Warmth washed over Ian the moment he opened the door.
Someone must have stocked the fireplace beforehand.
Shivering once as the drowsy heat of the room settled over him, Ian made his way to the bed.
The work itself hadn’t been especially difficult, but perhaps the tension holding him together had finally loosened.
Was it because of the cold?
Ian crawled beneath the covers and curled up.
His fingers began to throb the moment they were exposed to warmth. After checking that he could still move them, Ian slowly blinked and turned his head against the pillow.
He’ll probably stop with these childish games after this.
Now that Fred knew it was pointless, he would either come up with something else or give up altogether.
Ian had dealt with men like him countless times in the course of his work.
If he simply remained impassive and acted as though he neither saw nor heard anything they did, they eventually lost interest.
“What are you standing around for? Get moving!”
“…”
Unfortunately, when Ian entered the training grounds the next morning, he was greeted by a pile of clothes every bit as large as the one from the day before.
Is he a child?
Looking at Fred, who was smirking with unmistakable pride, Ian decided the word suited him perfectly.
Apparently mistaking Ian’s dumbfounded stare for hesitation, Fred looked just as triumphant as he had yesterday. He shoved an armful of clothes against Ian’s chest and pushed him from behind.
Once again driven out toward the fountain, Ian stood there without moving for several minutes.
He had hoped Fred would lose interest.
Judging by the look on his face just now, however, Ian had apparently done the exact opposite and only added fuel to the fire.
So that’s how you want to play it.
Ian dumped the clothes onto the same wooden board he had used yesterday.
Fine. I’ll do it. Shit.
What followed was, for all practical purposes, a war against laundry.
Thanks to the ever-considerate Fred, who somehow produced more clothes whenever Ian looked close to finishing, Ian’s hands barely had a chance to dry.
The war itself was their problem, so Ian had no idea why he had somehow been drafted into it.
Fred, meanwhile, seemed even more irritated by Ian’s complete lack of reaction.
By now, Ian was supposed to have reached his limit and begged to quit.
Tough bastard!
Fred stared down at yet another pile of clothes Ian had washed spotless, his fists trembling.
So he wanted to play?
This wasn’t harassment anymore.
This was about the honor of the people of Shertian!
While Fred arbitrarily staked the honor of an entire nation on the matter, Ian was still sitting by the fountain.
After washing clothes in ice-cold water for three days straight, even he was beginning to grow sick of it.
Every breath left his lips in a pale cloud.
His fingertips were bright red.
He was just beginning to think that he would probably end up with frostbite by tomorrow when—
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Someone was walking through the snow.
Ian assumed it was merely a servant passing by, but contrary to his expectations, the footsteps stopped directly beside him.
Wondering what they wanted, Ian turned his head.
A young boy stood there clutching an armful of clothes.
Soft, fluffy blond hair.
Eyes the color of melted chocolate.
His face was so youthful that Ian guessed he was around fifteen.
When their eyes met, the boy tilted his head.
He blinked at Ian as though he had encountered something unusual, then dropped the clothes in his arms onto the ground and stepped closer.
From this distance, Ian could see patches of dirt smudged here and there across him.
What’s with this kid?
Ian stopped washing and watched in confusion as the boy circled him, peering at him from different angles.
Then the boy suddenly lifted his head.
Ian mentally drew a question mark as the boy continued blinking at him in obvious fascination.
A moment later, he remembered his own appearance.
They said hair and skin like mine don’t exist here, didn’t they?
If this was the boy’s first time seeing a foreigner, then of course he would find Ian unusual.
Having more or less worked out the reason, Ian was about to turn away when the boy hurriedly tugged on his clothes and mouthed something.
For a moment, Ian wondered whether the boy was mocking him by pretending he couldn’t speak.
But there was no malice in those bright, sparkling eyes.
When Ian gave no response, the boy tilted his head again.
Then he tapped his own lips and shook his head.
Ian stared.
Realizing they shared an unexpected similarity, he let out a faint breath that was almost a sigh and moved his lips.
‘I can’t speak either.’
“…!”
Ian hadn’t expected him to understand.
Yet the boy’s face immediately lit with surprise.
He really wears every thought on his face.
Thinking the boy had an unnecessarily expressive face, Ian finally turned away for real and resumed his work.
Splash.
Even with the sound of water splattering around them, the boy showed no sign of leaving.
He hovered nearby, peeking here and there as though trying to attract Ian’s attention.
When Ian completely ignored him, the boy’s expression briefly fell.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he snapped his head around.
Apparently, he had only just realized that his laundry was still scattered across the ground.
“Ah, ah!”
Looking flustered, the boy hurried over and scrambled to gather up the clothes.
Fortunately, the snow was thick enough that they did not seem to have picked up much dirt.
Phew.
The boy visibly sighed in relief before whipping his head around again.
He stared intently at Ian, who still wasn’t looking at him, then trotted back to his side.
Exactly like a puppy.
Staaare.
Ian could practically feel the boy’s curiosity pouring into the side of his face.
He ignored it.
Ian had never been particularly fond of children.
And judging by the way the servants avoided him as though he carried the plague, nothing good would come from getting involved with this one.
Besides, judging from his appearance, the boy didn’t seem to be treated particularly well either.
Ian had a feeling that if Fred noticed him hanging around, it would only cause more trouble.
About ten minutes passed after Ian decided to ignore the boy and finish his work.
Then—
Clatter-bang!
A tremendous crash from beside him forced Ian to turn his head.
What the hell is he doing?
Ian could only stare at the spectacle unfolding beside him.
A wooden board was once again disappearing beneath the fountain water with a loud gurgle.
The boy tilted his head as though baffled by why it kept sinking.
Then he plunged an arm into the water with a splash and rescued it.
He clumsily tried to set it in place again.
A moment later—
Clatter.
It slipped straight back into the fountain.
Ian watched in complete disbelief.
Only after several repetitions did he finally understand what the boy was attempting to do.
He had somehow found a wooden board of his own and was trying to imitate Ian.
The idea was simple enough: brace the board firmly against the lip of the fountain and scrub the clothes over it.
The boy, however, was merely balancing it precariously against the edge.
Naturally, every time he put any pressure on it, the board slipped away and plunged into the water.
Again.
And again.
Is he doing laundry or fighting for his life?
Ian now understood that the boy was imitating him.
The problem was that the result bore very little resemblance to what Ian was doing.
The boy seemed to be washing himself far more thoroughly than the clothes.
Ian watched in stunned silence as the board slipped free yet again.
He’s clumsy.
No.
That hardly covered it.
He’s unbelievably clumsy.
Judging by the armful of clothes he had brought with him, someone must have ordered him to wash them, just as Ian had been ordered.
But no matter how Ian looked at it, there was no chance the boy would finish before nightfall.
Now thoroughly soaked, the boy stared wide-eyed at the board as it sank yet again with a gurgle.
Most people would have grown furious by now.
Nothing was going the way he wanted.
Yet the boy merely looked puzzled.
In this weather, drenched like that, he was practically begging to catch a cold.
Ian turned away and resumed his own work.
He had no intention of helping.
The boy was a stranger.
And even if he hadn’t been, Ian probably would have made the same choice.
Avoiding unnecessary involvement with other people had long since become a habit.
After all, there was no guarantee that an act of kindness would lead to anything good.
Ian was the sort of person who sometimes doubted even kindness directed toward him.
People were often most suspicious of kindness offered without reason.
He knew, intellectually, that unconditional goodwill existed in the world.
But knowing that had never been enough to change him.
Ian had never possessed the luxury of taking responsibility for someone else.
Some people could afford to fall once out of five attempts.
Ian had lived a life where that single fall would drag him deeper into the mud.
So he had learned to feel his way forward along the ground.
Someone who crawled to avoid falling could not reach out and shake another person’s hand.
The greatest kindness he could offer was simply not grabbing their ankle and dragging them down with him.
Nothing had changed now.
Ian knew better than anyone that he was hardly in a position to help someone else.
He looked down at his reddened fingers.
As though the fountain itself had noticed that the water had become cloudy and yellow, fresh water suddenly began flowing in from somewhere.
Ian had no idea what sort of mechanism made it work.
At this point, however, it seemed less like a fountain and more like a structure specifically designed for washing clothes.
Once Ian firmly decided to ignore whatever noises came from beside him, everything seemed to grow quiet.
And so time passed.
The sun that had once hung high overhead gradually began to sink.
By the time Ian finally finished even the ever-growing mountain of laundry and rose from his place, he noticed the boy still struggling with his own clothes.
The instant Ian stood, the boy sprang upright as well.
Isn’t he freezing, soaked like that?
Ian glanced toward the boy’s pile of laundry.
What had begun that morning as ordinary clothing somehow looked halfway to becoming rags.
Ian let out a small puff of breath.
If the boy took those back in that condition, whoever had given them to him would probably not be pleased.
Whether the boy understood that or not, his face immediately brightened when their eyes met.
He parted his lips, beaming as though delighted.
He was obviously trying to say something.
Ian had no intention of answering.
He turned and walked away.
At the sight of Ian’s retreating back, the boy stammered in alarm.
“Uh, uh…”
Then he began waving both hands enthusiastically.
Goodbye!