Redheads (2)

“Redhead?”

Annabelle tilted her head. “What redhead? Like, that girl is a redhead?”

“Yes… exactly that. With amber eyes. Does that ring any bells?”

This was the second time Annabelle had pulled this ear dragging stunt on me.

I was currently plunged in a bath, neck deep, a vaguely central European design that was more like an open-top barrel. The only thing separating my companion and I was thick steam and a translucent cloth barrier—sufficient enough for me to only get a glimpse of a silhouette and no clear expression.

The thing was, I didn’t really understand how we’d even gotten into this situation. She was taking a bath as well in her own “tub”, yes, but she didn’t necessarily have to be here. The heating system for the baths was maintained through a thaumaturgical artifact that converted quanta into heat, sort of like a crappy Fire pendulum, but I’d miraculously managed to operate this well enough to not just bring the water up to temperature but actually maintain a nice steam. In fact, me operating this bath was probably one of the few things alongside my “eyes” that were keeping my hopes of becoming a mage alive despite all other evidence suggesting otherwise. You could make an argument that she was just trying to be efficient and save time, but she’d never once even floated the idea of taking a bath together until now.

I guess she just wanted to talk?

But earlier she was mad when I asked if she had a boyfriend.

Or was it not anger? Was it something else entirely?

…Is she cheating on someone?

What the fuck was going on?

“...This isn’t one of your silly ironic stories again, right? You promised me you would be genuine as long as I was genuine with you.”

“I did?”

“In the carriage… Do you really not remember…?”

“Wait, wait, no, I do remember.”

I didn’t. To be more specific, I vaguely recalled something like that happening, but my thoughts were too preoccupied with the bath to chase down that memory. We’re sharing the same bar of soap? Really?

She poked a hand through the cloth drapes to drop off said bar on a wooden sharing rack. “So you’re being entirely serious?”

In situations like these, the best thing to do was to drown yourself in work. Not that I would know what work was, so I picked the next best thing—Quanta TCG lore.

“Yes. That fourteen year old girl I was talking to… has red hair and amber eyes. I was wondering if you thought that was important.”

Annabelle’s response was instant. “Completely insignificant. It’s just some sort of cosmetic spell.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well…” she paused. “Um, maybe ‘spell’ is the wrong term. Like how do I put this…? I suppose what I’m trying to say is that she definitely dyed it—like mine is, for instance.”

Excuse me.

What the fuck.

“...”

“Like… every night before I sleep, I’ll use Primal Infusion on a patch of soil to create some plant tokens. I’ll visualise some carnations, crush them with a mortar and pestle, do a little bit of girly magic stuff… and after a few minutes it’s a nice pink paste that I can brush into my hair. By the next morning it’s all dried up and evenly coated.”

“...”

This better not be going where I think it’s going.

“I m-mean, I just thought I’d tell you now, since, um… you know. We’ll be sleeping in the same tent together. Didn’t want you to freak out, like the age thing…”

“Just for reference, what’s your natural hair colour?”

“...C’mon, Primot. Don’t embarrass me like that… there’s a reason I’m changing it. It’s… not pretty.”

Fucking idiotic name. Fucking idiotic world. “Tell me or I’ll pull the cloth aside and find out myself.”

“...”

“...Uh, sor—”

“Auburn,” she blurted.

And then I felt my jaw drop.

I’m killing myself.

And then I realised that made no logical sense. Brown and pink didn’t make pale strawberry. As if to confirm this, she added, “Just kidding. I wish my hair was as dark as yours. It’s blonde, just like everyone from the North…”

Oh thank god. I was relieved—not entirely, but relieved nonetheless. But still, the battle wasn’t over, the tide hadn’t fully come in yet, the men were still encircled by the Germans—and so I pressed on. The old me would have simply screamed and lamented she was fifteen. “Okay, and your eyes?”

“...Um?”

“What. Colour. Are your eyes?” I repeated desperately.

“...Blue? I think? …Oh, wait. I think I get what you’re trying to say.”

Exactly, Annabelle. If you had said “black”, I would have put the soap on my face and waterboarded myself. It would have been undeniable proof this was all a massive psy-op, like that time they censored the Black Eyed Peas.

“...But are you sure the girl really has amber eyes? That’s not… possible.”

“Huh?” I said dumbly. Then I remembered—oh right, there was a point to all of this. “Er, yeah—the princess. Yes, definitely. She also said her name was Maelle.”

“An impostor,” Annabelle concluded, with that strange confidence she sometimes possessed. “For sure an impostor. There’s no way the Crown Princess would throw out her identity so easily. It’s borderline offensive that someone could think they could do that and get away with it.”

“The Crown Princess? Not like… say, a third princess?”

“Well, she’s technically the youngest daughter of King Philip, but since both of her older siblings were born from concubinage… they’re not exactly relevant in the scheme of things.”

“Uh huh. And then how about her superpowered bodyguard?”

“Who? Paladin Soren?”

From her tone of voice, I could tell she was confused by what I meant. Thinking about it a little more, this made sense—Annabelle was wholly focused on riding Cockie, and she missed most of the spectacle. It was apparent to her that Soren had dissipated [Oblivion’s Maw], yes, but without seeing how effortlessly he’d done it, she wouldn’t have been able to understand why exactly I was so shell-shocked. I was quite sure she didn’t see him absorb and reflect the other spell either. More importantly… riding Cockie? But what did I mean by this?

“Uh, nevermind that. Just tell me more about Princess Maelle.”

“...”

Instead of a response, there was silence, and the slight hum of a magical heater.

“...Annabelle?”

“Primot,” she said. “Do you think I’m silly?”

“What? No…?”

“I can tell from your tone of voice you think I’m silly. If that’s so, say it now.”

“...I don’t think you’re silly.”

“You seem to think this girl is actually who she claims to be. Why?”

“Well, because—”

“Because what?” Annabelle suddenly yelled. “Because what?! Her Grace has it really difficult, okay? All the templar scribes and heralds talk about how she’s this prodigy in magic and how she has an Air Saint to tutor her, but all I can think about is how sad her life is! Read between the lines! They’re basically saying she’s not let out of the castle at all and has to go for magic lessons all day! Can you imagine that? Living in the same place your entire life all cooped up? Never riding a good horse? Not to mention all the crazy fanatics that think she’s the reincarnation of some stupid woman who lived 400 years ago just because she has naturally sparkling hair and nice eyes, so now everyone is going crazy?! She’s fourteen! FOURTEEN! All everyone does is go, I think she should marry this, I think she should marry that, well maybe she should live her life and you all need to stop sexualising her! If I were her older sister, I would take care of her instead of sending assassins her way over and over and so many times that she ends up getting locked up by some old Saint who’s probably a pedophile and ugly! It’s disgusting! I hate the nobility! Imagine having a beautiful daughter with your wife and instantly treating her like some kind of object? It’s crazy! Who cares about being the next Queen anyway? Let her love who she wants! She’s fourteen, Primot. Fourteen! And now there’s some crazy bitch pretending to be her going on some stupid adventure?? Who the heck do they think they are? Fucking poser! They don’t understand Princess Maelle’s struggle! I’ll never forgive them!”

“...”

Is she okay?

Annabelle finally paused to take a breath, and I could finally hear the sound of my own thoughts again. Her silhouette heaved up and down in the bath next to me as I sat there in shellshock.

The p-word… raw… just like that? Not even “lolicon”?

“I would never forgive anybody pretending to be her! Never! I hate posers!”

I heard a loud splash, and then saw the silhouette of a grown woman stand up behind a measly cloth barrier. Her form was so alluring that it seemed carved by desire itself, curves sluiced into form by the rush of falling water—if not for the fact she had just gone on the most out of pocket rant I’d heard in approximately a week. The only way it could have been worse was if she somehow included “chat” in it, or if I was her uncle and overheard it from a room away.

“O-okay, I seem to have triggered a nerve, but what are you doing?”

“I’m going to give that pretender a piece of my mind.”

“Maybe don’t do that.”

“I hate liars!”

Would some princess really mean this much to her?

“Come on, Anna. Sit back down already.”

“...”

Then again, I nearly died trying to eat a piece of beef from a stew. People had their pasts. I used to read Western novels and criticise them when characters acted inconsistently, but that was just real life, wasn’t it? Bipolarity, split personalities, schizophrenia, phobias of barbequed pork, getting run over by driverless trucks—most things happened senselessly and for no good reason. Compared to my antics, this was mild in comparison.

“F-fine. I g-guess I’ll stay for a bit longer…”

Sheepishly, she settled back into her tub. At least, I was guessing by the noise, because looking at her silhouette suddenly became difficult again. That rant was… would I dare ask if it was 15 or 20?

No, focus.

Who is Maelle?

“Does this princess really mean that much to you?”

“...Yeah. She’s… the whole reason I had the courage to become a Templar.”

“I see. Well, you’re in luck then. The girl’s the real deal.”

“Seriously? Primot, I just told you why—”

“Anna. You trust me, right…?”

The bath went silent.

“Anna?”

“...Call me Annabelle, please. That name is reserved for friends.”

“...Uh, okay.” I guess it made sense she wanted to throw down the “we’re just colleagues” gauntlet after what I sprung on her earlier. I didn’t particularly blame her. “Annabelle—do you trust me?”

“...Maybe.”

They say never to meet your heroes, but this Princess Maelle person—she was as great as the idolatry that Annabelle possessed for her. Even I could glean that much from my limited interaction with her, let alone the way she kept someone as powerful as Soren so unwaveringly loyal to her.

I felt the bathwater get cold. Or maybe it was all the blood in my body rushing to my head.

Not that head.

“When we were training, I told you I’d met the real Saint Alicia before. I wasn’t joking.”

“...”

“I know that sounds difficult to believe, but just based on that alone… I know that Maelle is telling the truth about her identity. How I ended up here, what I’m meant to do, the fact she’s in exile, the way we got attacked by cultists—I believe she holds the answers to all of the mysteries I’m chasing. And even if she doesn’t… I know it sounds silly, but if I don’t start running after something, I don’t think I’ll ever properly find out anything about myself. I want to do something with my life.”

“Am I… not good enough for you?”

“On the contrary, I’m not good enough by myself. That’s why I need your help.”

“...Um. Um…”

Annabelle was mumbling and jumbling. I hoped I hadn’t gone too far, but at this point, there was no going back. I addressed her silhouette with a deep breath.

“Let me tell you about a card game I used to play.”