Even a Scoundrel Gets Tired

61 – The Order, Aftermath.

Thereafter, the situation was resolved with all possible haste.

“Stop, all of you!!”

“””…!!”””

The black-clad figures, still assaulting the priests with lewd laughter,

were utterly stunned by the pontiff’s commanding roar as he strode forward.

He must have recovered his strength while I was occupied with Grid; his aura was considerable,

and none dared to step out of line before such power.

“Hey, padre, shouting like that, we’re gonna—”

“Ugh…Ughaaack!!”

“My…my head…?”

Of course, there were those who failed to grasp the atmosphere,

but they soon ceased to exist, so it didn’t matter.

Having silenced the black-clad figures entirely, the pontiff

immediately set about managing the situation.

The situation was, to put it mildly, not good.

Almost all of the Order’s facilities had been destroyed;

it seemed easier to find those that remained intact.

Many priests and knights had lost their lives,

and even the surviving nuns were mostly defiled.

The pontiff’s fury at seeing their deadened eyes

was palpable, even to me standing beside him.

The surviving knights and priests wept, clutching the cold

bodies of their comrades,

while the raped nuns sat slumped on the ground like dolls,

all light extinguished from their eyes.

Rather than reveling in the joy of victory

or the relief of survival, everyone

mourned the lost lives and the deaths of their friends.

But they had to accept reality.

Denying death went against their beliefs.

All they could do was pray for their departed souls

as fervently as possible, spending the night in tears.

And the saintess, Hildegard, was no exception.

From afar, I saw her holding a small child in her arms,

a bottle with a shattered lip clutched in her hand.

I cautiously approached her, and

Before her lay three freshly dug pits,

two already occupied, it seemed, by earlier guests.

“…Isn’t she precious? Just look at this tiny hand,

and these dimples that appear when she smiles.”

“…”

“She even begged me for a piece of candy with that little hand, you know?

I still remember her expression so vividly.”

“…”

“Father Hern, he never went anywhere without a bottle in his hand.

I told him to stop so many times, heh.”

“…Are you alright?”

“Am I alright…?”

The moment those words left my lips, I could see her face.

Unlike her face, which remained stubbornly unchanged,

her voice slowly began to drown.

Not like single droplets of rain.

Not like a fleeting summer shower.

Not even like sun showers, masquerading as something more.

No, it was like thunderheads, billowing, rising.

Like the wind, tearing through everything in its path.

Like the oppressive humidity that soaked everything,

a downpour brewing within her eyes.

“I’m not alright…”

“…”

“You know, I thought I was used to death.

I’ve seen people die during treatment, albeit rarely.”

“…”

“But…not at all.”

Even darker thunderheads billowed

within the Saintess’ eyes.

A storm raged within her heart,

and nowhere within that heart would one find the eye of the storm.

“I’m sad, that my acquaintances are dead.”

“That is normal.”

“It hurts, the fact that I can’t see them anymore…”

“That is also normal.”

“And…and…I hate it, hate it so much…”

Finally, water streamed down from the Saintess’ eyes.

Tears born of a pain so profound,

Tears streamed, born of a hatred too profound to bear.

“What did our congregation do to deserve this…?”

“…”

“Preaching the doctrine, healing the afflicted…”

“…”

“Setting aside personal desires, living a life for others…

most of those who lived like that died like this.”

Speaking so, she bowed her head deeply, even as her finger,

the Saintess’s finger, pointed in one direction.

In the direction it pointed,

a hill of crimson and black had been formed.

To say it had been *formed* might sound strange,

but it was the truth.

That hill was made of the countless bodies

of the congregation, sacrificed in this assault.

The Order wished it could offer each of those many corpses a prayer,

but such leisure did not exist.

Inevitably, the choice was made to cremate them all at once,

and offer a single prayer for their souls.

Of course, the scene was far from pleasing.

The pure white that symbolized the Order was stained crimson,

and the spectacle of countless corpses piled high could only appear black.

The hands jutting out here and there from the mountain of corpses,

seemed to yearn to escape this place,

and the corpses that had died with their eyes still open,

appeared to cling to this world, even in death.

And so, the Saintess and I stared endlessly at that sight.

Did I, who had almost abandoned them and fled,

even have the right to pray for their souls?

Lost in that train of thought, someone approached us.

“…Saintess, it is time.”

“I… understand…”

It was a priest I vaguely remembered seeing once before.

The priest who had watched me the second time I went to find the Saintess.

He moved to leave with the Saintess,

then turned to me, offering a suggestion.

“The Saint should come as well.”

“…To where, may I ask?”

“…To the cremation and prayer for the deceased.”

For a moment, I was filled with the urge to ask why I should go there.

I almost asked why, but the atmosphere forbade it.

The expression on his face wasn’t exactly welcoming either.

As I followed him, the sound of weeping grew louder in the distance.

The keening of the faithful.

Each one had lost a family member, a sibling,

or their dearest friend in the attack,

and every single wail echoed in my ears.

“Saintess, this way, please.”

“…Yes.”

“Saint, you may come this way.”

“Understood.”

From that mountain of corpses, that forest of the fallen,

the Saintess and I parted ways.

The Saintess moved closer to the grieving.

I headed towards the other faithful, lost in solemn prayer.

The Saintess halts before the bodies.

And brings her hands together at her chest.

Her pure white divine power blankets the corpses.

Clad in black nun’s habit, radiating a white aura,

yet it felt neither strange nor jarring, but rather, wholly sacred.

As if her pure light were a signal,

the faithful began to unleash their own divine powers.

The nun weeping for her dead friend.

The knights, who until now maintained their stoic composure.

The priests, clutching their rosaries and reciting prayers.

Not a single one was exempt from unleashing their divine power.

Lost for a moment in the spectacle unfolding before me,

the Saintess slowly begins to speak.

“Your hair will become ash, enriching this land.

Your calloused hands and feet are proof of your service to others.

The wrinkles etched upon your bodies are a testament to the hardships of life.

Our Mother awaits you in the distance.

At first, she may chide you.

For you are but creations, flawed humans, endlessly insufficient.

This is only natural, unavoidable.

But in the end, she will forgive you.

And she will soothe and comfort you.

She will show you what you protected.

Show you that what you protected still stands, unbroken.

She will tell you that your sacrifices were not in vain.”

“And finally, they shall embrace you, saying well done.

You may rest easy now.

It is alright to shed tears from time to time.

We shall inherit all of your hopes and your will.”

The Saintess’s prayer, which had continued on, paused for a moment.

She swiped at her eyes with a sleeve of pristine white.

Though she surely wiped them meticulously,

her emotions welled up, overwhelming her.

Her voice, as she continued, was stained with tears once more.

“If you would but wait a little longer, we shall join you.

On behalf of all, I ask for but a small favor…

When that time comes, when you meet us, when we can finally meet…

A simple, ‘it’s been a while,’ that is all I ask for…”

The final words, “Rest easy,” never come.

The Saintess has collapsed to her knees, midway through.

Her sorrowful voice echoes throughout the world.

Tears stream down her face.

A sobbing voice emerges into the world.

She despairs at her tears, which she cannot control.

And at that very moment, the congregation also begin to weep, no longer able to hold it back.

Even on the faces of the knights, who had stood so solemnly,

a single, shimmering teardrop quivers.

Behind the Saintess, the Pope approaches.

In one hand, he holds a holy icon.

“The final send-off… I wish for you, Saintess, to grant it.”

“I… I…”

“It is alright. They too, will desire it so.”

The Saintess hesitates, before finally accepting the holy icon.

A golden flame, ignited by divine power.

It touches the crimson-black hill.

And at that very instant, the surroundings are illuminated.

With a brilliant, golden light.

A light so beautiful that it would draw a smile from anyone who beheld it.

But no one rejoiced.

For they knew that the heart of that light was not beautiful at all.

No one dared to smile.