Hilde of Dithmarschen
Someone once said that people of the North are strong. That in a land where winter never ends, one cannot survive without strength. That statement is half true.
Those who romanticize nature claim that nature makes humans stronger—but not here. The North offers no such grace. Only those born strong can survive in this land.
When it snows, it piles higher than a person's head, and it is not uncommon for snow from the previous year to remain unmelted even into the following summer. Monsters that have existed since before recorded history roam day and night, sometimes even crossing the fortress walls. Weakness cannot exist here—for it is death.
However, there is a flaw in that statement. Even in the North, summer does come. Whether naturally or artificially, it arrives—though it merely shows its face and disappears, never lasting long enough for crops to ripen.
Occasionally, very occasionally—once every few decades—there is a year when summer settles deeply enough to dry the land. The last such year was over fifty years ago, as distant as a single lifetime. And yet, I remember it clearly.
My memory is full of gaps worn through by forgetfulness—perhaps even distorted by nostalgia. But one thing is certain: that year, I was not alone. She was by my side.
"Ulrich."
She—Hilde—called my name.
"You don't age, do you?"
We were walking through the fields.
As the snow that had blanketed the land melted away, green shoots rose between the soil, as if fresh with morning dew. The scent of grass—rare in the North—tickled my nose. The sky, usually heavy with clouds year-round, was clear blue, and the wind that once carried snow now felt warm.
"I don't age."
"And you don't die."
I wondered what she was trying to say. Why ask such an obvious question all of a sudden? She already knew I had lived far longer than any human or half-fairy.
"Doesn't it hurt?"
It was the first time she had ever asked me about immortality. It wasn't something I had ever considered a secret, yet she had always treated it as though it were one, keeping silent until now.
I stopped walking.
She halted a step later, turned to face me, and stood before me. Her eyes trembled slightly.
"Was that rude?"
Perhaps my silence unsettled her; she asked cautiously.
"No."
"If it's difficult to answer, you don't have to."
"That's not it."
I simply didn't know how to answer.
"As you know, I neither age nor die. Time always leaves me behind as it flows onward. Even fairies, who seem to possess eternal life, eventually collapse before the years. What they have is merely the right not to age—and so they slowly meet death."
"..."
"The same goes for dragons. When the Third Human Empire rose, the first dragon had already turned to dust in some distant land. Of course, they were born before me… but today, I've lived longer than they did. And look at me—have I changed at all from the person you remember from long ago?"
Hilde shook her head.
"I've sent many people away. And I will continue to do so. The pain you're asking about is probably this, isn't it? Whether it hurts to let others go and remain behind alone."
"Yes. I was thinking that you—"
"If you're asking whether that hurts, then of course it does."
I raised my hand to stop her.
"But life itself isn't painful. Fortunately, I too am granted forgetfulness. Memories fade and become recollections. You understand what I mean, don't you? The present always turns into the past, but recalling the past is not always painful."
She tried to speak, then swallowed her words. After hesitating for a moment, she spoke again. Her voice trembled, just like the eyes looking up at me.
"One day, I'll become just a memory to you as well, won't I?"
"Yes."
"Shouldn't you at least say you'll remember me when that happens?"
"I suppose so."
"You're so cold…"
Hilde let out a small laugh.
"So? Why did you bring this up?"
"May I ask you a favor?"
A favor?
"When I die, I want you to take over my territory."
"You're asking me to inherit your title?"
"Yes. Not anyone else—only you."
Only then did I understand what she truly meant. Still, I asked as if I didn't.
"Don't you intend to pass it on to your relatives?"
"You know how I feel about them."
Yes, I know well.
She inherited her title at the age of eight, and I was the one who stood by her side and protected it. I was the one who blocked the hands that tried to seize her title from that young child—I knew all too well.
"Please."
Hilde took my right hand with both of hers.
Her frail hands, thin and wrinkled, stopped my words. I had been about to say it would be difficult—but she made it truly difficult to refuse. How many times had she ever asked me for something?
I knew the intention behind her request. I also knew that her request was no different from a final wish. And I was not a cold-hearted man who could so easily reject those two things.
The man came back to himself from his thoughts.
What had we talked about after that? No matter how he searched his memory, nothing came to mind. Just moments ago, he could recall even the scent of grass so vividly, yet beyond that point, not a single word remained.
Perhaps forgetfulness was stronger than death, he thought. How could memories be so difficult to hold on to?
—Hilde Dithmarschen
As the winter wind carried falling snow, he stood looking down at a gravestone. It was that very sight that had drawn him into his thoughts, and as he knelt and brushed the snow away, her name was revealed.
He was the one who had engraved that name. He was the one who had laid her in the coffin, who had been by her side at her final moment, and who had inherited her title.
"..."
Hilde died near the end of that summer. Like everyone he had ever formed a bond with, she too returned to dust. And fifty-three springs had passed since then. Summer had come many times in those years, but never again had it lingered as long as it did back then.
"You never cared for your relatives."
He placed a hand on the gravestone and smiled.
The reason she entrusted her title to him—she had wished that he would not forget her. As long as he remained the lord of Dithmarschen, as long as he stayed in the estate where she was born, where she grew up, and where she died—he would not forget her.
That was the kind of man he was. And she had known him well.
The time he spent with her was but a fleeting moment compared to his entire life. A past that would inevitably fade. And yet—perhaps because of that—she had wished to be remembered for as long as possible.
"Lord Ulrich."
The soft crunch of footsteps in the snow approached.
"It's cold outside. Please come in."
The man called Ulrich turned his head.
An old butler stood behind him. His name was Hohenlohe. Hilde had taken him in as a servant seven years before her death, when he was still a child—now he had grown into an old man.
He worried for his master, yet the one who should be worried about was the old man himself. His pale face drained of warmth by the cold, his frail, trembling body like a withered thornbush. Once he too was gone, there would be no one left who had served her.
When the day came that all who shared memories with him disappeared, and even his memories of her grew faint—he would leave. That was the extent of the promise. It had always been that way.
"Yes… I should."
As he rose and left the graveyard, he drifted back into old thoughts.
He had been born when the gods built palaces in the sky and dwelled there. He had witnessed the dwarves constructing towering spires that reached toward the heavens after the gods departed. He had seen those towers collapse and become overgrown with vines, in an age when they were called the World Tree.
Three ages had ended, and after that, the age of humans had fallen and risen twice more—this present era being one of them. Though the world had undergone such immense change, he himself remained unchanged in form since long ago. His heart, perhaps, had changed many times—but even he did not realize those changes. They did not come all at once, but gradually, little by little.
He lived within the flow of time that passed him by day after day. Even death avoided him, leaving him with no choice but to accept life.
Still, he thought, life is not made only of suffering. Though it is painful to part from those one is bound to, in time, new bonds will come. Some say death is a gift from the gods and immortality a curse—but that is not always true.
His name was Ulrich—now, Ulrich of Dithmarschen.
A hundred years ago, he had gone by the name César de Guise. Before that, he had once been called Arturus Magnus.
But those were only a few among the many names this man had borne.
For now, there was no need to know the rest.