"It's a shame we didn't get to meet your father," Sven sighed, his head lolling against the steam carriage's window. The sun was just beginning to set, painting the dense environment of the lower-class residential district with vibrant hues of orange, pink, and yellow, untainted by the grime.
The shadows of scaffolding, haphazardly strewn about, etched thin lines across the landscape—creating an unusually overbearing sight that was both pretty yet overwhelming at the same time. Ansel's breath fogged up the other window as he let out a small yawn. "Yeah..."
"Already getting sleepy?" Eyra teased. "...Well, the bread your mother made was delicious, Ansel. The outside was so crispy, and the inside was so soft. It also tasted kind of sweet!"
"Talking about sweet," Rotteger interrupted, slightly smirking, "I saw you put four whole cubes of sugar in your tea. Your teeth are going to rot and fall off if you keep catering to your sweet tooth, Eyra."
* * *
"Well, I don't need my teeth to fight, do I? I don't bite people, Rotteger." She furrowed her brow, a childish pout momentarily playing across her features. After her remark, a comfortable silence settled across the carriage. Cerua had already fallen asleep—slumped against her seat with little care for the world. Exhaustion was catching up to the group—the weight of the accumulated efforts they had put in throughout the past three weeks. Before long, all of them were fast asleep.
The carriage hissed to a halt on the Unified Training Academy's forecourt. The driver stepped off, opening the door and gently prodding Ansel's arm to wake him. "Rise and shine, kid. You should know better than to doze off in a stranger's carriage. If I were a lesser man, I wouldn't have hesitated to rob you all on the spot."
"Hm? What?" Ansel's eyelids slowly fluttered open. Registering the coachman's words, an embarrassed flush came across his cheeks. "Oh, I-I'm sorry," he spoke, sleepiness apparent in his voice. Fishing in his pocket for a few brief seconds, Ansel pulled out a silver coin and handed it to the driver. "Thank you for taking us so far."
"No problem," the coachman pocketed his payment. "You kids should get going now. It's getting pretty late." Watching Ansel slowly wake up his friends, a wistful smile stretched across the coachman's face. "Heh."
* * *
The following day, Ansel ventured into the medical wing. He had known Samson had been awake for a few days now, yet still hadn't decided to pay him a visit. Though Samson was now fully conscious, his injuries were still recovering, and he didn't have permission to leave his designated recovery room.
Knock, knock.
"Come on in."
The door's handle turned, jittering for a moment before the door swung open. Ansel walked through the doorway, his gaze focusing on Samson for a moment before looking away. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
"Ansel, right?" Samson was sitting up on his bed, leaning against his headboard. He tilted his head to the side, eyes scanning over Ansel's form. "I've heard quite a lot about you. You've changed quite a lot in three weeks. It's impressive."
"O-oh," Ansel stuttered, taking a seat by Samson's bedside. "Really? Thank you." Going silent for a moment, he pondered what to say. "...About orientation day. I just wanted to say... I'm sorry. If I had just agreed to spar with Dominic, then..."
"Then you would've gotten beaten up instead of me?" Samson chuckled. "Ansel, you should know that I didn't spar Dominic to save you the trouble. I just had some petty feelings directed toward him. Those same feelings clouded my judgment of the situation, so don't blame yourself. You are not at fault for anything that happened to me."
Ansel opened his mouth to speak but suddenly stopped. 'Am I really reading into this too much?' he pondered to himself. He hadn't really exchanged words with Samson before—the two of them were practically strangers. "I see. I'm sorry for—"
"Stop apologizing," Samson spoke bluntly. "You seem like the type of person to say 'sorry' a lot. Let me give you some advice, Ansel." Samson straightened up. "Only say sorry for things you had a part in causing. Don't say sorry to me, or to anyone else who has suffered some sort of misfortune or tragedy unrelated to you. Superficial sympathy isn't something people want—"
"But, I—" Ansel's voice caught in his throat. His gaze went suddenly downcast. He didn't mean for this conversation to take such a sudden turn.
"I know your sympathy isn't superficial," Samson chuckled. "Relax. Just by taking a look at you, I can tell that you're a nice person, Ansel. I'm just saying that being nice and being overtly sympathetic don't always have to overlap. Sometimes, when you're nice and sympathetic, you end up sounding like a pushover."
"I understand," Ansel gulped. "...But I still think you're wrong. I think being nice means being sympathetic to some regard." He looked at his reflection in the window. "I mean... how are you supposed to treat people with respect without being able to put yourself in their shoes for even just a little bit?"
"Hehe," Samson smiled. "You aren't a pushover after all." He crossed his arms, following Ansel's gaze to the window. "Either my philosophy was incorrect," he narrowed his gaze, "...or you are the sole exception."
"I don't think that," Ansel smiled back. "I think everyone has the capacity to be nice and sympathetic. No matter what they've done in their life. No matter what goes on in their head... they're still human after all."
"How about Dominic?" Samson forced the question out, almost as if he had also been searching for the same answer. "Do you think he could be nice and sympathetic?"
Ansel grinned. "Of course. I really... I really don't think Dominic is a bad person." He looked at Samson with cautious eyes. "I know he did horrible things to you, but... I feel like there's a lot he isn't telling us. I want to help him, but... I don't know if he'd accept my help."
"Why do you want to help him?" Samson raised an eyebrow. "I have heard about your duel. You were apparently beaten to a pulp—on the brink of death—and somehow, you managed to miraculously recover and beat Dominic with a single touch. Are you helping him based on the notion that the powerful should help the weak? Is that the same reason why you're talking to me right now?"
Ansel took a few seconds to think over Samson's words. They carried a weight that could define a person. 'The strong protecting the weak...' a sentiment that had been around for generations. "I..." Ansel's voice trailed off.
"I'm sorry. It was quite a loaded question," Samson shook his head. "Don't be pressured to answer."
"No," Ansel spoke clearly. "Strong or weak, I think people should help people who need help."
"You're describing an impossible society." Samson gestured with his hand. "There will always be bad actors. People who don't want to play by the rules. They will cause a butterfly effect, and 'helping other people' will be second to 'helping yourself'."
"I know that," Ansel sighed. "...Helping yourself is just as important as helping other people..." He let out a bitter laugh after hearing his own words. "...Honestly, I don't know what I'm saying. It's paradoxical, I know, and it's basically impossible..."
The sound of students laughing echoed in from the courtyard. The trees outside rustled, hit with a fresh gust of wind that blew at stray leaves scattered across the ground. There were no visible clouds in sight. It was a perfectly blue sky. Samson stared at Ansel's side profile, painted in gold by the midday sun filtered through the glass.
Ansel exhaled a short huff of air, turning to look at Samson:
"Wouldn't it be nice if we could all just get along?"