ACDWL 004: Not Just An Ordinary Child

—Rodokiaus Side—

“Ryo-do.”

He holds up a single finger.

“Kō.”

With the other hand, he raises another finger, then brings both upright fingers together.

…Is he trying to learn how to count?

Choosing my words carefully, I speak in single terms.

It seems Kō finds it easier to acquire language this way.

I raise a single finger.

“One.”

“Wan.”

I hold up two fingers.

“Two.”

“Tu.”

In this way, I teach him up to ten.

Though his speech is still childlike, Kō learns quickly.

In no time at all, he’s able to count from one to ten.

“Wan, tu, shi, fo, fib, shiks, sheben, heit, nayn, shen.”

The sound of a child’s voice feels strangely unintrusive in a house I’d grown accustomed to being alone in.

The way he looks up at me after reciting, eager for approval, strikes me as endearing.

I never had the habit of patting anyone’s head, yet I find my hand often reaching out to stroke Kō’s hair.

“Kō, shen, height.”

I still don’t know what he means when he occasionally says those words.

But though I have many things I want to know, what most piques my curiosity is Kō’s power.

Perhaps he himself is unaware, but I was drawn to the place with the spring because I sensed an overwhelming force.

I even wondered if a new species of monster had appeared.

“Ryo, do, a, cha, ma, i, e, sho, to.”

(He can already write letters?)

Though the characters he writes seem unrelated, nonetheless—

(He’s going to amount to something one day.)

Perhaps seeking guidance from a leading authority on magic would be for Kō’s future benefit.

“Ryodo, ＊＊＊＊＊?”

While I’m deep in thought, Kō peers up into my face.

“Hm? What is it?”

“Ryodo, ＊＊＊＊＊＊＊? ＊＊＊＊＊”

He says something, but I don’t understand.

Yet—strangely, he reaches up to stroke my head.

Is this… his way of comforting me?

Judging by his size, Kō must be about two or three years old.

He’s only cried that once, and ever since, he’s been focused on learning letters and words, without any tears.

Ordinarily, being in an unfamiliar place with a stranger should be nothing but a source of anxiety.

But he doesn’t even cry to see his parents.

He sometimes looks sad, but never voices it to me.

He’ll make a dissatisfied face if treated like a child, but in general, he’s an obedient and clever child.

That’s the kind of child Kō is.

“It’s all right. There’s no need to worry.”

“? aw, wa?”

“It’s all right.”

“Aw, wight?”

“Ah… no, rather: yes.”

“Yesh?”

“Yes.”

When affirming, I make sure to stick to just saying “yes.”

It’s less confusing for Kō that way.

All the words he has mastered in just a few hours.

He’s even learned to write some letters.

His intelligence seems quite advanced.

What kind of life has he lived up until now?

Before I know it, I find myself endlessly conversing with Kō.

“Kō, mealtime.”

But it’s nearly dinner time.

Isn’t he hungry?

Is his eagerness to learn words making him forget about his hunger?

“Mweal?”

“Meal. Eat.”

As I mime eating, he seems to understand right away.

Kō often learns words by observing actions.

“Eash.”

“Hungry.”

“Huwanggi?”

“Hungry.”

“Hwangry.”

He keeps repeating the word until his pronunciation gets close enough.

It never feels like a chore, probably because every time Kō learns a new word, he beams with a smile.

Truly, he is a mysterious child.

I do not keep any servants in my home.

There are some at my family estate, but here, I live alone.

At most, I occasionally hire someone to clean, and I eat my meals out.

This causes me no inconvenience.

But Kō is small, and ready-made clothes do not fit him.

I bought several pieces of cloth, but I am not skilled at sewing.

Kō skillfully layers the cloth in front of him and ties it around his waist with another strip as a belt.

Was this the sort of clothing he wore before?

(Maybe I should take him to a tailor tomorrow.)

It’s too late today, so I decided to bring him tomorrow.

“Meal, outside, go.”

“Outshide? Go~ey?”

“Outside, go.”

“Outshide, goey.”

I lift him up and head outside.

Even in the meantime, Kō remains eager to learn.

I usually eat in the barracks dining hall.

Occasionally, I eat elsewhere, but today, I headed there.

“Captain!”

Noticing me, my subordinates call out.

I’ve told them there’s no need for salutes during meals.

“Captain! Did Kō come too?”

Rennega is there as well, approaching.

“Ryodo, shugesher. Mweal, eash. Hwangry.”

When Kō speaks, Rennega is so shocked he freezes, his expression priceless.

But he quickly recovers—

“Captain! Kō is talking!?”

He points at Kō, his excitement evident.

“Yes. In this short time, he’s learned simple words and can even write some characters. His intelligence is impressive.”

Knowing Kō couldn’t speak or understand before, the surprise must be all the greater.

“Incredible, kid!”

“Incwedibew?”

Kō, proudly puffing out his chest, is adorably childlike.

I sit, holding Kō, and place him on my lap.

Otherwise, he can’t reach the table.

For some reason, Rennega sits at the same table.

He watches Kō with great interest, perhaps because he’s not used to being around children.

Even sitting on my lap, Kō has to stretch quite far to reach the tabletop.

“We’ll need to get a chair for you, Kō.”

We can have anything necessary made.

He’ll need more than just clothes—tableware as well.

Perhaps a desk, too.

Right now, he lies on the floor at home, writing letters.

Everything in that house is made for my use, so it’s probably difficult for Kō to manage.

“…You’ve gotten awfully doting, haven’t you,” Rennega says, grimacing for some reason.

Am I really so different than usual?

I’m only considering what might be difficult for Kō.

There are no other children who can take human form, so there’s nothing adapted for his use.

“Ryodo, ＊＊＊＊＊.”

He looks up at me and utters something.

There are many words I still don’t understand, so he often resorts to his original language.

But unlike Kō, who is beginning to speak, I can only pick out his name.

It is I, the adult, who must make the effort to bridge the gap.

Kō squirms on my lap, then stands directly on the chair between my legs.

“Kō?”

“Ryodo, good child.”

“……”

For an instant, my mind goes blank.

Kō hugs me and pats my head.

In that moment, this little child seems like an adult.

“Kō, good child.”

I embrace his small frame.

It must have been destined that we would meet.

This encounter feels inevitable.

“＊＊＊＊＊? ＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊. ＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊”

“Hm? What is it?”

Understanding he’s said something, I let him go.

And then—

“＊＊＊＊＊＊＊. ＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊. ＊＊＊＊”

After saying something else, Kō’s face crumples as though he’s about to cry.

“What’s wrong!?”

Baffled as to why Kō would make such an expression, I ask him, but he shuts his eyes.

Just a moment ago, he had been smiling…

“Kō?”

“…awight.”

He speaks, eyes still closed.

As if persuading himself.

“Kō!?”

“Awight. …Noh.”

When he opens his eyes again, his smile appears the same as before.

(“Don’t worry”—is that what he’s saying?)

There’s no way I could accept that.

What was that teary face?

If he won’t tell me, it must mean he’s holding back.

Though I’ve only just become his guardian, I feel as though there is a thick, invisible wall between us.

I never expected to be trusted completely right away, but since Kō had willingly warmed up to me, I thought he’d already opened his heart.

(Was I wrong?)

Why won’t Kō share his feelings with me?

Perhaps he simply has no means yet, but he could rely on me, depend on me more, if he wished.

Why does he have that cool, unchildlike gaze?

I don’t even know what words to say to him.

It seems Rennega feels much the same; his face shows confusion as he looks from Kō to me, and back.

(I know there’s no point in getting impatient…)

I can only wait for Kō to learn more words and, when he is ready, share his feelings.

(…If someone comes to get him…)

The thought flashes through my mind, and it feels as though my vision is tinged bloody red.

I probably could not allow that.

I cannot forgive those who abandoned Kō naked in such a place.

Moreover—I realize I cannot even imagine a future where Kō and I are apart.

Why am I this fixated?

We met only today, and there’s still so much I don’t know.

Is Kō becoming more than just “the child I took in” to me…?

If so, what am I seeking from Kō?

Even as I finish the meal with Kō asking about the names of different objects, I have no answer.

—End Rodokiaus Side—