Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 581: The Cure of Saintess (4)

"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."

The woman by the pool turned to face them.

Her gaze swept over Lyan once.

For a moment, it felt like someone had looked under his skin.

Not in a stripping way. In a counting way. Like she saw not just his body, but everything clinging to it—the scars, the years, the eight spirits, the demon-tainted pieces he kept tucked behind his teeth.

Then her eyes softened.

"Lyan Arcanium," she said.

His name didn’t echo. It just sat there, quiet and precise.

The spirits jolted.

(How does she know—) Griselda began.

Eira cut her off.

(She is not ordinary.)

Cynthia hummed.

(Holy places listen. Maybe she’s been hearing him climb for a long time.)

Lyan inclined his head slightly.

"Saintess," he said.

She smiled.

"I have not been called that in a while," she said. "Most just say ’Mother’ or ’Master’ or nothing at all. But it is the right word, so I will accept it."

Her gaze moved past him to Erich.

She looked him up and down once, from boots to throat.

"And you," she said, "William, who calls yourself many other things when you want to hide."

Erich froze.

His mouth opened.

"How did—" he started.

She tilted her head.

"You carry your crown in your spine," she said. "It is very loud. You could come here naked and I would still see it."

Erich made a small choking sound.

"I won’t," he said quickly.

"Good," she said. "It is cold up here."

Lyan choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough.

(Oh, I like her,) Cynthia said

Hestia sounded amused.

(She has good timing.)

The saintess—because Lyan could not think of her as anything else now—walked a few steps closer.

"You climbed," she said simply. "That is the first work. Now comes the harder part."

She lifted a hand.

"You will not draw steel here," she said. "There is no enemy you can cut that way. If you reach for your sword, I will send you back down."

Lyan nodded at once.

Erich’s hand, which had been unconsciously resting near his hilt, moved away.

"You will not lie to me," she said. "Or to yourselves, if you can help it. If you try, the mountain will notice. It dislikes wasted effort."

Erich swallowed.

"And you will accept," she finished, "that I may say ’no.’ Healing is not the same as erasing consequences. Some scars are part of the story, not mistakes to rub away."

Lyan agreed easily.

"Understood," he said.

Erich hesitated.

He looked at the pool, at the flowers, at her bare feet on the moss, then back at his own hands.

"I’ll try," he said finally.

Her smile was small but satisfied.

"That is all I ever ask," she said. "Come."

She gestured toward a flat stone near the pool.

Erich sat down on it like a man about to be judged by gods.

Lyan stayed a few steps back, arms folded loosely, close enough to intervene if someone attacked from nowhere—though even his paranoia felt silly in this place.

The saintess sat on a low stool opposite Erich.

She reached out and took his wrist.

Her fingers were warm and dry. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling his pulse.

Then she opened them again and looked at his face.

"When was the last time you slept a full night without waking?" she asked.

Erich blinked.

"That’s... not where I expected you to start," he said.

"It is where the body starts," she said. "Answer."

He thought.

"Months," he admitted. "Four? Five? I sleep, but... it’s not the good kind."

She nodded.

"How often do you drink?" she asked. "Not water."

He looked away.

"Less than some men," he tried weakly.

She clicked her tongue once.

"Answer as if you were talking about someone else and judging him," she said. "How often does he drink?"

Erich flushed.

"Too often," he muttered. "Almost every night, if I can get away with it."

Lyan stayed quiet.

"How long since you were last in battle?" she asked.

"Two years," he said. "Proper battle, I mean. Not tavern brawls."

"How long since you stopped feeling like you were allowed to be... small?"

He frowned.

"What?"

"Since you allowed yourself to be tired, or afraid, without immediately correcting it into a joke," she said. "Since you did not straighten your back because someone was watching."

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"I don’t know," he said. "A long time."

She nodded slowly.

"And then," she said, "you went into a room with ten women and tried to be a song instead of a man."

He jerked.

His eyes flew to her face.

"I didn’t tell you that," he said.

"You didn’t need to," she said. "Your pulse did."

He stared, shocked.

Cynthia sighed softly.

(She sees the shape of it, not the details. That is enough.)

The saintess let his wrist go and folded her hands in her lap.

"Since that night," she said, "your body remembers fear, not pleasure. It remembers humiliation, not warmth. It is not broken. It is refusing a battlefield you made from a bed."

Erich’s shoulders hunched like he’d been hit.

"I—" he began.

She raised a hand.

"Not yet," she said. "Look."

She turned and dipped a simple clay cup into the High Spring.

Water filled it, clear and still.

She held it out to him.

"Cup your hands," she said.

He did, awkwardly. His palms were scraped in a few places from wolves and rock.

She poured the water into them.

"Think of that night," she said. "Not of the songs about it. Not of what you wanted to prove. Just of what happened. Hold it there."

He stared at the water in his hands.

His throat worked.

His mind did what it always did

The room. The candles. The laughter. The way his friends had clapped him on the back. The first few women, all giggles and breathless pride. The way his body had responded because it always did.

And then the last one. The moment he realized he was tired. The moment he tried to push through it anyway. The sudden, cold nothing where there should have been heat. Her face. That tiny pause of surprise. The word.

Weak.

The surface of the water rippled.

A faint shadow moved across it, darkening like ink dropped into clear glass.

A whisper, quiet as breath against skin, seemed to come from the water itself.

Weak.

Erich flinched.

His hands trembled. A few drops spilled over his fingers.

The saintess watched his face.

"This is not a curse," she said gently. "No one placed this in you from outside. This is a memory you recite so often it has become a spell on yourself. Every time you hear the word, you repeat the spell."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I didn’t want to," he said hoarsely. "It just... happens. My body just—"

"Refuses to enter a place it now thinks is a court of judgment," she finished for him. "You made intimacy into a trial with witnesses, even when nobody is there. Of course it locks the door."

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.

"I tried so hard to be... more," he said. "Bigger. Stronger. A legend."

"You tried to match a myth that wasn’t even honest to begin with," she said. "You turned yourself into a story and then punished yourself for not fitting perfectly into it. Bodies revolt against that kind of cruelty."

His breath hitched.

He swallowed hard.

Lyan watched from the side, hands clenched at his own elbows.

He wanted to step in. To crack a joke. To cut the moment in half so it would hurt less.

He stayed where he was.

Cynthia ached with him.

(He is breaking in the right place,) she said

Griselda was quiet.

(He’s a warrior too. Different battlefield. I recognize the look.)

The saintess reached out and, with two fingers, touched the water still cupped in Erich’s hands.

Light moved through it. Not bright. Just a soft glow, like moonlight slipping under clouds.

The shadow of the word on the surface thinned until it was just water again.

"You are not impotent," she said. "You are ashamed. You are afraid that if you are not perfect, you are nothing."

He opened his eyes.

Tears stood there, stubbornly refusing to fall but clearly present.

"You don’t understand," he rasped. "I’m supposed to be... I’m supposed to be a king. If I can’t even—"

"Kings fail in beds and battlefields all the time," she said, and there was a faint flicker of humor in it. "It is what they do afterward that matters. You had one failed night. You decided it proved everything ugly you already feared about yourself."

He didn’t answer.

His throat worked around words that didn’t know how to come out.

His hands were still cupped, water cooling against his skin.

"Let yourself be a man," she said softly. "Not a mural."

A tear finally broke free and slid down his cheek.

He wiped it away with the back of his wrist, annoyed at himself.

"I don’t cry,"