Bonus Short Stories

Festive Fall

After prayers had been offered to the Great Goddess above, next came the shrill chirrup of a tin whistle, and then the bagpipes, bouzoukis, fiddles, and accordions—all of these instruments burst to life in unison. A lively clamor filled the town square, especially around the stone icon. There were cheers here and there, accompanied by the clacking of wooden tankards struck against one another that spilled copious cider on the hands holding them with each impact.

The sun was in the midst of its descent behind the mountain, and here and there, the glowing bonfires illuminated the faces of festivalgoers. The autumn festival usually would have started a bit sooner, but Helvetica’s chaos had delayed it—not that the villagers minded. They were delighted to have the young and beautiful Countess Bordeaux join in on their festivities.

Helvetica and Seren smiled as they were led around as guests of honor. While Helvetica came off as sociable and mild-mannered, the way she walked exuded nobility. The villagers observing from afar knew in their hearts that their lady was quite the individual.

There was one conspicuously larger flame amidst the other bonfires, around which the village children and youth danced and skipped to tunes. Belgrieve watched over this scene, feeling tranquil. The sun was gradually setting, and the dancers looked like nothing more than silhouettes against the flames. This only made them seem even more lively.

Angeline used to jump around with them, Belgrieve reminisced. With his artificial leg, dancing was not his strong suit, but he remembered Angeline dragging him along, and he recalled himself teetering around the ring.

“It’s been too long... Or has it?” he mumbled to himself.

It hadn’t been so long ago that the image of Angeline as a child had faded from memory.. However, it had already been five years since then. How has she grown? If she had managed to return by now, then just maybe... He shook his head.

“She’s doing her best at what she loves.”

I can’t force her to come back just because I want to see her. That’s just me being selfish. He gave a wry smile and took a sip of cider.

A large shadow loomed over him, and he turned to see Hoffman’s weary face.

“What are you doing all the way out here, Bell?”

“What? Something wrong, Chief?”

Hoffman scratched his head, a troubled look on his face. “I tried entertaining Lady Helvetica, but I’m not good enough! I feel bad for leaving everything to you, but could you handle this one?”

What a chief we have. Belgrieve chuckled and stood.

“I doubt I’ll do any better...but I am the one who asked her to stay.”

“Oh, thank Vienna! And sorry!”

When Hoffman brought Belgrieve over, Helvetica joyously rose from her VIP seat.

“Oh, Belgrieve, I was just wondering where you had gone! Come over, don’t be shy!”

“Sis.”

“I-It’s quite all right, Seren...” The countess shrank under her sister’s glare.

With a smile, Belgrieve lowered himself into the seat offered to him. It was right beside the statue of the chief goddess, from which he could overlook the whole square. It had grown rather dark by then, and the stars had begun to blink on in the perfectly clear sky.

Belgrieve poured Helvetica a glass of cider, and then said, “I know my invitation was quite spur-of-the-moment. Was there somewhere else you were supposed to be?”

“No, I’m very grateful. I’m the one who should be asking if I’m causing any trouble by being here.”

“You’ve caused a boatload of trouble, sis.”

“I-I know, Seren... Can’t we move on?”

“Ha ha, give her a break already, Seren. I don’t really mind... Are the two of you acquainted with this sort of music?”

“Heh heh... Those nobles in the duke’s domain might not know it, but I’ve been surrounded by it since I was a child. I like it more than ballroom waltzes.”

“We’re often invited to village festivals in Bordeaux territory. They play these songs there, more often than not. The dancing might not be so elegant, but I like it as well,” Seren chimed in.

Belgrieve laughed and nodded. “Glad to hear I didn’t waste your time.”

“Heh heh, you’re surprisingly cynical, Belgrieve,” Helvetica chuckled, to which Belgrieve shrugged.

“Who knows? Some things you just stop caring about, once age catches up to you.”

They carried on with small talk as they sipped their cider and partook in the feast. Laughter broke out here and there, and gradually, the ring around the fire was growing larger and larger.

Helvetica watched, delighted, and let out a faint, longing sigh. “Such a lovely village. I wonder why I never came here before.”

“It’s an honor to hear that from you.” Belgrieve poured her another cup of cider.

Helvetica grinned at him. “I’m sure I would never have come here if it hadn’t been for you, Belgrieve. I am thankful for this bond you have forged for me.”

“I hardly did a thing. You should thank my daughter...thank Angeline.”

“Aha ha—that is true, in a sense. But this is undoubtedly your fault: I came here to see you,” Helvetica laughed and prodded Belgrieve in the shoulder.

Seren expelled a fed-up sigh. “There you go, blaming someone else for that bad habit of yours...”

“Oh, c’mon! At least let me have this much! Seren, you meanie!” Helvetica pouted with puffed-up cheeks.

The stars grew brighter and more numerous as the bonfires burned through the twilight.

Parenting

Cooing sounds gave way to sudden violent and vigorous tapping on wood, and Belgrieve jolted awake.

“Shut up!” he screamed at the ceiling.

He could hear something flapping away, chirping on the way out—a woodpecker, evidently.

Good grief. Belgrieve shook his head and lifted himself up. He equipped his peg leg, stood, and opened the window. It wasn’t yet daybreak; while it wasn’t far off from the time he usually got up, it simply did not sit right with him to be roused like this.

He thought to awaken Angeline as well, before the realization struck him.

“That’s right... She’s gone.”

It was the first spring since Angeline left for Orphen. His daughter had set off in the fall, and he hadn’t received a single word from her, save for one brief letter saying she had arrived. Not that any letters could reach Turnera in the winter. Surely she was busy adjusting to her new working environment.

Every morning, he would unconsciously feel the urge to wake Angeline up, and each morning, he would be reminded she wasn’t there. Though he had sent her off as if it was nothing, that parental side of him couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to. It was almost as if he was the one feeling homesick.

He was, of course, worried when his twelve-year-old daughter set off for the big city alone. However, in Turnera, the kids were already doing as much work as the adults by the time they turned ten. Though still naïve, these children worked their hardest to answer their parents’ expectations.

While kids in the towns grew up in their schools, these farm children instead grew up with work as part of their everyday life. In most cases, Turnera folk entered and left the world in Turnera—Belgrieve and Angeline being the rare exceptions. However, the village was gradually changing, as there were now more children learning swordsmanship and entering the mountains in admiration of these two anomalous figures.

In any case, the children who had once played around with Angeline had started to work without her. It was nearly inevitable that she had eventually thought to go out and make something of herself. Belgrieve did not want to get in her way, and he trusted her wholeheartedly.

Slipping on his clothes, Belgrieve took up his sword and went out; it was as good a time as any for his daily patrol. Before daybreak, the world was wrapped in lush shadows, and at first glance, it might have seemed like the village was still asleep. This was, however, a busy time of day on closer inspection. There was a thin veil of smoke from the chimneys as each house prepared breakfast, while the air was filled with the sounds of chicken, goats, and sheepdogs. A few farmers were already out in their fields.

Belgrieve watched his own frosty breath rise, then draped a muffler over his mouth and clenched his shaking shoulders. At the beginning of spring, it was still chilly before sunrise. The fact that the climate had more-or-less warmed up only made these minor chills all the more potent.

He only had a vague recollection of it, but he got the feeling Orphen was warmer than Turnera. It was further south, so of course it was entirely possible that this was simply his gut telling him that, but he remembered feeling perfectly fine on the days when all the Orphen adventurers were complaining about the cold.

Was Angeline feeling the same right now? She would otherwise be out and about with a red nose and ruddy cheeks, running around the Turnera snow. Surely she could endure Orphen’s winters.

“How should I put it...” Belgrieve said after a moment.

It seemed that no matter what he thought about, it would always come back to Angeline. Perhaps this was normal for a parent, but to him, it felt as if he just didn’t know when to give up. In his worry, he considered sending out a mountain of letters. However, if he stirred up the girl’s nostalgia, perhaps she would lose focus at a crucial moment. She could be injured or even killed—this was what Belgrieve told himself each time he found himself sitting by the fireplace with the urge to write.

After making his way around the village, he ventured beyond it. The sun was rising, and his surroundings were tinged with color. The morning dew twinkled in the early sunlight, dazzling his eyes. He slowly climbed the hills, and once he had made it to where he had a full view over the village, he watched the farmers moving about in their fields.

With a long, sharp glance, he made sure nothing suspicious was afoot.

There hadn’t been any fiends for a long while, and no hibernating beasts had wandered into the village under a half-sleeping stupor. The days had passed in peace and tranquility, no different from the year before. No different except for Angeline.

She used to love this place, didn’t she? Belgrieve’s thoughts had turned to Angeline again, naturally. He smiled wryly and stroked his beard.

“Good grief... She’s going to laugh at me for acting like this.”

He stood up straight, the creaks and cracks in his back letting him hear his body loosening up. Let’s not be too morose. Today’s a new day.

Pushing his jostled scabbard back into place, Belgrieve began the slow climb back down. The village was fully awake now, and in the haze rising from the morning sun, the air resonated with work songs.

Cider Making

“You don’t have to choose the best ones. Just pick every one you can,” Belgrieve instructed from below.

Eight-year-old Angeline swung freely around the tree. Be they green or misshapen, she plucked and tossed every single apple she came across into the basket below. Angeline was quite a bit better at tree climbing than Belgrieve.

She hummed as she tore the apples from the stems, and once she had filled the basket, Belgrieve lifted and placed it onto the donkey-driven cart. He then replaced it with another one.

The village was dotted with apple trees, both young and old. The older ones were easily over a hundred years old, but still, every year, they were laden with so much fruit it was near impossible to pick it all. It would ultimately become a burden on the tree, so once the time came around, even the unripe apples were picked.

Apples in Turnera were small enough to fit in the palm of the hand. The majority were red and ripe, giving off an enticing sweet scent.

After she had picked the last one, Angeline looked at Belgrieve and called, “Any more?”

“No, you’re good. Come on down.”

Angeline smoothly made her way down, but once she reached Belgrieve’s height, she pounced on him.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed as he caught her. He set her down on the wagon with the baskets, took up the donkey’s reins, and began walking.

It was customary to make cider whenever fall came around. This was a huge job that required all the villagers: apples from all around the village were harvested, pressed in the village square, and poured into barrels. Cider was one of the few alcoholic beverages they could make in Turnera, and the villagers were eager to make enough to last the year. It would be ready by the next year’s spring festival, and much would be used up in the fall festival after that.

Belgrieve’s cart entered the square, which was filled with the apples gathered from all over. The green ones, the bug-eaten ones, and the rotten ones were all picked out—these would go to the livestock.

Angeline jumped down from the wagon, spread her arms, and took in a huff of the stirring scent. “Hee hee, it smells nice...”

“It does. Now go wash your hands,” Belgrieve urged her. She went and rinsed them off at the water hole with the other children. The water was colder in the fall, and it felt frigid when she stuck her hands into it.

Apple presses were brought out from every house to process the carefully selected apples. The adults spun the handles round and round while the children romped about and tossed in the apples, all the while the crushed fruity remains oozed out of the bottom. It all went through a strainer, with the apple juice filtered out and the pulp remaining on top. The scent of apples grew even stronger.

The children would often steal tastes of the pulp, a good motivator for them to keep up their work. A few were scolded when they tried tossing in apples from away, and each time laughter would abound.

When the barrels were full, the yeast was added, after which they were brought to the village’s communal brewery. This was a sturdy building of stacked stone sealed with mud, made so the temperature inside hardly changed between summer and winter. There the barrels were to be stacked up and allowed a peaceful rest until their time came to shine; it would be a long time before anyone knew what each barrel of cider tasted like. The fall festival would soon be upon them, but the barrels they would crack open for it would be the previous year’s vintage.

Once the square had been cleaned up, Belgrieve returned home with a heaping basket of apple pulp, while Angeline returned with a bottle of apple juice.

“We’re not done just yet, Ange.”

“Okay.”

Belgrieve sifted the fireplace for the charcoal buried in the ash, poured the pulp into a pot hanging above it, and kindled a fire. He added a bit of water, squeezed some lemon, and added sugar to the pulp. Sugar was valuable in these parts, but this was for the sake of preservation, and he was not sparing in the amount. It would be pointless if he cut the amount and it ended up rotting.

“Now stir well so it doesn’t burn.”

Angeline set up camp in front of the pot, a wooden spoon in one hand. At first, it only let off steam, but gradually, it began to bubble and fill the house with a sweet scent.

“Dad...it’s boiling.”

“Good, good.”

Belgrieve removed some wood to reduce the flame. The boil became gentler, and the apple mash that still retained some sense of cohesion dissolved into a watery mess. This was boiled down further, gradually removing the moisture.

Angeline quietly looked back. Belgrieve was wiping down an earthen pot—and once she knew he was distracted, she discreetly blew on the spoon and stuffed it in her mouth.

“...Howt.”

Sweet, sour, and hot—the apples were syrupy and so good she nearly reached for another spoonful.

“Ange, it’s about time to store it.”

“Yesh!”

Angeline turned in a panic. Belgrieve looked at her dubiously but quickly figured her out.

“You nipped some, didn’t you...”

“Erk...”

Angeline turned away, her cheeks red. Belgrieve laughed and patted her on the head.

“How about we have dinner before we pack it up?”

“Yeah!”

There was no way she could turn down freshly baked bread with hot apple jam. Enraptured, Angeline came back for five more helpings, and each time, Belgrieve slathered on a thick jam layer with a wry smile.

“We won’t have anything to store at this rate.”

The closed windows rattled under the evening breeze.

Winter Nights

A spell of good weather had continued for the past few days, yet today, the sky had been covered in gray clouds since the early morning, and snow poured down without end. The Orphen cityscape was dyed white, and the sweepers—who would usually be keeping the streets clean—were now tasked with shoveling snow. They wore thick coats, with caps pulled down far enough to hide their faces, and their breath came out white as they worked their shovels.

Angeline sat in her room on the bed, absentmindedly gazing out the window. She did not know how many days she had been stuck doing this. Her shoulder had healed, but it was apparently best if she didn’t move it so much. She had never received such a serious wound since becoming an adventurer, and she didn’t quite know how to recuperate. And so, she stayed still as told.

Fighting the demon had allowed her to experience many things. This included the boredom that came from having nothing to do. Her young body was simply brimming with energy, and it was quite a trial to hold it down and lay about idly. Perhaps that was even harsher than the pain.

Once afternoon came around, the sun began its descent—not that she could see it through the clouds, but she could make a good guess from the lighting.

“I’m bored...” Angeline flopped down on her back. Her eyes took in that same white ceiling she saw before bed every night. If I’m going to be seeing it so often, I might as well paint a portrait of dad on it, she thought to herself. Not that she actually felt compelled to make that dream a reality.

Even when she didn’t do anything, she eventually grew hungry. Walking didn’t bother her, so she would usually head to the same old tavern, but now that the snow was coming down, she couldn’t be bothered to go out. The time passed in vain as she thought long and hard over how she would spend it.

It was strangely lonely to be on her own. She turned over a number of times in bed, buried her face in the pillow, and shut her eyes, distracting herself with the strange flickering sights beneath her eyelids. Though her stomach was empty, the fact she had done nothing made her less inclined to do anything about it.

It had grown terribly dim outside when there was a sudden knocking at the door. Angeline lifted her face.

“It’s open...” she muttered.

The door swung open and Miriam popped her head in.

“Yoo-hoo, Ange. How are you feeling?”

“Hmm, not bad. But I’m bored.”

After Miriam came Anessa. They both brushed off the snow they had collected while walking on the streets.

“Hey, Ange! Hah, it sure is cold today.”

“Both of you at once... Is something up?”

“Heh heh, I knew you would be bored, so I came to play,” said Miriam.

“You haven’t had dinner, right? I didn’t think you’d go out in this snow,” Anessa said conversely, and began placing ingredients on the table.

“You got that right... You’re my savior.”

“I’ve been pretty bored these days too. The leftover calamity-class fiends have pretty much been all cleaned up.”

While Angeline’s party was taking it easy, the reinstated retirees were going all out, and by now they had exterminated a majority of the calamity-class fiends. Things were back to how they were before, with the high-ranking fiends restricted to dungeons and far-off, uninhabited lands. Human settlements were safe, at least to a degree. Angeline would probably have been bored even if she could move about.

She had wanted a vacation for so long, but that was because she wanted to return to Turnera. She had never wished to idle here in Orphen. However, the road to Turnera was sealed off by snow, and she would have to wait until spring.

Anessa mixed meat, vegetables, salt and spices into a soup which, along with some soft bread from the bakery and small, salted fish from the grocer, became their dinner. The window glass fogged from the inside warmth.

Angeline ate the fish atop the bread and drank the soup. Its sharp taste worked wonders for warming her body.

“Delish!”

“Ah, the cold makes it even better than usual,” Miriam said, as she carefully blew on her bowl of soup.

Angeline grinned at her. “You’ve got a cat’s tongue...”

“Shut it!”

They argued a bit about pointless things and shared a bit of gossip around the table. Despite this and that, it was nice to have friends around. It staved off the loneliness and was fun in its own right.

The steam wafting off the soup writhed like a living being under the light of the lamp. It seemed the temperature outside was falling as the night drew on, and it gradually became a penetrating cold. The warm soup gradually tasted better the longer they were together.

Suddenly realizing something, Miriam stood, strutted to the window, and rubbed the fogged glass to look outside.

“Oh,” she said and turned. “The snow stopped. The moon is out, and it’s beautiful!”

The three girls crammed into the narrow windowpane and gazed outside. The white-coated townscape sparkled under the silver moonlight.

Angeline recalled how she would walk along snowy paths with Belgrieve at night. That silver world under the pale moon was breathtaking, as if it had come straight from a painting.

She hesitated for a moment. “Do you want to go out for a bit?” she asked.

“Sounds good.”

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

The girls hurriedly donned their coats and left. With the lamps snuffed out, the only light remaining was that of the pale moon streaming into the room.