A Practical Guide to Ending a One-Sided Love - Chapter 6

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Even though he had returned with sufficient resolve, the routine he reclaimed was unbearably dull. It was his impression after only half a month back.

Of course, immediately after entering the capital, time had flown by without a moment to spare. He received commendation for his merits from the Archduke who ruled Rimasoth, and several formal medals were pinned to his chest as well.

Celebratory banquets and events followed to mark the victory, but Bjorn did not show his face at a single one. He had not the slightest desire to rekindle the interest that had only just barely died down during his absence.

What was fortunate, at least, was that just as Bjorn had expected, over the span of five years, his existence had been erased from the minds of the capital’s women.

The atmosphere was markedly different from when he had left. Now there were no women who sought him out indiscriminately, nor any followers who brazenly blocked his path. It was an immense relief.

After all the large and small matters related to the victory had passed over the course of two weeks, Bjorn was in a small single person lodging attached to one side of the temple, making a final review of his decision.

The quarters in the immediate aftermath of the war were as quiet as a dead mouse. Those who were married had all returned to the embrace of their families, and the unmarried knights had each gone off to enjoy themselves out there.

Bjorn belonged to neither. Deep within him, a long standing loneliness simmered quietly, but he ignored the feeling. What mattered to him now was not that sort of weak emotional indulgence. Bjorn deliberately turned his attention outward rather than inward.

He realized anew that it was a truly simple and shabby lodging. The housing built for knights without families, tucked into one side of the temple, could not be called excellent even as a lie. As a communal facility, it was a building that pursued nothing but spatial efficiency and ease of management, and its very appearance was bleak and dry. Of course, that kind of desolation was soon dressed up as the temple’s distinctive solemnity and austerity.

Immersed in the thought that there were not many days left that he would stay here, Bjorn looked around the gray space, barely three and a half square meters in size. The palm-sized square room, which would be crossed in about two steps of his stride, held only a simply shaped bed, a wooden desk, and a wardrobe. Depending on one’s view, it was either a frugal or a destitute knight’s room.

Given the state of the place he lived in, it was only natural that he did not own many things. Aside from weapons and armor, his personal belongings amounted to only a few changes of clothes, a single copy of the scriptures, and three snow white handkerchiefs that could be called his only valuables. Other than that, all he had was the rosary hanging around his neck.

Becoming aware of the thin silver presence, Bjorn absentmindedly brushed it with his fingertips out of habit. It was a hardened reflex from having no choice but to use it whenever he prayed on the battlefield. Naturally, the person who had given it to him came to mind, but he averted that afterimage as easily as breathing.

Once he became a monk, he would have to live an even more austere and frugal life than this. Just as he was turning his attention to consoling himself that such a life would not be bad, someone knocked on Bjorn’s door. It was an apprentice priest who had come to deliver a message.

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“There is someone who wishes to see you, Sir Schmidt.”

At the words conveyed by the young priest, Bjorn felt puzzled.

Someone who wished to see him. That was clearly not a term referring to someone within the temple.

Was there anyone who would come looking for him, a man without even immediate family, let alone distant relatives or friends.

Half suspecting that the priest, still unaccustomed to temple affairs, had made a mistake, Bjorn arrived at the reception hall to find a completely unexpected figure standing there.

“It’s been a long time, Sir Schmidt.”

Jet black hair like the night sky. A dreary, exceedingly dark colored dress.

“You may have forgotten…”

Still the same extremely thick lenses of her glasses, and the deep amber eyes hidden beyond them.

“It’s me, Leila. The one who used to follow you around…”

And a voice as timid as could be, shrinking inward, in contrast to the courage it must have taken her to come all this way.

The woman before him was undoubtedly Leila Bailey.

“I haven’t forgotten, Miss Bailey. It has been a long time.”

As if he could forget. Far from it, she had been an image that surfaced every time he looked at the rosary hanging around his neck, irritating him even now.