Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 580: The Cure of Saintess (3)

The path twisted between boulders, then cut across a slope of loose gravel, then squeezed through a gap where two rocks leaned together like old friends.

Birds were quiet here. The world seemed to listen to their footsteps.

After what felt like hours but was probably less, they came to a flat shelf of stone.

A simple bench had been carved out of the rock, smooth in the middle from many tired backsides. Beside it, a shallow basin had been cut, filled with clear water that dripped slowly from a crack above.

Words were carved above the basin.

Drink and remember why you climb.

Lyan sat down with a soft sigh.

His legs hummed with effort. His back did the thing where it pretended it might spasm just to see what he’d do.

He cupped his hands in the basin and drank.

The water was cold enough to hurt his teeth. It tasted of stone and iron and something else, something clean that slid down his throat and uncoiled a knot he hadn’t noticed in his chest.

He let the last drops sit on his tongue and exhaled.

The spirits were quiet for a moment.

Then Azelia whispered.

(It’s nice. It feels... honest.)

Eira agreed, in her own way.

(It is untouched by greed. I approve.)

Hestia grumbled.

(It is good. I still don’t like the way the air stares at me.)

Erich stepped up to the basin.

He hesitated, then bent and filled his hands. The water trembled between his fingers.

He lifted it to his mouth.

As soon as it touched his tongue, a word, quiet and sharp as a needle, jabbed through his mind.

Weak.

His throat closed.

For a second, he almost spat the water out.

He forced himself to swallow.

The word echoed and faded, like a sound in a big empty hall.

He set his hands on the stone edge of the basin and leaned there, shoulders tight.

Lyan watched him.

"Bad?" he asked.

Erich let out a long breath.

"It said it again," he said softly. "In my head. Like it was waiting in the water. Stupid, I know."

"It’s not stupid," Lyan said. "It’s just honest. That word lives in you now. Of course it comes up when you drink something that clears things."

Erich’s jaw clenched.

"I hate that one night became a spell," he muttered.

"You’re here to break it," Lyan said.

They rested a bit longer, then pushed on.

The path grew narrower, hugging the side of the mountain. In some places, a stone lip kept them from looking straight down. In others, there was nothing between their boots and a long way to fall.

Erich kept his eyes on the rock in front of him.

"Lyan," he said quietly, not turning his head, "what if she says some things can’t be fixed."

Lyan didn’t answer right away.

He adjusted his grip on a slightly loose rock and tested it before putting his weight on it.

"Then we find another way," he said at last. "Or we live with it. But you’ll at least know you looked it in the face instead of hiding from it."

Erich made a small, unhappy sound.

"That sounds like something Cynthia would say," he muttered.

(It is,) Cynthia said

(I’m glad he’s listening, even if he puts your voice on my words.)

Arturia sighed.

(This climb is unpleasant, but the act itself is... knightly. Facing a shame instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. I respect that. I wish it were about something else, but...)

Griselda snorted.

(A wound is a wound. Doesn’t matter which part it’s on.)

The sky darkened a little as a thin cloud passed in front of the sun, then brightened again. Sweat ran down Lyan’s back under his shirt.

After another long stretch, they reached a place where the path widened again.

An arch of stone rose over it, like the mountain had decided to make a doorway.

It wasn’t carved. It was natural, worn and smoothed by weather. Someone had hung a few strips of white cloth from the top. They fluttered in the breeze.

Under the arch stood a figure in simple robes.

The person could have been twenty or forty. Their hair was shaved close on the sides and tied in a small knot at the back. Their face was calm, eyes steady, hands folded around a staff.

They watched as Lyan and Erich approached.

"Pilgrims," they said.

Their voice was neither male nor female at first hearing. It was just... there. Solid.

"Climbers," Lyan said.

The attendant nodded once.

"Everyone who passes here answers two questions," they said. "You may turn back if you refuse. You may not lie if you answer."

Erich swallowed visibly.

Lyan nodded.

"What do you seek?" the attendant asked.

Lyan didn’t have to think long. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

"Peace for my idiot friend’s head," he said.

Erich sputtered.

The attendant’s mouth twitched.

"And what are you afraid the Saintess will say?" they asked.

Lyan looked past them, up toward where the path curved out of sight.

"That he’ll use a refusal as an excuse to break worse," he said.

Erich stared at him.

"That’s what you’re afraid of?" he asked.

"Yes," Lyan said.

The attendant nodded, satisfied, then turned their gaze to Erich.

"What do you seek?" they asked.

Erich opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it again.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers digging into his own palms.

"I..." he tried.

The word in his head sat there like a stone.

Weak.

He forced himself to look at the attendant instead of the ground.

"To stop hearing that word," he said, voice low. "To stop hearing ’weak’ in places it doesn’t belong."

The attendant’s eyes softened.

"And what are you afraid she will say?" they asked.

Erich’s laugh was a short, harsh thing.

"That she’ll judge me as harshly as I judge myself," he said. "That she’ll look at me and say, ’You are exactly what you’re afraid you are.’"

The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of water from somewhere above.

The attendant studied him for a long moment, like they were checking if he believed his own words.

Then they smiled, small and real.

"Then the mountain will not waste its time," they said. "Go."

They stepped aside.

As Lyan passed under the arch, the air felt a fraction cooler, like stepping into shade.

He glanced up at the cloth strips. One of them brushed his shoulder. For a heartbeat, he felt something like a hand on his arm, steady and light.

He wondered, in a brief sideways thought, how many people had walked this exact stretch thinking about things they’d never spoken out loud.

Then the path curved, and the mountain hid whatever came next.

The High Spring was quieter than everywhere else.

Not because there was no sound. There was the constant, soft rush of water falling. The whisper of wind between rocks. The occasional buzz of an insect brave enough to live this high.

But something about the place pressed gently on noise. Even thoughts seemed to walk softer.

The trail opened into a hollow near the shoulder of the mountain.

A pool lay in the centre, round and clear as glass, fed by a thin fall that slipped over a rock lip above it. Moss grew thick around the edges, soft and lush. White flowers with star-shaped petals dotted the green like small lights.

Here and there, patches of fungus glowed faintly where the hollow tucked into shadow, a pale blue sheen against stone.

A few simple wooden structures stood farther back. Not houses, exactly. Just shelters. A place to sit out of the wind. A place to sleep. Nothing that looked like a temple with pillars or gold.

Lyan stopped at the edge of the hollow and let the place breathe around him.

The spirits stirred.

(It’s... quiet,) Sylphia whispered

(Like the air is holding its breath.)

Eira’s presence thinned, respectful.

(This place is old and clean. I will not stain it with too many words.)

Even Hestia’s usual snark dulled.

(It is not a merchant’s shrine,) she said. (No greed here. Just need.)

Someone stood near the pool.

She wore a simple robe the color of storm clouds, belted at the waist with a plain cord. Her feet were bare on the moss. Her hair was dark and loosely tied back, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

She was not young in the way court liked to show off in paintings, but she wasn’t old either. Lines sat lightly at the corners of her eyes. Tiredness lived there, but so did something bright and unwavering.

Lyan’s eyes, traitor that they were, noticed the curve of her calves, the way the robe brushed her hips. He dragged them back up where they belonged.

Lilith chuckled.

(You came here for healing, and still you ogle holy women.)

"I did not ogle," Lyan thought back. "I glanced."

(Incubus instincts never die,) she said.

Arturia made a small scandalized sound.

(At least attempt to treat her with the respect due a holy woman.)

"I am," Lyan said silently. "Mostly."