14 — Anaspeptic, Compunctious Discombobulation

The infirmary was quiet. Quieter than the corridor had been. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the lantern on the bedside table and the distant, muffled noise of the academy carrying on without us. Somewhere outside, students were walking to class. Somewhere outside, teachers were giving lectures. Somewhere outside, the world had decided to continue existing.

I hated it a little.

I hated that the sun was still rising. That the birds were still singing. That somewhere in this building, someone was probably complaining about a test score, or a broken quill, or a boy who hadn't written back to their letter. All of it happening at once, indifferent to what we had seen last night. Indifferent to the man who died and came back. Indifferent to the woman in the sky. Indifferent to the Sleepwalker, and the four fakes, and Arthur standing on that stage with his hands raised.

I wanted to shake them. All of them. I wanted to grab the whole academy by the shoulders and ask: Do you understand what happened out there?

But I couldn't. I was in a bed, bleeding, with a boy holding my wrist.

Arthur's thumb had shifted, just slightly, resting against my pulse. Could he feel it? Could he feel how fast it was going? Of course he could. He was Arthur. He noticed everything.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly.

That wasn't what I had asked. I hadn't asked anything. But somehow, that was the answer he chose to give.

"I know," I said.

I didn't know. But it felt like the right thing to say.

He let go.

Slowly. Deliberately. As if he wanted me to notice the exact moment his fingers left my skin. Then he sat back in his chair, and the distance between us returned, and the air in the room felt colder for it.

"You should sleep," he said.

"I've been sleeping."

"Then sleep again."

"You're not my nurse."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

He didn't explain what he was. He didn't explain why he stayed. He just picked up the book on his lap—I hadn't even noticed he had one—and started reading, as if the conversation had never happened.

I watched him for a while. The way his eyes moved across the page. The way his jaw was set. The way his fingers tapped once, twice, three times against the spine of the book before he turned the page.

He was worried. He was hiding it. He was doing a terrible job.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the light had changed. Later now. Afternoon, maybe. Arthur was still there. Still reading. Still pretending.

The silence had stretched so long that it had started to feel like a third person in the room. I couldn't stand it. So I opened my mouth, and what came out was:

"I was... trying to find some medicine."

I looked away, hiding my reddened face.

Stupid, so stupid!

My mind was spiraling.

Why was I lying, even?

It's not like worrying about him would make me lose any dignity as a girl.

Or wait—maybe it did.

I straightened my posture and tried to get straight to the point.

"Anyway, that's not important—"

"You should be honest with yourself, Clara."

He cut off my serious concerns regarding yesterday immediately.

What is this, some kind of drama served for lowly peasants?

I really have no time for this...

"What do you mean, precisely?"

My tone was sharp, no tremble in my voice.

"You don't need to hide your feelings."

Huh. Bold of you to think I would fall for some sneaky guy pretending to know what I truly feel.

That's it. I've had enough of this.

"Stop behaving like... this!"

Instinctively, my hand moved on its own.

I ended up slapping his face, the smack echoing immediately, with his cheek turning red, though the redness on his cheek was nothing compared to what I felt.

The silence that followed was deafening. My hand hung in the air, frozen, as if it couldn't believe what it had just done. Neither could I.

What the hell did I just do?

If you think it's not that bad, let me picture it for you:

He is—was—the student council president of Goethia Academy. The great-grandson of That One Great Sage.

The great-grandson.

Of That One Great Sage.

The Kingdom advisor whom, apparently, I had never seen either. The Sage whose language game the entire world still followed. The Sage who had supposedly birthed the Four Witches of Apocalypse. And I had just slapped his great-grandson across the face.

McArthur wasn't his family name. Or rather, it had been kept secret. A cover, a shield, a name given to him so no one would know who he really was. And I had used it anyway, earlier, without knowing. Without understanding.

In other words, out of all people, I just slapped the worst person possible.

My mind went hazy, as if a dizziness had caught me and I couldn't stop it from spreading—

"That really hurt."

"Do it again."

Eh?

Wait, I'm hearing it wrong, right? Right?

What are you? A masochist?

"No, you aren't. And no, I'm not."

Stop using a mind-reading spell. Die.

"Okay. But I wasn't serious anyway..."

His gaze moved away ever so slightly before returning to meet my eyes.

His hand cupped my cheek; the other one was already holding my hand.

What is this... feeling?

"You seem so tense. That's why." He continued, still holding them.

I really wanted to get flustered, but apparently, at the same time, I really couldn't.

I wasn't in the mood for this kind of moment. And I believed it wasn't right.

Not at all. Not when I saw his face. Not when I realized he was always by my side. Not when he tried to save others while he himself was scared.

Not when he always believed me. And definitely not when he got hurt mentally, which was worse than whatever had happened to me right now.

I disappointed him after what just happened. I should've done more.

But what did I just do instead? Fainted and did absolutely nothing to justify my role and duty.

"Also, didn't I tell you?"

"Even when you lie. Even when you seem not to care, or even when you think you are a disappointment."

"I still believe in you, Clara."

Do you want to get slapped even harder or what?

I pulled away from his hands as these words, as nauseating as they were, churned inside my mind.

Yet whenever I wanted to deny them, they kept coming back to me.

"I know. Thank you, but we really need to talk, Arthur."

I mustered a tone as frigid as possible. I didn't want to get hurt.

"About what? You wanting to pat me but trying hard to find an excuse for—hmph!"

My hand once more moved on its own, as if it knew it was the right time to shut his filthy, fussy mouth.

I could have suffocated him if I wanted to. I could have killed him right there, and no one would have known. No need to fret. I was going to hide his corpse under the name of this academy, as the unknown, forgotten, nameless hero who saved the world.

That fabrication should work perfectly.

In politics, nothing is impossible.

You can easily attain power over people to manipulate names, environments, or even people's perception. Altering them through negotiation to reach the highest possible satisfaction and greed: money. If money can buy me anything, I will buy the means to bury him along with all of my embarrassing thoughts in the cemetery under the unknown hero caveat.

Unironically, people will buy it very easily.

And if this was already shocking, you should have realized how many times people would get murdered and kidnapped in a day merely for speaking the truth.

Their identity? Replaced.

Their family? Fabricated.

Their memory? Altered.

It's always been like this.

If you ever speak against the Kingdom, no matter whether it's true or not.

They don't really care.

Any consequence could be severe, depending on who asked for it. If it was someone important, they might make it worse—slavery, perhaps, or abuse. Any kind of satisfaction, depending on the men or women who were lustful enough to commit these crimes while pretending the Kingdom was safe.

In other words, so long as you peasants don't get into politics, you are safe. Otherwise, you may receive hefty cash rewards and get yourself a magic spell!

As a mother, who doesn't love a useful spell for chores, right?

Never mind. I mean, let me get straight to the point.

Seriously... shut up!

Also, how dare you use a mind-reading spell against me, Arthur?!

Out of every minute in a day,

He used that extremely limited one minute to read none other than my anaspeptic mind!

Not to mention there are fifty-nine other minutes in an hour,

and one thousand four hundred forty in a day!

And it made me so compunctious! So much so I could commit arson.

"Mister McArthur," I said, my voice measured out of sheer discombobulation.

"Just call me Arthur, Miss Inania."

Yet you addressed me by my surname. What are you, an idiot? An egg?

Not that it mattered whether he did or not.

"Arthur, I have a question for you."

"Why weren't our professors getting their hands dirty during the ceremony?"

For a moment, a heavy silence followed. He pinched his jaw.

"I mean, we were told to do surveillance duty as part of the council, right?"

Whoever made this lobbying possible, they must have been influential enough to let them not get involved.

Because last year, it was mandatory for them to participate.