[16] Chapter 3. To Avoid Falling in Love (3)
“Uh…”
“Did the wound reopen?”
Fernciana sheepishly set down her fork while Ilias raised an eyebrow. She shook her head, wrapping her hand with a napkin.
“No, it’s not that…”
“Good grief. Does your skin tear just from touching metal cutlery?”
Fernciana blinked wide-eyed at the shop owner, who clicked his tongue and began rummaging through a drawer behind the bar. Even Ilias looked surprised at what he’d just heard. The shopkeeper pulled out an unusual box containing ointment and handed it to her.
“For wounds like that, this ointment works wonders.”
Fernciana carefully opened the lid with her uninjured hand. A subtle, flowery scent drifted from the ointment. She glanced at the shopkeeper, who wore an expression that practically said, Well, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and use it.
“Um…”
“Are you alright?”
As Fernciana murmured while applying the ointment, Ilias leaned forward in concern. She blinked and nodded.
“Yeah… it really is okay.”
Fernciana opened her hand and looked at it.
A few days ago, her skin had torn from holding a sword. Though it had healed quite a bit, a fresh scratch from the meal just now still glowed a vivid red. But she could feel the pain subsiding in real time.
Unable to hide her amazement, she looked back at the shopkeeper. The man, who had started off speaking with concern, now tried to contain a smug smile.
“There are strangely many people like you in this town who get cut from metal utensils, so I specially keep that ointment on hand.”
“Oh? Really?”
Fernciana’s eyes sparkled. The shopkeeper flinched at her gaze before nodding. Watching silently, Ilias furrowed his brows.
“You get hurt just by touching metal cutlery?”
“There are people like that. Can’t use metal knives, can’t even hold forks… I’ll bring you a wooden fork instead.”
As the shopkeeper left briefly, Fernciana was still amazed at the ointment’s effects. Ilias stared at her intently.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of this. You get hurt from just touching metal?”
“Oh? Ah… Well, technically not just cutlery—anything metal, really…”
“So that’s why you asked for a wooden sword? Because you can’t handle a real one?”
“I can hold it. I just… do.”
“And your hands end up bloodied?”
“Pretty much?”
Ilias looked at her like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, then sighed deeply while rubbing his face.
“You should’ve just said something. Told me you couldn’t hold this or that. Then I could’ve made arrangements or found something else.”
“I thought I’d get used to it eventually…”
“Yeah, and if you throw someone into water, do they grow gills and learn to breathe? No, they drown!”
Fernciana pouted.
“Well, sure, but I thought maybe this was different…”
“…Are you really asking me to look at you like you’re some brainless creature?”
“I mean, no one smart would turn their hand into shredded rags and say, ‘Maybe I’ll adapt one day,’ right?”
Ilias shot back with sharp sarcasm. He looked ready to say something even harsher when the shopkeeper returned with a wooden fork.
“How’s the ointment? Working alright?”
“Yes, it’s really wonderful…”
Fernciana glared at Ilias before nodding at the shopkeeper. He rummaged through a shelf and handed her a new, unopened jar of the ointment.
“You said it’s tough for you—take this with you.”
The shopkeeper said his daughter, who had gone to the capital to study, was around Fernciana’s age, and he seemed on the verge of tears. Ilias twitched slightly at the mention of “daughter.”
“Where did you get this ointment?”
“I didn’t buy it. Some regular customers always carry it with them. Sometimes they forget, so they leave extras with me to lend out.”
“Ah…”
“They’re all from the same village, I think. If you go a bit southwest from here, there’s a place called Desidiera. It’s from a smaller village even further south of there.”
“People from that village are like me?”
“Hmm…”
The shopkeeper gave her a once-over and shrugged.
“Beats me. But I’ve only ever seen people from that area come in with wounds from metal like that.”
“I’ve only ever seen it in myself…”
The shopkeeper gave a pained smile, as if he’d just heard a tragic joke. Meanwhile, Fernciana repeated the name the man had given her in her mind.
Desidiera. Desidiera.
A village where people have wounds like hers.
—
Fernciana sat upright on the bed, looking at the things she had laid out.
A longsword—dropped by one of the black-clad bandits—wrapped in rough cloth. A wooden sword. Her travel pack. And the small jar of ointment from the shop.
She opened her hand. The healing skin was still flushed and raw-looking, as if the lightest scratch might draw blood. But it was visibly healing.
“People with wounds like mine…”
Back when she traveled with her mother, Airoide, she never experienced anything like this. So she never knew metal could hurt her. Only after Airoide disappeared and Serelim died—only after she began living for revenge against the Emperor—did she discover it.
People whose skin reacted to metal like it had been burned—only Fernciana had been that way. She’d never met anyone else like her.
But now, hearing that an entire village might share this trait meant something different.
What if…
She had always thought of Serelim like a father. But not once had she called him “Father.” That was just how it had always been. She had never questioned it, and Serelim had never asked her to call him that.
But what if there was another reason she hadn’t called him “Father”? What if he had a reason not to want to be called that?
What if… she had a real father—someone unknown to her?
Even if that weren’t the case, what if her mother, Airoide—who’d always been her only family—had family of her own somewhere? Like her own mother?
She tried to dismiss it as baseless speculation, but she couldn’t help the way her heart leaned in that direction.
The thought that there were others wounded the same way she was struck a deep chord. Even the shopkeeper had said so—he’d only ever seen that condition among people from that town.
“…Feirun? You’re up early.”
At that moment, Ilias stirred. The reddish glow of dawn bathed his cream-colored hair in soft light.
As he sat up, his voice still husky from sleep, he looked toward her and reached for the water bottle on the nightstand. He mumbled something about how the food yesterday had been good but a bit salty.
He took a few sips of water, blinking away the sleep in his eyes. Then he realized the mood wasn’t what he expected. Fernciana, sitting across from him on the other bed, looked solemn.
“Feirun…?”
She gazed at him quietly. It had been a short trip, but she felt deeply attached. Of course, Fernciana thought bitterly.
Before returning to the past, she had believed she had lost everything. The journey had been about regaining what she’d lost. The purpose had changed now, but the fact remained—she had lost everything.
And then she met Ilias. It began with an odd encounter, they ended up traveling together, shared meaningless chatter, he worried when she was hurt…
To the person starting over from scratch, he was a new bond.
I only feel so desperate for him because I have nothing left, she reminded herself. When you have nothing, you cling to even a single connection.
But once I stop feeling like I have nothing, I won’t feel this desperate urge to ask him to stay with me…
“I’ll postpone the request. For later… someday.”
She spoke softly, hoping her voice didn’t sound too firm. Ilias stared at her blankly, his face unreadable.
