Memory (7)
The woman who had stormed into the dining room was disheveled, and her eyes looked almost empty. Even so, young Theorad recognized her.
The Black Flame Witch.
She was a legend—the witch who had led her fellows against the Church, stood at the front of countless battles, and shattered the Church's camps. Among mages, too, she was famous for creating forms of personal magic that most people would struggle to develop even once in a lifetime.
Portraits of the Black Flame Witch circulated everywhere. There could hardly have been anyone in the Esteban Empire who had not heard of her.
Wellion had told his son about her as well. For a moment, Theorad even wanted to ask for her autograph.
But something stopped him.
The woman had been missing since the end of the war two years earlier. Now a dark, unfamiliar expression lay over her face, and the wand in her hand was hardly welcoming.
“You… You're Theorad Deharem?”
Theorad nodded carefully.
Linea stared at him in shock.
Twenty-three years earlier, she had met a man named Theorad on a snow-covered mountain. That Theorad had been an adult. There was no possible way he could be the little boy before her.
Did he lie to me?
She searched for another explanation. But the child's black hair and light-brown eyes were the same, and the quality and concentration of his mana matched the man from the snowy mountain precisely.
Everything she could perceive told her they were the same person.
Impossible.
How could the villain who had boasted of devising a war be sitting here as an innocent child?
Unless…
Reincarnation?
Perhaps the man had been reborn, with no memory of his former life.
It was no more than speculation, but she could find no explanation that suited the evidence. And if the child would grow into the same villain, then surely she ought to kill him now, before that happened.
“Theorad Deharem.”
Her resolve hardened. Linea lifted her wand again and aimed it straight at his head. The smallest attack spell would be enough.
“I remember you.”
Yet no spell came.
Her fingers tightened on the wand until the knuckles paled, but she could not move beyond the threat.
Could it ever be right to kill a child for what he might grow up to do?
Some remnant of the concern for others she thought she had abandoned still stood in her way.
“What do you think you're doing?”
Wellion rushed into the dining room, seized Linea's wrist, and wrenched it aside.
Her wand slipped from her grasp and struck the floor. She stumbled, then glared up at him through clenched teeth.
“Let go.”
“I will not! You just pointed a wand at my son!”
Wellion faced her without a trace of the fear one might have expected before the Black Flame Witch.
“Calm yourself! Why would you threaten a child who has barely begun to understand the world?”
“…You don't know what kind of person Theorad is.”
“It's you who doesn't know him!”
His angry voice echoed through the room.
“Let me be frank. I follow the God of Light. But the war the Church waged against the witches was born of the Church leaders' greed and arrogance. It had nothing to do with the god's teachings. That's why House Deharem supported the witches in secret.”
Linea said nothing.
“When I heard the witches had won and signed a nonaggression pact with the Church on Walpurgis Night, I was relieved. I thought the pointless killing might finally be over. So why is the Black Flame Witch—the very woman who spoke of freedom and the sanctity of life—trying to murder a child?”
Linea lowered her eyes. She could not bear to meet his furious gaze.
Wellion took a breath and continued in a quieter voice.
“Theorad is my son. I've raised him without his mother, and I know how kindhearted he is. Don't stand in my home and tell me I don't know my own child.”
He held her gaze.
“Don't make me lose the respect I've had for you.”
A tense silence settled over the dining room.
Theorad rose from his chair and walked to his father. Hesitating only a moment, he caught the sleeve of Wellion's coat.
“Father. I'm all right. Please stop.”
“Theorad, this is no place for you. Go to your room.”
The boy shook his head.
“I don't think the Black Flame Witch really came here to hurt me. There must be some misunderstanding. Please let me speak with her alone.”
“Son, you have no idea how dangerous that would be.”
“I know. But she's the Black Flame Witch.”
He was not mistaking her strength. If she truly wished to kill him, the entire household would scarcely be able to stop her. Having his family present would make little difference.
Wellion understood what his son was trying to say. After a long pause, he released Linea's wrist.
“Don't get any foolish ideas,” he warned her. “If you hurt my son, even a little, I won't let it pass.”
It was a threat he likely could not carry out, but he meant every word.
Linea did not answer.
Theorad reached out and took her hand.
“Come on. I know somewhere nice where we can talk.”
The smile he offered was so open and considerate that Linea could not bring herself to refuse.
Theorad led her into the garden behind the mansion.
Daisies spread beneath the clear sky, their pale faces shining in the sunlight. But Linea sat among the flowers with her head bowed, seeing none of their beauty.
The boy returned with a wreath he had woven himself.
“Why…?”
The word came out like an accusation.
Theorad approached anyway and gently settled the wreath onto her tangled silver hair.
Linea looked up at him in bewilderment. Her brows drew together; her teeth clenched. Then the question broke from her in a cry.
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
Her anger crumbled into sobs. She covered her face with both hands.
Theorad knelt before her. Moved by pity, he briefly kissed her on the lips.
“I don't know why you hate me,” he said. “But I think you and I could be friends. So will you tell me your name?”
Linea gave a broken laugh.
Was this child pretending? Did he truly mean what he said?
She could not tell. Yet the warmth in his words seemed real.
Her shoulders trembled, and she wiped at her tears.
“My name is Linea. Linea Arpolite.”
Through her blurred vision, she saw the boy's guileless face.
“You… I'm the only one who remembers that you were evil…”
A hiccup interrupted her.
Theorad took a handkerchief from his clothes and knelt beside her.
“Then… was I a villain?”
“Y-yes…”
He reached up and wiped the tears from her face.
“I'll believe you. I don't think the Black Flame Witch would lie to me. But what do you plan to do after you kill me?”
“K-kill… all the other bad people. Every one…”
“Is that really the life you want?”
A life devoted to disposing of wicked people could never be a happy one. Each death would add to the terrible memories she already carried.
Theorad did not understand what had happened to her. He only knew she looked like someone who had suffered enough, and he wanted her suffering to stop.
“Witch, I don't want to die yet,” he said. “There are so many things I haven't done, so much of the world I haven't seen. Why don't we make a bet?”
“A… bet?”
“Yes. I think the terms would be fair to you, too.”
He folded the damp handkerchief in his hand.
“If I really am evil, you can kill me. But dying now, when I haven't done anything bad, would be cruel. So please wait until I grow up.”
“And then…?”
“Hide who you are and come to me. Watch me. If I become the wicked person you remember, you can kill me without hesitation.”
Theorad spoke of his own possible death with a calmness that seemed strange in a child.
Linea swallowed.
“I… I'll make you fall. Because you're evil.”
“That's fine,” he replied. “To make the bet fair, you can even erase my memory of today and treat me as a toy. But…”
A small, sad smile touched his face. He held up his little finger.
“Promise me one thing. If I don't fall—if I don't become that wicked man—then don't hurt anyone else. And please don't let yourself be hurt anymore, either.”
Linea stared at the outstretched finger.
She was still hiccupping from crying. After a long hesitation, she lifted her own hand and hooked her little finger around his.
A dazzling light began to fill the world.
Just before it swallowed everything, Linea looked at the young Theorad and whispered:
“I promise…”
“Theorad.”
A faint voice lingered like the last trace of a dream.
Theorad stirred, opened his eyes, and found Linea looking down at him. Her silver hair shone softly, and her smile was awkward with worry.
“Wake up…”
There was guilt in her voice.
He rubbed his eyes and sat up.
Daisies surrounded them. Above, a great tree spread its branches and leaves across the sky.
“Here…?”
“It's the large tree in the garden. I heard you liked this place.”
“I see.”
His thoughts felt hazy, as though he had just woken from an impossibly long dream. He leaned his back against the trunk and let out a quiet breath.
“…Now I understand. I know how things began between us.”
“I'm sorry. What I did to you was terrible…”
“Yes. Terrible indeed. You ought to be punished.”
Linea gripped the hem of her skirt. She looked ready to accept whatever he demanded.
Theorad watched her trembling for a moment.
“First, make a flower wreath.”
“A wreath? But why…?”
“It's an order. I trust you don't intend to refuse.”
His stern gaze made her flinch. She reluctantly gathered daisies and began weaving them together.
Her fingers were clumsy. It took her a long time, but at last she held out a finished wreath with both hands.
“Here…”
Theorad clicked his tongue.
“What are you doing? Put it on my head.”
“Ah… yes.”
Still kneeling, Linea placed the wreath upon him and drew back, watching his face as though waiting for another sentence to be passed.
“Now…”
Perhaps it was time to end the joke.
Theorad smiled faintly and turned toward her.
“I won't forgive your sins. You've already been punished for your wrongdoing.”
Linea stared at him, utterly bewildered.
He paid no attention to the confusion on her face. Instead, he plucked daisies from the grass and began weaving them together with practiced hands.
“Linea. I bear some responsibility for what happened, too. You came to me believing I was wicked because of something I promised you when I was a child. How could I call that entirely your selfish mistake?”
“But I…”
“We both made mistakes. So there's no one here who needs to sit in judgment, granting or begging forgiveness.”
He finished the second wreath and placed it carefully upon her head.
“And didn't I give you another order earlier?”
She looked up.
Theorad smiled at her with the warmth she remembered from that distant garden.
“Don't suffer alone anymore.”
It was more tenderness than Linea could bear.
Tears pooled in her red eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. Theorad, who understood how much she had suffered to bring him these memories, gave a small, pained laugh and moved toward her.
He gathered her into his arms.
“There. It's all right now. You don't have to worry.”
He patted her back while she cried against him.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry…”
They stayed there among the daisies, in a garden unchanged from their childhood meeting, holding one another for a long time.