…and for him, an unbearable sin.
<Even if God were to give me the chance to turn back the hands of time, I would walk the same path.>
With that preface, the woman began her tale.