Brave Story - Miyuki Miyabe [366]
The double stopped, turning around silently, a snake sensing its prey.
“I’m not dead yet!”
The smile faded from his double’s face. He lifted his sword.
—Accept him.
With a shrill battle cry, his double charged across the lake. He ran with the speed of a hurricane. The tip of his blade gleamed with reflected light from the crystal.
Wataru closed his eyes and quietly spread his arms. He breathed. Fresh blood spilled from his mouth. But he stood his ground. He was calling. His heart was calm.
I have nothing to fear. I’m just calling him back.
Calling back the soul split from me.
Come home!
The double collided with Wataru—and evaporated. He was drawn into Wataru. Two became one.
The force of the impact blew Wataru’s hair straight up and knocked him sprawling on his back.
Quiet returned to the Swamp of Grief.
When he opened his eyes, Wataru was looking up at the sky, his arms and legs splayed out in the shape of an X. He could feel the hard surface of the lake; it was solid beneath him.
Wataru gingerly moved his hand, poking at his chest. His shirt was dry. He lifted his head. There was no sign of any wound, nor any blood.
Wataru tried standing. His legs held him up.
I’m alive.
A smile came unbidden to his lips, then a warm wave of relief washed through his body. He put a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating beneath the skin.
Wataru had parted ways with his hatred back in the Swamp of Grief, and now it had come back. It was home in Wataru’s body where it belonged. At last, he understood. The gate he had passed through to reach the arena: the fifth pattern was the key. He hadn’t felt anything when he stood on it because the fifth pattern stood for hate.
Wataru realized that he had spent all this time trying to keep his own hate away. He lied to himself, pretending it wasn’t his, not wanting to acknowledge the hate he felt toward Rikako, the hate he felt toward his own father. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he could even feel that way. He was deceiving himself.
But that deception had spawned his double and forced it to walk alone, carrying all of Wataru’s hate by itself.
“Welcome home,” Wataru whispered.
He released one last shuddering breath and stood. He sheathed the Brave’s Sword at his side.
It was then that he noticed the mist flowing around him. Where did that come from? The area had been perfectly clear only moments before. Soon it covered the entire surface of the lake. It glimmered with a soft light, and the moisture felt like tears on his skin.
Wataru’s eyes opened wide.
A black robe was lying in a crumpled heap in the middle of the lake, shrouded in the mist. A boot was sticking out of one side. Loose hairs spilled out of the other.
Mitsuru.
Wataru ran, but it was like running in a dream—he couldn’t seem to go forward. His feet slipped on the crystalline water. Burning with frustration, he clawed at the mist with his hands, trying to swim through it.
“Mitsuru!” he shouted, throwing himself forward and finally reaching him. At first he felt nothing, only the mist against his hands. He could see the robes right there in front of him, but they had no substance. It was like grabbing a shadow.
“Mitsuru, Mitsuru!” Wataru shouted again. Suddenly, he was there. Where there had only been an image before, now there was flesh and blood. Mitsuru came into focus.
Wataru lifted Mitsuru in his arms.
Mitsuru’s face was pale, his eyes were closed. His cheeks were covered with scars and his arms hung limp at his sides. One of his ankles had been twisted in an unnatural position. It was probably broken.
“Mitsuru! Wake up!” Wataru gave him another shake, and the Sorcerer’s Staff fell from the folds of Mitsuru’s black robe. It had split clean in two. Mitsuru’s pale face, his limp body, the broken staff—they all told Wataru the truth of what had happened here.
Mitsuru had lost.
Mitsuru had faced his own double in this Swamp of Grief, and he had lost.
Wataru understood now. He didn’t want to, but the proof was right in front of his face. Mitsuru had let his hate walk alone, too, and it had