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“Ow-ouch!”
That was careless, Nanalie — careless and stupid!
I’m still groaning in pain and scolding myself when I get back to Harré after a long day of preliminary investigation in the forest down south.
It had been an absolutely sweltering day, especially in the southern regions, now that we’re in the middle of the Season of Light. After running around like a maniac while carrying out my field work, I came up with the ingenious idea of taking a soak in the clear waters of a beautiful lake. Even though my guild uniform — like all Harré issued uniforms — cleans itself magically and doesn’t get dirty or absorb sweat or odour, it doesn’t prevent me from working up a terrible sweat and feel all sticky and disgusting.
I could have just spelled myself clean, but it was just so hot that I couldn’t resist the temptation. Plus, it would have been such a shame to pass up the opportunity when the lake was just right there.
Turns out, bathing in the lake was a bad idea. Well — the bath in itself was fine — very refreshing. But, just as I was getting out of the water, I had slipped on a slippery rock and cut myself on its jagged edge. As if that weren’t bad enough, in my reflexive reaction to the sudden and sharp pain, I had jumped — and landed hard! On shards of broken glass! Right where I had just cut myself on the rocks!
Talk about adding insult to injury — literally!
Ugh — if he ever hears about this, he’s going to make fun of me, isn’t he? Well — no — he may tease me about it, but even I know he never really means it in a nasty way that truly wounds — I can admit that. But it would make me feel like I’ve lost to him at something, somehow — especially given the miserable fact that I’m significantly worse at healing magic than your average non-ice-type mage, let alone him.
Eh, it’s fine — not like he’s around to gloat or anything!
Pushing him firmly back from the forefront of my mind, I try to ignore the pain and focus on my work. But just then, as though summoned by my thoughts, the Guild’s front door opens and in walks him — Alois Rockmann!
“Gah!!!” I involuntarily let out a yelp that is way too loud as soon as I see him.
“Gah?” Rockmann quirks an eyebrow curiously at me, looking mildly amused.
As my counter is the only one not currently attending to any sorcerers or clients, he makes straight for me. Following behind him is Prince Zenon, who is surprisingly not in uniform. Not that he is never out of his uniform — it’s just that I assume they are here on duty for the Order of Knights, seeing as Rockmann is in full knightly regalia.
“You two have a curiously unique way of greeting each other,” comments His Highness. “Nice to see you again, Nanalie.”
“Tch, if you could even call that a greeting.”
“No way! There’s nothing unique about how he and I greet each other or anything!”
Rockmann and I protest like children getting told off at a playground, our voices overlapping, while Prince Zenon just shrugs good-naturedly.
The arrival of these two ridiculously good-looking gentlemen has sent all the women and quite a few men into a frenzy around the Guild — which means, since they are in front of my counter, all those stares are also coming my way. I scowl briefly at Rockmann, uncomfortable with the usual attention brought on by his presence, especially since most people at Harré are aware of the sort of relationship he and I have since the battle against Stadal. Still, I’ve gotten quite used to it by now, so I don’t make such a big deal of it.
Wait—what?! Since when has his hair gotten that long? I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, but — even though it had been above his shoulders when I saw him last — his luscious honey golden hair is now reaching down to the middle of his back. And he’s got it in a high ponytail, too — I bet if he lets it down, it would reach all the way to his waist.
I’m aware that the suppression of his vastly excessive magical powers is what causes his hair to grow out abnormally quickly. But it seems he always cuts it off when it gets beyond his shoulders. Occasionally, I have seen it reach to around his chest, but even that is rare. I have never seen it this long before. The only time I’ve seen him with waist-length hair was when he got turned into little child Rockmann by his baby brother’s pestrokraive. He was tiny then, so the length isn’t comparable.
“What? Something the matter?” Rockmann raises both eyebrows at the weird look I’m giving him.
“Uh, well, um …”
I want to ask about it, but cut myself off before I can, given where we are right now. I give myself a little shake and try to get back into professional mode — not that that usually works around Rockmann.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Your Highness,” I say, acknowledging his earlier greeting. “What brings you two here today? How can I help?”
“Oh, I’m not here for anything today; it’s Alois here who has business with you.” His Highness grins, reaching up to place a hand on Rockmann’s shoulder.
“You’re making it sound misleading, Your Highness,” says Rockmann in that mild mannered way he reserves for Prince Zenon.
“Well, you’re the one who insists on working the long additional hours, even though you’re already seriously overworked!” says the Prince in obvious concern. “The Harré reports could have waited until tomorrow, Alois — though seeing Nanalie here might make your extra efforts worth it.”
“You didn’t have to come along,” replies Rockmann, looking completely unbothered by His Highness’s mild nagging. “Besides, I’m not the only one with additional work. You do have a lot of duties outside of the Order too, don’t you, Your Highness?”
“The total amount put together isn’t even comparable to yours,” sighs the Prince. “And as for coming along, don’t worry, I’m not here to get in the way.” He throws me a quick grin, whatever that’s about. “I’m just here to make sure you have dinner afterwards. We both got off work an hour ago, yet here you are, still working. Not to mention, you’re taking over for their Captain in the Seventh Platoon’s mission tonight, aren’t you? Knowing you, you might just put dinner off for later, and completely skip a meal or two.”
“You exaggerate, Your Highness—”
“Eh? You really shouldn’t be skipping meals, you know,” I interject, in spite of myself. “What are you going to do if you collapse? You’ll only make things worse! You’ll just make others worry all the more about you. Who’s going to take care of your duties and responsibilities if you’re out of commission?”
Prince Zenon gives me an appreciative look that says ‘Yeah, you tell him!’. I’ll admit, hearing His Highness words has me concerned about Rockmann’s health. It seems he’s being totally overworked as usual!
“The Prince is exaggerating; you needn’t pay it any heed,” he insists stubbornly. Before His Highness and I can protest, Rockmann drums his fingers impatiently on the countertop and continues, ignoring our glares, “I’m here for the records of demonic activities and statistics for the last month.”
“Oh, fine!” I grumble, reluctantly letting it go — for now, at least.
Much as I hate losing to him — even in an argument about his own well-being — I’m still at work, and he’s here for work. So, I get up gingerly and limp to the filing cabinets.
“Here you are,” I say, returning after a while.
He’s giving me a strange look — his head slightly tilted, eyebrows furrowed. I place the documents on the counter in front of him, but he doesn’t immediately react.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” he grunts when I push the folders against his front at his lack of response.
He flips through the documents and studies them across the counter from me — his damnably elegant fingers tracing down lines he finds particularly significant — while I just stand there waiting, in case he might need anything else.
“Any reason you’re walking around like an old lady?” he asks out of nowhere, without even looking up from the reports.
“Well excuse me if the way I walk is not up to your standards!” I huff in annoyance, reluctant to admit the truth. “I do not walk like an old woman, you jerk.”
“Hmm, you’re right. Plenty of old women walk more gracefully than that. Comparing you to them would be an insult.” He smirks, eyes still focused on the document in front of him. “So, what’s your excuse?”
“Just hurry up and finish—”
“I-I’ll tell you, Marquess!” shouts an over-enthusiastic voice, interrupting me mid-sentence from the next counter, which is now clear of clients and sorcerers.
Oh, no. It’s one of my junior fellow receptionists, Janus Telaroyde. He’s a young man with chestnut hair, who is ordinarily calm and relaxed, except when it comes to his overzealous admiration for this guy. It seems that Janus has been completely charmed and taken with Rockmann ever since we accidentally gatecrashed Princess Carolla of Sheera’s wedding, where Rockmann had taken care of him and allowed him to lodge with him in his quarters. And now, Janus is one of the loudest proponents of the Alois Rockmann fanclub, much to my endless headache.
He jumps up from his seat and hurries over eagerly, like a panting little dog excited to see its master.
“Miss Nanalie — uh — I mean Miss Hel — she was out on a preliminary investigation earlier today, you know. And then she hurt herself real bad — it’s terrible, Marquess, terrible! But she won’t let anyone help heal her! She insists it’s her own fault and that she deserves it. At this rate, it’s going to totally fester and get infected. She won’t even let any of us — not even Mr. Alkes or the Director — touch her there.”
Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up! I mentally scream at Janus. Unfortunately, that irritating guy — Rockmann, who else?! — has just silently sealed my mouth shut with magic to stop me from interrupting.
Janus looks up with large puppy eyes at Rockmann, who has now straightened up and is practically towering over us with eyebrows climbing higher and higher at Janus’s long-winded, traitorous explanation.
“Is that so?” Rockmann says, cool as ever, once Janus has finished. “Thank you for explaining. You’re a very caring colleague.”
He gives Janus a kind smile, and I swear there are hearts and stars in that poor boy’s eyes. Not for the first time, I feel like pulling him aside and warning him that only heartbreak lies down that path — or not, I guess, since Rockmann is always kind to others, even when rejecting them. Not that I’m saying Janus has those sort of feelings for him — he doesn’t, does he?!
While I’m glaring daggers both at Rockmann and my junior colleague, Rockmann takes off his black gloves and drops them on the counter, next to the documents he was just perusing — dispelling the silencing magic with the same smooth motion.
“What’re you—?”
Before I can protest, he makes his way swiftly around the counter and approaches.
“Eh, Alois! You’re not going to do it right here, are you?” Prince Zenon cuts in with a harsh whisper — trying to grab Rockmann’s arm — thank you. “He did say she got hurt there, as in somewhere inappropriate for others to see, right?”
W-wait—what?! Is His Highness misunderstanding something here?
Before I can figure that out, Rockmann rolls his eyes and shakes the Prince’s warning hand off. He is now directly next to me behind the receptionist counter, one hand firmly on the polished surface, trappping me between him and the desk.
“It’s just her left foot,” he huffs in irritation. “Isn’t it?” he adds for confirmation, looking down at me closely.
“How did you—? Ugh, never mind!” I throw my hands up in frustration. It irritates me to no end that he’s gotten it right on the first guess. “Yes, it is. Now step back already—h-hey!”
Without warning, he just forces me to sit. One minute I’m standing there glaring up at him — and the next, I find myself slumped back on my chair, my left foot already in his hand, as he smoothly kneels on one knee.
“I’m so going to kick you, Rockmann!” I yell in indignation.
“Go right ahead and try,” he replies, completely unconcerned, even though his stupidly handsome face is within perfect kicking range. “It’ll just hurt you more than it hurts me.”
Over his blond head, I see Prince Zenon shaking his head, smiling faintly and shrugging to my fellow Harré colleagues, who are gawking openly at us now. Meanwhile, Janus is making an effort to shield us from sight with his back to us, hissing “The Marquess is concentrating,” and “mind their privacy,” to anyone trying to look too closely.
“Why can’t you just mind your own business,” I grumble. “Don’t you have a lot of work to do?”
Rockmann just ignores me, as he tugs the white Harré uniform boot off my left foot.
“So, how did this happen?” he asks casually, as though just making small talk.
Reluctantly, I tell him the whole story through clenched teeth, as he gently rolls my sock off, propping my foot on his right knee — the one not kneeling on the floor. He frowns as soon as he lays his eyes on the state of my foot.
Since I am so bad at healing magic, I had to find a way to staunch the bleeding. The wound is really deep — a long and jagged glass shard had pierced almost straight through my foot — definitely beyond my ability to heal it myself in one sitting. So, using my ice magic, I’d lightly frozen the area around the wound and encased my foot in ice.
Unlike plenty of healers, I have to have direct contact with the wound in order to try and heal it. Minor scrapes and scratches are fine. But actual wounds are difficult, let alone something so deep. If I had the day off, then maybe I could slowly attempt to heal myself — but even then it’s doubtful I would be able to do it right. I could have, should have, gone to see a proper doctor, but since I’m on the clock, I figured I could do it on my next day off — four days from now — as the doctors close before I get off work. Even though my colleagues have been urging me to go at once, I feel bad, so I insist I’m fine, despite feeling like lightning is tearing through my foot every time I move it.
When I explain all this to Rockmann, he just looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot.
“And? Why are you refusing help from your colleagues?” he asks, tilting his head curiously. “Don’t tell me you actually think it’s a smart idea to punish yourself by letting it fester?”
“Of course not!” I huff, crossing my arms. “It’s just embarrassing!”
A small flame flickers to life at the tips of his fingers, as he carefully runs them over the ice around my foot, slowly melting it off. Steam rises in his face, giving his already flawless complexion a glossy glow that would make ladies everywhere faint.
“Hmm, you have a point there,” he agrees, to my momentary surprise. “Guess I would be pretty embarrassed too, if I had gone for a swim during work, only to get hurt by my own clumsiness.”
This guy!!!
“That’s not it!” I yell in protest. “And I’ll have you know I did not go for a swim during work — I was on lunch break!”
“If you say so,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “You didn’t deny you’re clumsy, though. Is that what’s got you so embarrassed?” He lets out a small derisive laugh.
“Ugh! Yemikmeeshoaangweeshumtymsh!” I hiss through gritted teeth and pursed lips. Translation? You make me so angry sometimes!
I can’t exactly tell him that having anyone kneeling that close, in this uniform, is mortifying enough to make me want to melt through the floor. But that smirk of his — ugh!
Giving up, I stare fixedly at the desk to avoid looking at him, as I admit quietly, “Just feels weird — with this skirt and all …”
At this, Rockmann’s eyebrows jump up in surprising — well — surprise. His crimson eyes track from my foot, up my bare leg, to the hem of the white skirt of my uniform — which is about knee-length when I’m standing up, but rolls up my thighs when I’m sitting down like right now.
“What?!” I snap, blushing despite myself.
He blinks, long eyelashes fluttering. “Just … surprised, is all,” he replies, dragging his gaze back to my mostly defrosted foot. “I didn’t know you have a sense of modesty.”
“How rude!”
Blood is now oozing out of the open wound and all over his black robes. I try cleaning it away, but he just shakes his head to hold me off. Guess there’s no point until the whole thing is done …
“Well, you certainly didn’t care what I saw in the infirmary back in fifth year,” he continues, quietly reminding me in a low voice, so that no one else can hear, “when I came to deliver homework with Feltina, remember?”
“I distinctly recall clarifying that if it were any other guy, I would be embarrassed!” I protest just as quietly, remembering, to my present mortification, when Benjamine and Rockmann had brought me my homework, and I had greeted them while only half dressed. “So I did have modesty, j-just not with you or whatever!”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You said I didn’t count,” he snorts, now gently numbing the area around the wound with magic. “At least, that gave me the guilt-free pass when I had to undress you, while you were unconscious, for the Orcinus operation.”
“Oh, shut up! That was then — we were in school back then — not during the Orcinus operation, I mean — but still—! Ugh, what I’m trying to say is that, it’s different now — with you — it’s not like before, is it?”
I give up trying to articulate my thoughts and just plop my head in my hands — almost accidentally shoving my toes in his face with the motion. He dodges and scowls at me.
“Hold still, will you?” He sounds exasperated, as he carefully starts to extricate the shards of broken glass embedded in my foot. “Besides, you say it’s different now, but nothing has changed,” he continues, eyes fixed on my wound. “You’re still letting me do this, despite your short skirt.”
“Well, you didn’t really give me a choice,” I complain.
“Sorry about that, I guess,” he murmurs, and — to my surprise — shrugs off his cloak and throws it across my legs, his long golden hair flipping forwards with the fluid motion in an impressive, shimmering arc that would make any lady jealous.
“What’s the matter with you? You can take back your cloak, I’m fine,” I huff, confused, but he just ignores me. “Just so we’re clear, I could totally have stopped you if I really wanted to!” I add, infuriated by the thought that he might have just overpowered me. I’ll be damned if I admit out loud that I’m letting him do this because I know I can trust him or whatever.
He doesn’t answer, just smirks.
I try to shove his cloak back at him, but the moment I lift it, his stupidly long golden ponytail — still hanging over his right shoulder from when he threw the cloak on me — ends up brushing against my bare legs. Great. Just great. Now his hair’s tickling me, too.
I squirm from the sensation, earning a frown of annoyance from Rockmann.
“Hel, if you don’t keep still, your foot might just get split down the middle,” he warns. “There’s a particularly large piece in here. I think it might have cracked further while it’s in your foot — probably from the freezing. Now, hold still. I need to make several incisions to remove it cleanly.”
“I can’t help it, OK?!” I protest, still squirming. “It’s your stupid hair — it’s getting in the way — ugh!”
Rockmann purses his lips and sighs. I see him tilting his head at a specific angle and tensing his neck and shoulder muscles.
“No — wait!” I yelp before he can move further. “Don’t you dare flip your hair! With that length, it’s going to smack me in the face.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he grumbles, but does not proceed with the guaranteed face-smacking hair flip.
Instead, to my horror, he lifts one blood-soaked hand to push his hair back.
“Oh, fine — I’ll do it!”
I grab his unfairly soft and silky hair out of the way before his filthy hand can reach it. And then, just to express my annoyance, I give the absurdly perfect ponytail a playful tug, jerking his head slightly.
He gives me a weird look, like ‘are you serious?’, before his lips twitch into a small smile.
“Maybe I should have resorted to hair pulling instead of just burning yours when we were fighting back in school, huh?”
“I’ll remind you that your hair is in prime hair pulling condition right now,” I snort.
I try to mess the perfect strands up by raking my fingers through the ponytail. Sadly, this does not produce the effect I’m hoping for, since its ridiculous softness just makes it slip through my fingers like liquid silk, and fall flawlessly straight back into place. Gah! I can’t believe I’m even being defeated by his hair, of all things!
“Why is it so long, anyway?” I ask, pouting at my failure to give him a messy hairdo.
“I lost a bet,” he answers simply, shrugging.
“HAH?!” I’m so surprised that my voice bursts out of me louder than intended. “What kind of idiotic bet lands you with ridiculously gorgeous hair when you lose?!”
“Mm, I wonder,” he hesitates, eyes flicking upwards beyond the counter.
“What kind of answer is that?”
I follow Rockmann’s gaze to see His Highness — who seems to have turned around to face us at my sudden outburst — averting his eyes and frowning like he’s got a headache. Now I’m curious.
“If you’re really that curious,” Rockmann says, with a surprising hint of suppressed laughter in his face and voice, “maybe you should ask Satanas when you next see him.”
“Huh? I guess I’ll—”
“Absolutely don’t, Nanalie!” His Highness interjects hotly. “Alois — I guess you couldn’t have helped it, since Nanalie is the one asking — but, honestly!”
He huffs and folds his arms, pouting slightly. I almost laugh. It’s kind of rare to see Prince Zenon behave like this with Rockmann, given how well they get along. It’s usually Satanas who brings out the funniest reactions from the gallant third Prince of Doran.
But also, what’s that supposed to mean? Since I’m the one asking…?
“Well, it would be weird to lie about something like this, wouldn’t it?” Rockmann replies lightly, fingers now deftly slicing the flesh around the large glass shard with magic. “Growing out my hair like this for no good reason is just going to invite peculiar suspicions.”
“Then why did you agree to that absurd wager in the first place?!” His Highness huffs, without any real bite in his voice.
“I didn’t think I was going to lose, Your Highness. I really didn’t expect that outcome.”
“Wait wait!” I interrupt, having just heard something I absolutely cannot let go. “Did you just admit to being defeated? You? Perfect Sir Alois Rockmann losing at something?!”
I feel like I can stand on top of the world and let out a loud ‘ohohohohohoho, you big loser!’, even though I’m not the one who actually defeated him.
“It’s just a bet,” scoffs Rockmann.
I stick my tongue out at him, smirking.
“Ah, now I really, really want to know about that miraculous bet!” I sigh and give Prince Zenon a pleading look.
“Tch, fine!” cries the Prince, throwing his hands up. “Better that I tell you than you hear it from that idiotic silver Curly!”
He huffs and puffs for a moment, before finding the words to explain.
“Alois and that idiot made a bet when we were out drinking a few weeks ago. When I had to turn away momentarily from the table, those two apparently decided it would be amusing to test out the new and improved version of Alois’s creation — that-that infuriating but brilliant thing — the ‘Device for Direct Address of His Highness’!”
“Eh?” I blink, remembering that small, sloppily gilded wooden box which lets you talk straight into Prince Zenon’s brain, even when His Highness is asleep. “How was it improved?” I ask — I can’t help feeling curious.
“Nothing much. It now allows the user to project images directly into His Highness’s mind, in addition to speech and other noises,” Rockmann explains nonchalantly. He’s acting rather unconcerned as the absurd genius behind the creation, as though he’s just carelessly talking about the weather.
“To be fair,” says Prince Zenon with a frown, “it has its uses. It already boosts our military advantage greatly, giving us a means for instant communication, regardless of distance. And now that it can transmit images as well, you can imagine the invaluable tactical and strategic upperhand it gives Doran.” He sighs. “There’s no denying its importance and significance, Alois. But why — why?! — did you have to give it that ridiculous name, and make that stupid Curly your first test user?” His Highness shakes his head in exasperation, but I can see a weak and helpless smile on his face.
“So, the improved version allows you to share images from your mind to His Highness’s?” I summarize to make sure I’m following. “How does that relate to the bet?”
“Uh, nothing can distract you from trying to learn as much as you can about Alois’s potential weak spots, can it?” groans Prince Zenon, clearly hoping I would let it go.
“I guess not …” I grin sheepishly.
“Well, they were betting on my reaction to that particular image appearing suddenly in my head.” His Highness lets out a long suffering exhale. “I hadn’t known about the improvement, so I was completely caught off guard when a certain image popped into my mind out of nowhere!”
“Your Highness, you know that’s just going to make her even more curious about that suspicious image you keep mentioning,” prods Rockmann, still sounding cool, as he proceeds to cleaning my wound out with a gentle cleansing spell.
His Highness looks up at the ceiling, fighting the blush creeping up his neck. “It was an image of someone I know — in swimwear.”
“A woman?” I ask, judging by how embarrassed His Highness is getting. “Since Satanas is the one projecting it ... is it someone I know? Don’t tell me it’s BENJAMINE?! I’ll kill that fool if he thinks it’s okay to project images of his own girlfriend like that—!”
“Hel, calm down. It’s not Feltina,” scolds Rockmann, tightening his grip on my foot as I flail in indignation on Benjamine’s behalf. Then, he adds without warning, “It was Brunel.”
“WHAT???!!! N-Nikeh?!” I splutter. “How did he—when did he—what image did he—?!” Then I remember. “Oh — he must have used his memory from our trip to the beach in Seleina …”
Rockmann nods, while Prince Zenon plants his face in his hands in defeat.
“Huh? But, Your Highness,” I continue, puzzled, “you saw her on that beach in person, didn’t you? I didn’t think you’d be so affected by an image of something you’ve already seen before!”
Prince Zenon actually slumps against the counter and buries his face in his arms.
Rockmann meets my gaze and shakes his head, a small smile playing on the corner of his perfectly shaped lips.
“So, um,” I hesitate, still curious, but reluctant to kick the Prince when he’s already this down.
Taking pity on his friend, Rockmann decides to just finish the story himself.
“The bet was to see if His Highness could keep his composure when Satanas projects a series of images of Brunel on vacation,” he explains matter-of-factly. “Satanas wagered His Highness would, at the very least, get flustered and definitely blush. I, on the other hand — perhaps a bit naively — wagered that His Highness would only be annoyed and cross with us. As you can see,” he grumbles, waving a hand at his long hair, “I lost — spectacularly, at that. So I’m supposed to leave my hair to grow out until the end of the Season of Light.”
“But that’s — like — three more months to go!” I exclaim in shock. “Your hair might reach the floor by then!”
He shrugs, applying pressure to the wound.
“Probably. But a bet is a bet,” he sighs. “I’ll just have to learn some hairstyles that will keep it out of the way.”
“That could be fun,” I murmur. “Maybe you could do braids or one of those fancy buns.”
“I’d say it serves you right, Alois,” complains Prince Zenon, seeming to have recovered a little. “But I would honestly have preferred to see Curly bald. That was the price he would have paid if he had lost,” he adds for my benefit.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me at the image of Satanas shaved bald.
Before I can make any comments, Rockmann starts sanitizing and cauterizing the wound with a gentle flame.
“N-n-n-nooo!” I let out a weirdly whiny sound, arching my back from the overwhelming and strange sensation coursing through my whole body. “S-st-stop, R-Rockmann, please! I’m gonna—I’m gonna—!”
Gonna what?! I don’t have the first clue.
Rockmann’s brow furrows.
“Does that hurt?” He looks puzzled. “Is the numbing effect not strong enough? But, you didn’t react earlier, even when I was pulling out the shards.”
“N-no,” I gasp, panting slightly and flushing all over, as I grip the arms of my chair tightly. “I-it’s not pain. Just … feels weird!”
“Weird?” echoes Rockmann, growing increasingly confused. “Hel, what are you—?”
Prince Zenon lets out a cough.
“Alois … I think it’s making Nanalie … uncomfortable …”
“Uncomfortable—?!”
It seems that something has clicked, the light of understanding dawning on his distractingly good-looking face — though, what has he come to understand? I have no idea. I don’t even know what’s my problem here.
Rockmann chokes, and averts his gaze momentarily. It looks like he’s struggling with something on his face — muttering to himself under his breath, “… not impossible … but this is her we’re talking about …” — while one hand is still applying some temporary magical measure to halt the bleeding in my foot.
Finally, he inhales sharply, looking frustrated, before turning back to me with a perfectly calm composure.
“Hel, you’ve had worse injuries. But if I don’t do this, your bleeding won’t stop any time soon.”
“Ugh! What do all those ladies see in you and your merciless lady-killing attitude!”
I’m fully aware I’m not making much sense — but that’s just how badly that peculiar and unfamiliar sensation has shaken me.
I take a peek at his face, and I’m startled by the somewhat desperate and worried look in his sharply defined features.
“F-fine! Let’s just — get it done with!” I sigh.
Before he continues, I grab his earlier discarded cloak, bundle it up, and press my face into it. The natural scent that fills my nostrils is warm and unique to Rockmann — like the smell of the sun on a fresh summer’s morning. I know it’s totally undignified, but as soon as the sensation hits again, I bite down hard and moan into the black fabric, my eyes nearly rolling up into the back of my head from the intensity.
A moment later — or it could have been an entire year later — I feel a tap on my knee, like a steadying rhythm.
“Hel, breathe.”
At the sound of that familiar voice, I extricate myself from the bundle of fabric I’ve been chewing. Looking up in a daze, I see Rockmann watching me closely, like he’s trying to make sure I’m still alive or something.
“You’re fine now,” he says with a small smile, once my eyes focus on his. “It’s over. Now I just need to heal it fully.”
“O-OK,” I reply weakly.
The healing spell he’s casting feels like the comforting warmth of a cosy fireplace on a cold day — the kind that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Eh? Do you think it’s over? I hope Nanalie’s OK …”
“Humph! Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t be OK if you had someone like that taking care of you?”
“How do they make healing a serious injury look like foreplay?”
“Are we sure they’re not secretly married already?”
“The Marquess—the Marquess is so cool!”
In the background, I can vaguely hear my co-workers whispering to each other, but I don’t have the energy to argue. But that last one was definitely Janus.
“There, there! Why don’t you take Nanalie up to her room, hmmm?”
…But that voice — that’s the Director! In other words, my boss! In other words — aaahhh!
“Director Locktiss!”
I jump up so suddenly, I nearly kneed Rockmann in the face. Scrambling to my feet, I try to bow to the Director to apologize for slacking at work — but, as I clumsily try to stand, my legs give out, and I nearly pitch forward, before a set of strong arms catches me by the waist and hold me up. I shoot a quick glance back and see that Rockmann has somehow gotten up from his kneeling position to standing behind me in a blink of an eye.
“Don’t be too hasty,” he scolds. “You’ve lost a lot of blood since you got injured. I’ve cast a spell to replenish your blood, but you shouldn’t be pushing yourself too hard for a while.”
“Uh — thanks — but this can’t wait!” I turn back to the Director and offer a ninety-degree bow, with Rockmann still holding me up by the waist, and I press my hands together in front of me. “Director, I’m so, so very sorry! P-please — I’ll go back to doing any odd jobs you assign me — just please, please let me continue working here! I apologize for my careless and clumsy mistake, and for slacking on the job, even though I totally deserved it — it’s totally my fault that—!”
This time, my mouth is magically sealed shut by two simultaneously cast spells — one from behind, and one from the front (Rockmann and Director Locktiss, respectively).
“I do beg your forgiveness, my lady,” Rockmann apologizes smoothly, in that gentle aristocratic voice of his, and offers a graceful bow of his own. “I fear my indiscretions have caused the Sorcerer’s Guild a great deal of trouble. I ought to be ashamed for disrupting Miss Hel’s workday with my personal affairs. If you should require recompense, then I appeal to your beautifully gracious heart that you should only seek it from me, the offender.”
“Goodness gracious — you two!” the Director sighs in motherly amusement, blushing slightly from being so addressed by such a gorgeous man. “I’m not going to punish Nanalie here for an accidental injury — what kind of employer do you two think I am? Even the best of us gets hurt, you know. I’ve said it before, Nanalie, and I’ll say it again. Perhaps I will get angry if you get nothing done. But you’re a hard and diligent worker. A few days off to recuperate from an injury is no big deal. So stop that at once, you hear?”
She musses my hair fondly, and turns back to Rockmann.
“You’re a good man — unlike your Commander, that beardface Grove,” she continues with a warm smile. “I only came out here to tell you to take Nanalie back to her room. I promise I’m not seeking any recompense. Just take care of our Nanalie, alright?”
“Thank you, my lady.” Rockmann sounds so sincere, I worry the Director might just fall for him then and there. “You truly are as fair and gracious as the rumors claim.”
Then, he releases me from both silencing spells with a single snap of his long fingers, and sits me back down in my chair while I’m busy thanking the Director. With a wave of his hand, all the blood and shards of glass from my injury vanish into thin air, leaving everything immaculate.
“Have you got everything?” he asks, looking around my desk and gathering up the scattered papers into a neat pile, somehow sorting them correctly along the way.
I blink. “I, uh, I’m good to go.”
I try standing up again, but Rockmann just sighs and picks me up, lifting me over his shoulder with one arm around my waist, holding me in place.
“H-hey!” I yelp in protest. “Do you have to carry me like a sack of whatever?”
“Well, I would carry you properly, but can you handle it?” His tone is completely challenging — I’d bet if I can just see his face, there’ll be a smug smirk there!
“Just try me!” I huff. “Besides, don’t you think it’s totally rude, forcing me to stare down at your backside like this?”
He lets out another sigh. If I get gold from every sigh he breathes, I’d be filthy rich by now.
Without putting me down, he slips me off his shoulder and into the cradle of his arms. I suddenly realize this position brings our faces very close together — and I blush, averting my gaze. He just looks straight ahead, as though none of this is bothering him in the least.
“Your Highness,” he calls, stepping out from behind the counter, “I’m taking her back to her dorm room. Why don’t you go ahead back to the barracks. I’ll join you in a bit.”
“Of course, take your time,” Prince Zenon answers immediately. “I’ll take these back to our room in the barracks. Just let me know if you’d be happy to let us rearrange the personnel on duty for tonight’s operation.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replies Rockmann. “And thanks.” He nods to the documents now in the Prince’s arms, which he had come to collect in the first place.
Then, excusing himself and nodding to the other Guild employees lingering around, Rockmann strolls out of the Guild with me in his arms.
“Hey, um, Rockmann?” I say quietly, after a few moments of silence.
“Mmm?”
“Come to think of it ... You know when we ran into each other during the flower festival a few years back?” I ask, straightening to try and peer into his face. “That time when you commented on my new shoes from Amalfi’s?”
“Sure,” he answers without looking at me. “What about it?”
“You healed my feet back then too, didn’t you?” I ask, for some reason still clutching his cloak. “I mean, at the time, I thought you were just mocking my new shoes — but after we parted, the pain and aches were just gone. We both know my healing ability is not good enough to work without me directly touching the affected area. So … I guess I kinda figured out it must have been you, when you were playing about with my shoes.”
He neither confirms nor denies it — just raises an eyebrow, like ‘So?’.
“Um, how did you know?” I ask, genuinely curious.
At the time, I hadn’t even told Yakkurin — with whom I was attending the festivities, — and instead tried to get away under the pretence of using the bathroom to heal my feet, before we ran into Rockmann on patrol.
“It’s simple. I saw you wincing and grimacing just before I called out to you in the crowd,” he answers simply, shrugging. “You were making quite the silly face for someone out on a date.”
“That was NOT a date!” I shriek in protest.
“Hmm, that so?”
He looks … amused…? Relieved…? No way, right? Yeah, let’s go with amused.
“Anyway,” he continues, “I took a good look over you, and noticed your shoes were new. After that, you stomped your foot at me — very childishly, I might add — and it looked like you were involuntarily clenching your jaw to brace against the pain. That confirmed it for me.”
“Ugh! Why do you always have to be so sharp and observant?!”
I throw my head back in exasperation — but since I’m cradled in his arms, I just end up dropping my head on his right shoulder.
He doesn’t answer, and just tightens his arms to adjust his hold on me.
I sigh. “After that, the demons attacked the palace, and then there was that whole thing with the Orcinus operation, right?” I press on. “So, I guess I kind of missed the opportunity — But, uh, thanks for that.”
“It’s hardly worth mentioning.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable for once.
“Well, you might think nothing of it, but it matters to me,” I mutter. “I don’t like leaving debts unpaid.”
“Hel, you don’t owe me anything,” he says sternly. “Consider it an advanced apology for knocking you unconscious later that night, if it makes you feel better.”
“But that was only because you were protecting me from the Orcinus agent, so I don’t feel like you should be apologizing for that,” I protest. “In fact, I was going to volunteer to be my protector’s servant for a whole month, remember? But that person very rudely refused my services, all because he thinks I’m a crybaby!” I pout, eyeing him pointedly.
Rockmann lets out a laugh, the motion jolting me in his arms.
“I stand by my refusal, thanks,” he snorts, casually flipping back his hair. “You’d be a menace of a servant.”
“Hey, I’d be able to help with the cooking and cleaning, at least!” I cry indignantly. “Speaking of which …” I twist around in his arms to stare directly into his face, as he climbs the steps up to my apartment. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
He raises an elegant eyebrow with a face that screams ‘what’s wrong with you?!’.
“You might as well, while you’re here!” I huff defensively. “Didn’t His Highness say you’d just put off meals when you get too caught up with work? I may not be able to cook as fancily as your chefs, but I make do.”
“You cook just fine,” he responds, completely straight-faced.
Huh? What’s he talking about—? Oh, right, he must be recalling that one breakfast we shared in my room, the morning after he turned back from little Rockmann to full-grown.
“So? Are you staying or what?” I press as we step into my room, and he sets me down gently on a chair at the dining table.
“Uh, sure,” he replies distractedly. “Are you sure about cooking when your foot is still tender? It’ll be hard for you to stand for a while. I could just go out and get you something.”
“Don’t underestimate me!” I pump my fist in determination. “I’ll make it work.”
“Fine, if you insist,” he says in a resigned tone. “Do you mind if I help, though?”
“Huh?” I blink. “You? In the kitchen?”
He smirks and raises a challenging eyebrow. “Hel, once you’re fully healed, what say you to a cooking game?”
“Hah! You’re on!” I shout, slapping the table.
I don’t even need to hear the rules and conditions — if he challenges me to something, fire would have to freeze over before I admit defeat without taking up the challenge!
“As for dinner tonight, sure,” I continue with a smirk of my own. “Show me what you’ve got!”
Could be fun to watch this refined aristocrat fail miserably in the kitchen!
“You’re thinking something rude, aren't you?” He reaches over and flicks me on the forehead.
“Ow-ouch! Cut it out! I was just thinking of dinner prep — ugh! Speaking of which, you’ll have to put up with vegetables today, though,” I say, getting a little excited in spite of myself. “I forgot to purchase more meat the last time I went shopping. If only my experiments with magic circles to produce meat were successful!”
“What’s that?” Rockmann perks up suddenly, surfacing from whatever that’s got him so distracted for a while, as though grabbing onto the topic like a lifeline.
“Oh, um, it’s just a little experiment with magic circles I’ve been working on for years now,” I explain, half gloating that I’ve got this brilliant idea. “I tried creating meat out of nothing at first, but that was a miserable failure. So I tried using different things as a base. I’ve experimented on countless things before: dried meat, coilmarp, eggs, fruit, gourds... Nothing has ever come as close to meat as these tiny beans.”
“Show me?” He holds out his hands, looking interested all of a sudden.
I hesitate briefly, before handing him a stack of papers with my notes and experimental magic circles.
Fifteen minutes later …
...? ...?! ...???!!!
The whole women’s dorms at Harré probably heard my scream of frustration, as Alois Rockmann effortlessly completes the spell I’ve been working on for nearly five years! Five freaking years — with varying degrees of failure! And he just—just successfully produces perfectly textured meat — in fifteen freaking minutes!!!
WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO LOSE TO THIS GUY???!!!