The Reason for His Fragility

"…I'm bothered, somehow."

"By what?"

A full day had passed since the black-scaled land dragon Noel had joined the party.

The first run with Noel out front had given the others a faintly weightless sense — the surreal sight of a land dragon at point — but it had ended without incident. Merea, riding solo on Noel's back, had spent the early stretch fighting to control a dragon visibly delighted to have his benefactor on him; by half a day in, the man and the dragon had settled into something like a single ridden creature.

Now: morning of day two.

The party was loading the night's gear back onto Noel's back. Bucket-brigade — left to right — same chain they'd used at Lindholm to move stones for the graves.

The end of the chain was Merea, on Noel's back, securing each piece to the dragon's body with rope.

In the chain, Salman — twins fitting on either side of him in their usual loud configuration — was passing pieces from his left to his right semi-automatically.

The next link to his right was the 〈Sword Emperor〉 Elma. Her black hair was still slightly wet — the twins had probably pulled her into the morning wash with Lilium. The lingering damp lifted her appeal another notch.

"— Mm. Got your wash, then."

"Yes. The twins. — How about you two?"

"It's fine. We'll get splashed by them sooner or later anyway. Not worth doing it properly."

"Working under the assumption that you'll be pranked — you've come a long way, you know…"

Elma was, today, considerably brighter in face than she had been before. The look that had sat on her since Neuce Gauss had visibly softened — almost as if something had been put down.

"So — let's hear what I'm bothered, somehow meant."

She tucked her damp bangs behind her ear in a brief gap between pieces.

Salman, deliberately, did not comment on her change of mood. Answered the question first.

"— I've been getting an off note from Merea for a while now. I can't quite put my finger on it. Something vague, something like… looking at him through frosted glass. Lately especially. — Got any read on it?"

"None. He looks normal to me."

She answered, eyes round.

A glance at the distant Merea after.

"Aah. Lucky you. You're a touch on the thick side."

"W— are you insulting me. I'm sharp, you know! I've heard women perceptive of others' feelings are well-liked! And — and — ah! I'm sharp — I cut anything! Sharp!"

"Your recovery from being told you're thick is truly dire. — And don't draw the demon sword! Don't swing it around, you fool!"

He calmed her — Elma had gone red and was, in fact, swinging the demon sword. He'd touched a nerve, evidently.

The twins, beside him: "Bull's-eye!" "Elma bull's-eye!"

"Oi. Idiots. Don't pile on. She's the type that minds not being womanly enough. Push too far and she'll cry. Quiet a bit, please. — Candy."

"Really?" "How many?"

"Mm. Five. Between you."

"Five! Acceptable!" "Generous!"

Out came a paper twist of candies. The twins immediately split them, popping the blue translucent sweets into their mouths. With their blue-silver hair tossed left and right, Neuce Gauss candy is delicious! and The money-grubber said there's tastier ones further south, sister! — the harassment of Elma was, for the moment, parked.

Salman wiped pretend sweat off his forehead and turned back to Elma.

"Anyway. Putting that aside."

"…I'll be lodging an objection later for being characterised as naturally thick."

"Yes, yes, complaint received."

A shrug, then back to the topic.

"— Right. Merea is, somewhere, fragile, isn't he."

"Fragile?"

"Presence-wise. — I mean — he's vivid, yes. The Demon-God-grade strength is vivid; presence-wise on the field he's off the chart—"

A small pause.

A click on his face.

"— On the battlefield, I mean."

"That, certainly. Anyone would call that vivid. It was like watching a hero out of one of those legends — up close. Dramatised, exaggerated, but with an odd compelling pull, the way the figures in those tales have. Heroic legends are mostly success stories, so there's a strange reassurance you get from looking at them, but — that's a dangerous thing to lean on."

A clean nod from Elma. She had Merea's battlefield presence burned into her mind. He had alone reproduced Mūzeg's joint formula, fired off several large formulae in series, and, above all, had shown — even outside the spell-arts — the close-combat aptitude of a top-end soldier. Demon God, if anyone wanted that label, was not a stretch.

"But the moment we're off the battlefield, the air around him goes hazy. Like a fog the colour of his hair has settled around him."

"That's the frosted glass feeling, then. — Which, by the way: that's a poet's metaphor, Salman. Are you a scholar in disguise? That's a finer-grained image than I'd have expected from the 〈Fist Emperor〉."

"Don't lump every fighter into meathead. You may be one, granted. — All right, that's struck. Don't reach for the demon sword, please."

A second flush. Salman pre-empted.

"You, on the other hand, have more presence off the battlefield. More human, I'd say. You've been wearing that scary look lately, but even that — for you — reads as yours."

"Are you insulting me."

"No. Closer to a compliment, this one."

He passed another piece right.

"A compliment. Hard to tell, with you."

A small hmph through her nose. She passed her piece on.

— and then —

"— Ah. Maybe that is what it is."

"What. Did something line up?"

He was looking at her face.

"— You're cute, you know."

"— ! W-what are you suddenly—"

He'd said it perfectly straight.

A third flush. She put both palms up at him, half-warding — don't come any closer — exactly the gesture of a flustered young woman.

On the field — composed, soldier-grade. Off the field — visibly an unworldly young woman.

That gap was, in the surrounding context, fresh. A girl flushing was not, in absolute terms, unusual; in the context of where their lives were, it became charming in its own right.

The cold beauty against the artless reaction was, in itself, the gap. More than that — Elma's humanity showed up in there.

"Joke."

"I will cut you. Properly cut you."

"— Anyway."

"You — let it slide! You're a horrible man—!"

He waved her protest off. His face dropped into a thinking shape; he hummed at the sky and watched the clouds drift.

"That's normal. You're properly oriented on yourself. Or — grounded in yourself, more accurately."

"Oriented on myself?"

"Right."

The eyes came down off the clouds. Sand-coloured eyes, his, met hers directly.

"You went red because you were happy enough at being called cute that it landed."

"Th-that is… w-well…"

"Stutter!" "Stutter!" — the twins, of course, in the gap.

A flick from Salman to each forehead.

"Ouch!" "And from Saru, no less!" — they held their bumps and looked up tearily.

They batted at his stomach with both hands; he didn't really mind it, palmed each girl's head, and went on stroking through it. His full attention was on Elma.

"That's the proof you're properly oriented on yourself."

"Is there anyone not oriented on themselves?"

She was still slightly red, with a small scowl.

"Mm. Few. Most of us are self-first by default, and I think that's fine. Anyone whose first thought is always for others — that smells off. — Saving someone is admirable, sure. But the best version is self-first while still able to think of others."

"You're laying down complicated logic again."

"This subtle thing — you don't get it? Maybe there isn't a clean answer. The line between what you say to others and what you actually feel is thin in this kind of territory. There are people who'll die for the public face without ever naming it, I think."

"Hm… No, I see. The self-aside-others-first type being suspect, I do follow."

A serious nod.

"A mercenary who takes a job for free gets viewed as less reliable, not more. As an extreme — that's what others-first looks like when pushed. A mercenary on a life-risk job for free, with no money on the table, has unclear accountability — they could just disappear. — And, frankly, if I were the one hiring, free would worry me."

"Yes! Nothing is more expensive than free!"

The familiar shout from a distance — the eccentric reacting on the trigger word.

The two of them ignored it.

"Strange logic — but, more or less. — Anyway. Merea is close to that. I'm not, to be clear, suspicious of him."

"I know. — But what do you mean? You're being roundabout."

"Got it, got it."

He shrugged.

"Merea is — standing on the battlefield to save us. And — likely —"

His eyes went to Merea, who was up on Noel's back wearing a smile clearly meant to keep the rest of the group's spirits up.

"That intent has over-filled him. So I can't see his own desires or wishes underneath. His stuff."

"…"

"I could plead we just met, but truthfully I've spent a fair amount of attention on the rest of the group, and I've picked up clean that-is-them notes from each of you. — Merea, I haven't, even after as much talking as we've done. The only thing that comes off him is a hard, monolithic I will save the Demon Lords whatever happens. And that, by itself, is — off."

A glance across the others, then back to her.

"If his life had not started the way it did, he'd have had other wishes. Wishes not founded on a battlefield. Honest wishes. — He'll do that thing where his eyes go big like a child's, you know. Sometimes he'll say something funny and make people laugh. He pays attention to people. — He has a balance you wouldn't think of from someone our age. He has it."

But.

"That honest side of him has been overlaid by haze, especially recently. I've only seen the honest side a few times, so my read isn't fully calibrated. Which is why I'm sitting here talking to you about it."

A self-deprecating laugh.

Elma did not laugh at him. In a situation like this — where the default of focus on yourself was already heavily justified — that Salman could put this much attention onto another person inspired, in her, something close to respect.

"— Possibly, that haze is a side-effect of having been at the Lindholm summit until now and not having come into the wider world. The first-time-out-into-the-world after-effect."

"Side-effect?"

"Yeah. — Too pure with regard to the world. The vessel didn't have much in it. So whatever was the first real thing to enter it just — filled it. And the first thing to enter Merea's vessel was save the other Demon Lords. Disproportionately heavy. Disproportionately big. And — shining. Heavy and big enough that you'd want to throw it out, but it shines, so he can't. To anyone outside, the cargo is enormous. Merea himself probably doesn't think of it as cargo."

A small sad smile, mimed-throwing motion.

"Right — shining, I see…"

"Just my read, mind."

"I get it."

A small wry nod.

"And what happens, when a wish like that fills him?"

"— He has no spare attention for anything else. For example: any personal impulse he has on coming into the world — I want to do this — comes up and gets ignored."

"I see."

"Result: every wish he has, today, is anchored to other people. The self-as-base selfishness, the me-first selfishness — the kind of selfishness that announces who you are by being there at all — he doesn't currently have. Which is why he reads as hazy. Selfishness lights up the outline; without it, the outline blurs."

"Hence fragile. And — dangerous, in a way."

"That's the off-note I've been getting. He's strong — terrifyingly strong. But there's a fragility under it that says if you touched it, he'd disappear. And, probably—"

---

— that's our doing.

---

A quiet blue light in the eye. The blue of distant melancholy.

"We loaded that onto a man who'd just stepped into the world. So now that's all he can see. Even on the horseback ride, his back was throwing off killing intent. Probably he was just — drilling himself for the next engagement."

"…What a dutiful man."

"You can't talk."

He, finally, touched on her own change of mood.

"— Took a while to get your own thoughts in order, didn't it."

Slightly sarcastic; but the line said I noticed you were carrying something all this time.

She dipped her head, faintly embarrassed; the next moment, her face was serious.

"…I haven't entirely tidied it. But I'm not particularly smart, so when I worry the same loop and there's no fix, at a certain point I let it go. — From there, it's instinct's job. Make sure that what comes out of me when it counts is me. That's how I've been trying to live. Self-likeness isn't a thing you decide; it's a thing that comes out before you can decide."

"Hah. Cleaner than fighting the loop, in fact. Healthier relationship with it."

He laughed.

Internally — she's fine. He could roughly anticipate the shape of her self under pressure; he couldn't change it; so —

— supporting it is the rest of us, then.

A small nod to himself.

He looked back at Merea.

The last bag was, exactly then, landing in Merea's hand on Noel's back.

"— Trouble is, Merea probably has the spirit-capacity to take it all. He doesn't break under it; so he can't put it down. He runs every contingency for how to keep us safe. All the time."

The closing line of his case.

"…I see. There's a fair excuse — under those extreme conditions on the mountain, none of us were doing nicety calculus — but the responsibility for putting him there sits with us. — I won't forget that."

She looked up at Merea.

He had just caught the last bag, cheerfully, and was tying it onto Noel's back.

A smile.

A smile, but —

— is that smile real?

Elma found herself thinking it, looking at him.

"Mind, there's nothing we can do about it now. I really think that. That role — only Merea could carry it. The other Demon Lords would be crushed under it."

"Possibly so."

"Which is to say, Merea standing in that role is also Merea-like in its own way — but again, battlefield-anchored. …Difficult. What do we do."

The sentence had come out of her uncomprehended. She hadn't meant to say it so plainly. I want to do something for him was, evidently, where her thinking had landed without permission.

She'd resolved her own thing. The first thing she'd reached toward, after, was Merea.

— Salman, as if he'd been waiting for it —

"Well. Then. Off you go, then."

— had.

A sharp grin. A chin-flick toward Merea. Go.

"Hm? Go, meaning?"

"You go and plant an ambition or a desire in Merea. Or — pull one out of him."

"Eh? M-me? You're the one who's been watching everyone — surely you—"

"It's a pain. — My shoulders are stiff from this much watching. — From here, your turn. I'm a delicate type, you know, I'd over-think it and just be in trouble~"

"S-suspicious… But I'm not good with words, this kind of thing isn't my strength…"

She watched him roll his shoulders theatrically. Elma poked her fingers together, embarrassed.

"And — having that kind of conversation with another man is, somehow, embarrassing."

"What does that mean. With a woman it's fine? — Hmm. Now that I say plant a desire, it sounds a bit that."

"Look — it doesn't matter. As long as it's a desire grounded in himself. So go seduce him with that body of yours. If we don't anchor some desire of his outside the battlefield, then when his life is on the line he won't have the desperate need to come home alive. — So let's start with — if you come back alive, I'll let you hold me."

"Hold!" "Hold!" — the twins.

"Stop reacting at the worst possible point!"

The twins were grinning at Elma. Elma —

"— ! ! !"

— the deepest red so far. Lips trembling. Glaring at Salman.

"Hmm? Are you, in fact, innocent in this department? — Wait — seriously? As pretty as you are, I'd assumed you'd be more practised—"

That, of course, was a joke. From the cute reaction earlier, he'd already correctly inferred that she was, on this front, deeply unworldly. Most of the line was simply teasing.

But Elma —

"— I-I can! I can do it! I'm going!"

"Yep, off you go."

"Off you go!" "Hold!"

— marched off with her shoulders set in indignation, in the direction of Merea.

Salman, watching her go —

"She's really easy to handle."

"Easier to handle than us with candy?" "Easier?"

"Yeah. Possibly easier than you. — Actually — are you aware of how easy you are?"

Two faces. They looked at each other, then —

"The candy is at fault!" "A demonic weapon…!"

"Hh."

A sigh at the very serious faces of the two small girls, and his eyes returned to Elma.

The back of Elma walking toward Merea now had none of the off-balance note he had been seeing for days.

"— Truly. At moments like this, women are stronger. Men get caught up in face. Cowardly, maybe. I don't know."

A self-deprecating breath.

And —

— Sorry.

Internally. He didn't say it aloud.

If he said it aloud, it would categorically deny the current intent of a man who had taken himself to the edge to save them.

— I can't say it.

He understood, even saying that.

The kind of man who, on principle, will spend his life for others before he spends a thought on himself.

Whether good or bad, he couldn't put a clean answer on it.

From Elma's side — a woman who stood on the battlefield herself — that's just prejudice, a male/female generalisation might be the response. But Salman was, in his own way, sensitive to the male/female pattern.

Men get caught up in belief and appearance in moments like this. Women, when pressed, tend to run a clean, straight thread.

A passing-experience rule of his.

For a beat, his mother's face went through his head.

"Hey — give me one of the candies I gave you. Light blue."

"Eh, but Saru still has plenty—" "Hoarder!"

"No — among the ones I gave you, the light blue one was the last of that flavour I had. — And by the way, your taste is too uniform. Always demanding the same one. Stubborn for kids."

"He called us kids again!" "Soon we move to young women! Or — our names!"

"Soon. In a bit."

He took the light blue candy the twins reluctantly produced and put it in his mouth.

Sweet. A clean cool note spread under the tongue. The elegant herb aroma — the kind of thing genteel apothecaries used. Came up through the nose. Neuce Gauss's specialty candies had something of the city's air about them — a touch of that same well-mannered grace.

The clouded thoughts in him drifted off, wrapped in the cool-sweet cleanness.

— Sweet.

"Aaagh, the last one—" "I formally propose: next time, double quantity in compensation for no light-blue!"

"Quiet, you. Candies are not discriminated against by colour of birth. They each have their own flavour."

"Boooh." "No way!"

"Hah."

Through the laugh, his sand-coloured eyes traced — for some moments — the white hair of a man at the far end of the camp, moving in the wind.

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