Chapter 107: Serie's Power Core Aches
What Norne didn't know was that on the day of his coronation, on a hillside covered in pale purple star-gazing flowers, just outside the city walls, Serie was watching.
She did not show herself, but just stood from a distance.
The wind rustled her golden hair. For an elf, thirty years was just the blink of an eye.
A round mirror made of mana hovered before her, and in it was the grand coronation ceremony. As the crown descended upon his head, a roar of cheers erupted from the square. Serie smiled. A small, fleeting smile, but a real one.
Through the magic mirror, she watched Norne's speech, and his conversation with the two kings and Somme.
"Well done, Norne," she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible, tinged with a warmth that she herself did not notice.
If he were here, she thought, he would be so proud. He had always said that when Norne was crowned, he would steal his crown and wear it for a couple of days, just to get a feel for it.
But now, Norne wore the crown, and he was still gone. This once green and naive human was now silver-haired, and had even founded a nation for his people in this scarred and broken land.
But he still had not returned.
When Norne had spoken that familiar, yet now long-unheard, title of 'God-slayer', her fingers, which had been hanging loosely at her side, had twitched.
Her gaze fell upon the holy sword that was leaning against the tree beside her, the Holy Right Sword, Athos. Once worshipped by generations of elves, it now just sat there. She, a saint, could now draw it and wield a fraction of its power. It was the last thing he had left her. After the final battle, before the dust had settled, he had given it to her.
"Get everyone out of here!"
That's what he had said, his voice firm, yet tinged with an apology, a plea, and something else she couldn't quite understand at the time... a farewell?
And then, he was gone.
He had taken the Divine Right Sword, Org, and all of his secrets, and had vanished into the tide of black mud that had erupted from the dying god.
Without a trace, like a drop of water in the ocean.
Thirty years.
For a long-lived race, thirty years was an insignificant speck of time. But for her, these thirty years had been an eternity. She had searched every corner of the continent, had slain countless demons and magical beasts. But all she had ever found was his legend, never a trace of him. No one even knew what he looked like. All they knew was that, decades ago, a hero named Rhodes had emerged, had slain the god of the demons, and had saved the world.
If only he had left behind a statue, she thought.
She didn't know why she was so fixated on finding him. He was dead. All she had to do was erect a tombstone, and visit it when she thought of him. That was the elven way.
But why... why couldn't she just accept that he was gone?
The one who was always smiling, yet could unleash a terrifying power in a crisis.
The one whose magical talent was far greater than her own, who could always create some new, unexpected spell.
The one who would quietly prepare everything for her, who would have the audacity to pat her on the head.
Rhodes. Her first partner, the only one in her long life who had ever supported her in her near-obsessive quest to slay a god.
Anyone else would have been scared off by her ambition. But he had just smiled and said he would do it with her. He was so unique, so special.
And now, he was gone. All that was left was the cold touch of Athos.
Without him, her future would surely be a boring one.
In the magic mirror, she watched the boisterous celebration. It all felt so unreal. Everyone was laughing, their faces filled with joy. But for her, a wave of loneliness, a loneliness so intense it threatened to consume her, washed over her without any warning.
She raised a hand and pressed it to her chest.
It hurts.
For some reason, her heart ached. The feeling was so foreign, so heavy, that she could barely breathe. Before him, she had been used to being alone, to studying magic alone, to living alone. She had thought that for an elf, a farewell was just a temporary thing, something that shouldn't bring any pain. But his disappearance... it was like a flaw in a perfect magic circle she had created. No matter how she tried to fix it, to fill it in, the hole just became bigger, more conspicuous.
"Where are you?" she murmured, her voice trembling with a tremor she herself did not notice. "Are you really..."
Her gaze was fixed on the cheering crowd, as if hoping to see a figure who could not possibly be there.
"Why... won't you even leave a single trace?"
Hope is a beautiful thing, but often, it is a painful one. It is the hope in one's heart that gives one the strength to go on.
She remembered his back, as he had stood before her, shielding her from the Divine Strike.
She remembered his resolve, as he had stood before the two kings, Org in his hand.
She remembered all the little details of their discussions, as they had created the 'false Divine Strike' together.
She remembered the calm on his face, the night before they had entered the Godfall Land.
The images were all so clear, as if they had just happened yesterday. And because they were so clear, the pain in her heart was all the more intense.
She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in a complex spell, to drive away the pain. It was a trick she had used often in the past thirty years. But this time, it failed. Against the backdrop of the celebration, the pain was magnified.
She looked down at Athos. Tied to its guard was a simple, somewhat worn tassel, woven from an ordinary thread. It had been something he and Somme had made when they were learning to weave. She had called it ugly, and had said it didn't match the sword. But he had just smiled and said, "I think it looks fine."
She gently touched the faded tassel. A single, cold drop fell and was absorbed by the vines on the scabbard, leaving no trace.
(End of Chapter)
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