The West Wind's Destination - Chapter 12
“I’m not a mage.”
“I understand. But the fact remains that you expended your energy because of me, which is not much different.”
Because of him? That was a misunderstanding. As if he, a mere subject for an experiment to revive her master, mattered that much.
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Understood. Then, please rest just for five more minutes.”
Irritated by his disregard for her words, Bea felt a surge of annoyance, but his hands were quicker.
Before she could say anything, he gently guided her back down and covered her eyes with his large hands, large enough to cover her entire face.
As Bea reluctantly lay back down on the suddenly too-soft bed, she realized her body wasn’t obeying her own will.
Why had the bed become so comfortable all of a sudden?
“…Just five minutes.”
“Understood.”
The feeling of his hand stroking her scalp and covering her eyes was surprisingly comforting, a gesture he had done before when she was in pain.
Without realizing it, she surrendered to his touch and drifted off into a deep sleep.
❖
Afterwards, a strange cohabitation began.
He would occasionally call for Bea while she was immersed in her research, and each time she had to eat the food he prepared. Even if she had resolved to drive him away that day, she would forget as soon as proper food entered her mouth.
Once, he asked if there was sugar in the lab, so she transmuted a sucrose compound for him using alchemy, and he made such a fuss over it and started praising how great she was that she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to leave. The food he served that day was so sweet that even Bea, usually a light eater, finished the whole plate.
Sometimes, when she was holed up in the lab, he would call her only to forcibly lay her down on the bed. She tried to get up immediately, but whatever he had done made the bed so warm that she ended up falling asleep right there.
And even after ignoring his calls and trying to snatch a quick nap in the lab, she woke up to find herself on the bed, having slept far longer than her usual resting hours. It was all his fault.
Conclusion: this man named Aseph was a considerable hindrance to her research.
Bea intended to drive him out and return to her work, but he stubbornly refused to leave.
So, while he was lingering around, Bea decided to check whether the organs she had created and replaced were still functioning well after a long time. Fortunately, whenever she asked, Aseph would compliantly strip down his upper body. Except for the warmth she felt on his skin each time, everything seemed normal.
The sutured areas didn’t look good, likely because she had focused all of her energy in creating the new organs, and it seemed he had attempted to treat some of them himself.
As Bea felt his scar with her hands, she said,
“I’ll need to fix this scar.”
“It’s fine. Such a thing can become medals of honor for soldiers.”
Indeed, scars on a soldier’s body were often seen as markers of their time on the battlefield, evidence of their survival.
But for Bea, such a thing was difficult to comprehend. To her, war was merely a place to kill and survive, not a place where such acts could be considered achievements.
“I’ve seen plenty of fools like that. Strutting around until they die from infected wounds. And this is a surgical mark, not a scar from the battlefield.”
Suddenly, laughter filled the air, prompting Bea to look up. The man was laughing, brightening up the entire room.
“Why are you laughing?”
“It’s the first time you’ve spoken more than two words to me.”
That amused him? Laughing so carelessly over such a thing. He seemed easygoing.
Seizing the moment, Bea asked,
“…Aren’t you going back?”
“Back where?”
“To your unit. Deserters in wartime are typically executed.”
“War, huh? Can what happened even be called a war?”
Aseph appeared contemplative.
To a soldier who was not a mage, the battlefield was merely a place to serve as a shield for mages. Bea assumed this man was one of those used in such a way.
“…They’ll think I’ve died in the meantime, so it should be alright.”
Makes sense. Rather than being labeled a deserter, he was probably considered a casualty of war.
When Bea first encountered Aseph, he was closer to a half-dead corpse, especially one from an explosion. It was miraculous he was alive at all, and she had attempted to save him without much expectation.
If he had died despite her efforts, she would have simply stopped. She had devoted so much time because his body endured more than expected, which made her think to try just a little more.
“But since this is a surgical mark… Then that’s all the more reason why you shouldn’t remove it.”
“But leaving it as is won’t look good.”
Reluctantly, Bea ran her palm over his scar, a long line like the width of a finger, uneven with the stitches.
As Bea absentmindedly continued to touch it, Aseph let out a low groan and removed her hand.
No, he didn’t just shake her hand off. He held onto it for a while.
“Does my body appear beautiful to you?”
“It’s perfect.”
He seemed momentarily lost for words. His large thumb rubbed against the back of Bea’s hand. Whatever he was doing, it was incredibly ticklish.
“Does it also… appeal to your heart?”
It was an unexpected question. As Bea looked up at him again, his face was too close, close enough for her to feel his breath.
