WOSE Chapter 4

Tamia was a small, young squirrel beastfolk barely reaching her modest chest—her first and only attendant.

Her homeland had been devoured by darkness and exterminated, they'd said. She was one of the few survivors, they'd said. The shock of losing all her family had left her suffering from mutism, they'd said.

It was a pitiful story, but ironically, the reason they'd sent Tamia as her attendant was probably precisely because of that flaw. Because she was a child who couldn't fully understand their circumstances, who couldn't possibly relay foolish talk.

Yet if there was one thing she was grateful to them for, it was letting her meet Tamia.

Tamia.

A child who should have lost the ability to love, yet carried a small chest full of love. A child who gave it freely, who truly loved her—the only one.

The child who'd perk up her round ears and run straight to her the moment she called "Tami." The child who'd readily press crude candies—surely her own share of snacks—into her hand and keep her company when she couldn't adapt to this world and stayed barricaded in her room. The child who'd shed tears more miserably than her each time she lost another body part while being exalted as savior. The child who'd pulled her hand with tiny fingers, urging her to flee, saying it wasn't her problem—a person from another world—to bear the destruction of this world.

A child who'd given love without price. A child she'd ultimately failed to protect.

"Ah..."

Iyu, who'd been frozen in place, finally approached the child after a long moment.

With trembling hands, she gripped the child's small shoulders. Confirmed the chest rising and falling with breath. Caressed cheeks not stained with blood and ash. Pulled into her arms a body no longer stiff or cold.

"I thought... I'd never meet you again."

Because that's what death is. Once you disappear beneath cold earth, you can no longer touch, converse with, or see—only remember and recall and suffer.

That enormous loss was still this vivid...

She'd lost the child exactly three years after coming to this world.

Early in their third winter together. One day after watching the first snow in Asgard after returning and sharing hot cocoa, Tamia had suddenly held out a square notebook.

Inside the notebook for written conversation was an unexpected request.

[Can I take a short vacation?]

"Vacation?"

[A friend from my hometown sent me a letter a few days ago. After what happened to our hometown... survivors scattered everywhere and I didn't know who was dead or alive, but they recognized me at the Savior's side, you see? Squirrel beastfolk have become rather rare after all.]

The writing scrawled across the full notebook was unusually crooked and flying, showing how excited she was.

She readily accepted the not-so-difficult request.

[I'll be back soon, so you can't skip meals!]

Tamia gave repeated warnings in notes, waved dozens more times to her standing at the window, and finally left. And that was the last time.

Barely a few days after the child left, Freya appeared urgently with unbelievable news.

Darkness had appeared at the capital where Tamia had gone to meet her friend. They were searching for her, but bodies devoured by darkness were difficult to recover. To even search whether she was alive, the darkness had to be eliminated immediately.

Her mind went blank with only one thought—she had to save that child. She headed straight to the capital and absorbed the darkness. She didn't even worry about what she'd lose this time.

If only that child could return safely, if only that were possible, she felt she could give up anything.

But what greeted her when she woke wasn't the small but warm child's embrace—it was scraps of the child's clothing, torn to rags.

"Fortunately we could recover half the body, but by the time the search party found her, already..."

Kalix's somber voice faded distantly.

'Fortunate?'

What exactly was fortunate about it?

Tamia couldn't return. She'd died alone and miserably.

The place where Tamia was found wasn't even the capital—it was a very small village on the capital's outskirts.

That day, darkness had coincidentally appeared in two places. Knowing this, Freya had still lied.

Because if Iyu had known Tamia's location, she would have ignored the hundreds of times more people and rushed to the outer village first.

Before she could pursue the truth or rage, the child's funeral began.

Absurdly, no tears fell at the news of the child's death. Not even when burying that cold body, that body damaged beyond recognition.

But the next morning, when that child who'd always greeted her was gone. When she suddenly recalled those small hands pressing firmly on her arms. When she finally realized she could no longer see, touch, or speak to that child who'd laughed with both cheeks stuffed full of snacks—that she could only meet her forever in memory.

She collapsed. She couldn't bear it.

I still had so much I hadn't done for you. I just took the love you gave for granted because my situation was difficult.

If I'd known I'd lose you so suddenly, I should have honestly told you what a precious existence you were to me. I should have given you as many of the snacks you loved as you wanted. I shouldn't have let you go alone. I shouldn't have trusted those people. That's what I should have done.

She couldn't breathe from such fleeting regrets.

You who didn't like the dark—were you afraid when darkness devoured you? Did you think I'd abandoned you? Did you resent me? You were such a good child, so obviously you went without resentment, and I couldn't even dare apologize.

She'd suffered in regret like that. Writhed through so many nights. How had she not thought to search for this child?

Just buried in rage, or actually—exhausted from being blindsided by hope. Afraid that if you weren't there, she'd really want to die.

She hadn't dared, but after their reunion, she admitted her judgment had been wrong.

Tears felt like they would pour out. But knowing she had no right, she held them back and offered a greeting.

"Hello. My name is Iyu. I'm truly... truly glad to meet you."

"..."

"Please take care of me from now on."

The child, who'd been hunching her small shoulders as if startled, blinked her large eyes. With an inscrutable expression, the child hesitantly pulled out a notebook from her pocket and wrote something.

[I can't speak. Is that still okay?]

The child reddened behind her ears, unnecessarily watching her reaction. She seemed to think she lacked qualifications to serve a distinguished guest.

Iyu bent her knees to match the child's eye level. And said clearly:

"It's okay that you can't speak."

'Doesn't it bother you that you can't speak?'

She'd once asked the child that.

'I wish my power could save people too, not just the world.'

When she'd added that, the child thought for a long moment, then soon held out a notebook filled densely with small writing.

[I'm okay not being able to speak. Actually, I'm grateful that what I lost was my voice. If I'd lost both legs, I couldn't run to you. If I'd lost both arms, I couldn't hug you tight like this.]

She would probably never forget that small embrace—arms spread wide, wrapping around her waist.

So... she was truly okay with the child not being able to speak.

"Because I'll always focus on your gestures, your looks, your expressions."

Because now it was her turn to do that.

About a month after falling into this world, Iyu finally ended her seclusion.

Though no one would notice, she burned all the notes with Tamia's help and took down the blankets hanging in the windows.

Instead of the unwashed jeans and hoodie, she roughly pulled on a prepared dress. Instead of demanding meals be left outside her door, she accepted them directly.

Iyu, who'd carelessly placed the tray on her desk, called to Tamia struggling with the bed.

"Tami, come here. Let's eat."

The weather was nice so she'd said she'd air out the bedding, but at this rate she'd get wrapped up in it herself. Tamia, who'd barely emerged from the burial mound of blankets, scurried to her side.

[You called? Shall I pour water?]

"No, let's eat together."

Today's lunch was sandwiches packed with ham and cheese. An appetizing smell wafted out—they must have added spices found only in Asgard.

"Here, take it."

When she handed over one of several sandwiches, the child waved both hands vigorously. Only the sound of air came from between her flapping lips, but the meaning seemed clear.

'You don't need to give it to me. The Savior should eat it. Something like that.'

But before Tamia could pull out her notebook again, Iyu stubbornly pressed the sandwich into the child's hands.

"Actually, I hate eating alone. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can't help it, but..."

When she made a sulky face, the child, who'd been blinking as if flustered, hastily accepted the sandwich. Then bit into it demonstratively with enthusiasm.