Romanticist (1)
“What exactly is love?” Najin quietly asked.
Merlin choked and coughed awkwardly. She thumped her chest a few times, as though something had gone down the wrong pipe. Only after forcing the blockage from her throat did she let out a long sigh and look at Najin.
– Out of nowhere? Why ask that?
The question had come without warning or context, and Merlin, flustered, merely shrugged and tried to look composed.
– Love, huh? That’s… well, that’s a profoundly philosophical question. Why the sudden curiosity?
“No reason in particular.” Najin looked at the ring in his hand that Dieta had given him—a band that gave off a gentle warmth whenever he held it. He’d found himself unconsciously rubbing the ring between his fingers more often.
The Outland was, by nature, chilly, bleak, and dry. It was a place that left one yearning for another’s warmth. Whenever that loneliness crept in, the ring offered just the right amount of heat.
“I’ve been thinking.”
– Mm-hmm.
“I got that confession, remember? When she gave me this ring.”
Merlin’s face crumpled into a pout.
– Right. And?
“I thought it was incredible.” No embellishment, no hesitation, just honest feeling. He had found Dieta’s straightforward confession, delivered head-on, to be truly admirable. How much courage did it take to bare one’s heart so plainly? “When you think about it, isn’t that something?”
– Wh-What is? What about it?
“Does love really give people that much courage? All those heroic sagas tell the same tale: Men and women sacrifice everything, even their lives, for their beloved… I’ve never been able to relate to that part.”
– Is… Is that so?
“So why is that? What is love, that it can drive people to such extremes?” It was a question asked out of pure curiosity. Had anyone there actually dated, or even married, they might have offered Najin a convincing answer.
– Um, hmm. Uh…
Unfortunately, the only other soul present was a thousand-year-old girl who had spent the past millennium keeping romance at arm’s length—in other words, someone who had never experienced love.
To Merlin, Najin’s question felt both perplexing and deeply embarrassing. She chewed on her lower lip.
‘What does he mean by ‘what is love?’ What sort of question is that? Isn’t he ashamed to bring up such a topic? Still, since he asked, I suppose I have to give some kind of answer…’
– Love is, well, bright and beautiful and sublime, and, er, um…
Just as people who have never dated often idealize romance, Merlin did the same. After guarding that fantasy for a full millennium, her words came out so sweetly that any listener might have cringed with second-hand embarrassment. Sadly, no one was present to point that out.
– Anyway, it’s like that.
By the time she finished, Merlin’s face was blazing red.
Najin mulled over her answer and nodded. “Hm. I still don’t get it. Why don’t we ask someone?”
– Ask who?
“Who else? That man over there.” Najin pointed at the knight tending the flowerbeds, a man who lived and died by romance. Even in the Outland, a land infamous for its eccentrics, that fellow was considered the most extraordinary romanticist of them all.
Anton Quixano, the eccentric, was also the man who held the clue Najin was searching for—namely, information on La Mancha.
A few days earlier, after completing Azure Spear’s requiem, Najin had visited Sir Kirchhoff to deliver the Azure Spear’s final words and personal effects.
Seeing Najin arrive with the spear in hand, Kirchhoff’s eyes had gone wide; then he’d given a bitter smile. “So it’s true, then,” he murmured.
After hearing Najin’s account, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Gazing at the spear Najin offered, he shook his head. “That belongs to you, his disciple. I have no right to take it.”
“I already carry one,” Najin replied. “Besides, I’ve received something else.”
“Received something? What?”
“I was given the Spear of Londinel, remember?”
Kirchhoff blinked, then laughed. “Ah. Well, in that case… might I see it?”
Najin obliged, demonstrating the spearforms before him. When the exhibition ended, Kirchhoff rose and applauded. “To think I would see that art again. A good tale demands good drink,” he said, producing a cherished bottle and popping the cork as Najin told the whole story.
“I see. So that’s how it ended.” Smiling ruefully, Kirchhoff’s gaze fell on the azure spear. His eyes grew somber. “That spear is meant only for the noblest and strongest knight of Londinel. I wonder if I’m worthy to hold it.”
“I believe you are. In fact, you already do.”
“Hah, well, you’re not wrong. I am the last knight Londinel has left. Very well, then I shall keep it safe for the time being.” He exhaled a long breath. “You said you were looking for La Mancha?”
“Yes.”
“To kill Quixote, no doubt.”
“That’s right, and ultimately, to kill the Carnival King as well.”
“Then our goals align.” Kirchhoff drained his glass. “I know little of La Mancha, but I do know someone who might.”
“Who is it?”
“Anton Quixano.” Kirchhoff explained, “Anton is of the same house as Quixote and knows the man’s past. I once tried to pry information from him… and failed spectacularly.”
“Why did you fail?”
“Anton is eccentric among eccentrics. Negotiation by normal means is impossible. Threats won’t open his mouth, and whenever I asked about Quixote, he only offered cryptic remarks.” Even so, Kirchhoff jabbed a finger at Najin. “But you? Who knows?”
“Why would I be different?”
“Call it intuition, and I trust my intuition. I’ll tell you where Anton lives. Go and see him. You can’t miss the place. You’ll spot a bright red flower garden from afar.”
Najin did as Kirchhoff had said and eventually looked ahead.
Before him lay a garden ablaze with scarlet blossoms. He knew all too well how difficult it was to coax such a garden from the Outland’s sunless sky and chaotic weather.
Someone watered the flowers. The gardener circled the beds, ignoring Najin’s arrival, and only after finishing his round did he lift his eyes to the visitor standing idle. “What business brings you to my garden, boy?”
“Are you Anton Quixano?”
“Anton is my name, yes, though that alone won’t suffice. And you are?”
“Najin.”
“Short and stiff, already I could yawn. Give me something longer, richer. Introduce yourself in a way that might interest me.”
He was a handful from the very first sentence.
Najin spoke to Merlin inwardly. ‘It’s been a while, shall we do it?’
Knowing what he meant, Merlin let out a silent scream while Najin chuckled and began. “At eighteen, I became the youngest Sword Seeker in history, the youngest Free Knight, the youngest—”
He announced each of his achievements one by one.
Merlin’s silent shriek rose to a climax and abruptly cut off only when Najin finished.
“The Star of Dawn, Free Knight Najin, at your service.”
“Now that piques my interest. Excellent—splendid!” Anton clapped and hooked a smile across his face. “I am Anton Quixano. The world calls me the Romanticist, but I prefer the title Lover—nay, the Lover of the Century.”
“The Lover of the Century?”
“Indeed. Though even that falls short, for I have spent not one but several centuries pursuing a single woman. I have searched four hundred years for the woman who stole my heart.”
“So you’ve come seeking information on Quixote. I do know a bit. Quixote is my uncle, after all.”
“Excuse me?”
“Alonso Quixano—that’s Quixote’s true name, as you might guess from the family name we share.” Anton shrugged. “My uncle was odd from the day I was born, but the meaning of ‘odd’ has changed somewhat since then. His infamy is the stuff of legend, and I do feel sorry for him. I never imagined he would become what he is now.”
“Then about La Mancha—”
“Of course I know it.” Before Najin could even ask if he would share that knowledge, Anton raised a hand, signaling him to stop there. “I know, but I can’t just hand it over. Frankly, I don’t feel inclined to.”
“Why not?”
“Look here, boy, we only exchanged names ten minutes ago. Would you tell a stranger everything after ten minutes?”
It was a fair point. Najin swallowed the question forming on his lips. ‘Haste makes waste,’ he reminded himself, and spoke with care. “You’re right. It would be shameless to ask for precious information without offering compensation.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Anton Quixano.”
“Just Anton is fine.”
“Very well, Anton.” Najin met the man’s eyes. He looked no older than Najin himself, yet he had lived at least four centuries—and, to note, Anton was a Transcendent. He could not guess how many stars adorned the man’s rank, but the aura he felt was unmistakable. “I propose a trade.”
“A trade, lovely, but the knowledge of La Mancha is worth my life, literally.” Anton snorted. “Tell me, boy, what could you possibly offer to make me part with something as dear as my own life? Don’t bother with stars. I care nothing for trinkets.”
“What will you give me?” The Transcendent’s frigid gaze bore into Najin, a warning that any paltry offer would kill the mood at once.
Contrary to Anton’s expectations, Najin showed not the slightest hint of fear before the weight of four centuries—he met that gaze head-on.
‘Well, look at this one,’ Anton thought, letting out a soft chuckle.
“You said you were searching for someone.”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve searched four hundred years and still haven’t found her.”
“Regrettably so. A mischievous woman, that one.”
“Let me help.”
“…Come again?”
“I’ll find that woman for you. Will that suffice as payment?”
Anton laughed in disbelief. “If she were easy to locate, would I have struggled for four centuries? Talk is cheap.”
“Surely I’m not asking you to pay in advance. Payment comes afterward: I find her, and then I hear what I want.”
Anton’s eyes narrowed. “You sound confident.”
“I have a knack for tracking people down. Spent a good part of my life chasing debt-skipping scoundrels.” Najin added, “I have an excellent guide—someone who can find any path better than anyone alive.”
“An excellent guide?”
“Yes, perhaps the best in human history.”
“How arrogant. The greatest guide in history would be Merlin of the Round Table. Are you saying you know someone on her level?”
‘That’s what he says, Merlin,’ Najin thought with an inward grin. “Indeed, someone every bit as capable.”
“Bwah-hahaha!” Anton Quixano burst into unrestrained laughter. “Confidence is better than cowardice. Very well! This alone promises amusement.” He extended a hand. “I accept. Find her for me, and I will give you every scrap of information you desire. On my honor, my name, my soul, and my flesh, I swear it.”
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