Is It Wrong to Crave Love (In A Dungeon?) Chapter 21 - Trials

From the very beginning, he had been watching.

Within Fólkvangr, he had stood, watching, and guarding the door. It had been a futile, meaningless endeavor, locking the door and barring herself within her room, because his senses were above and beyond those of any other adventurer, of every other adventurer. 

“Blasphemy! This is… Blasphemy! Blasphemy!”

He had heard it all, every sound, every curse, every whisper, every moan, be they traitorous, and be they conflicting.

“Ah~! Moses… Mo-ses… Moses… Moses… Moses…!”

He had said nothing, as was often his lot, and was often his manner. The sounds which would have perhaps stirred others were no different from the buzzing of bees and the howling of the wind. He only did his duty, standing guard directly before the barred room through the night. Preventing any from approaching, be they maids or Einherjar.

Yet, his role of protecting the door was not only to protect the one within, whose voice bemoaned a name he had heard of, only once in passing. He stood with the intention of preventing ‘her’ from doing a thing most foolish, in her unthinking state.

Yet, the sounds would not stop, not once, through the night, not until after midnight, when, bowing quietly, he made way for a girl with gray hair, wearing the attire of a waitress, who stepped forward, towards the door.

For then, his Lady had returned.

He bowed and effortlessly pushed aside the door, obstacles and all, to allow his Lady’s entrance. He had only stood, towering, in silence, as his Lady, amused, found ‘herself’ on a bed, embroiled in self-pleasure. Wild, thoughtless, so much so that not even the sound of the door opening had been noticed, and so much so that the moans of that name continued.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

The sound of his Lady’s voice had snapped her out of her daze. Quickly, rapidly, with a face hotter than blood and heated steel, the visage upon the bed of his ‘Lady’ melted away into a different one. A girl with gray hair, who, in a frantic hurry, tried to regain a semblance of dignity and integrity, as though, moments prior, she had not been caught blatantly pleasuring herself. To her credit, she had managed to compose herself decently, bowing on her knees and presenting herself with the necessary propriety.

“My Lady… I— I— I was… I had not n-n-noticed when you… t-this was—”

“I am well aware,” his Lady had cut off her rambling. “Moses Vanderzee. He possesses… the most blasphemous skill I have ever seen,” his Lady sighed. “Even more than yours. Whereas I’m more than capable of resisting the effects of my Charm… you, clearly, are not.”

“Forgive me, Lady Freya,” she bit her lip. “I… I’ve failed you. Because of me, y-y-you were— you experienced—”

“It is fine,” his Lady said. “However, for now, you are not allowed to represent me in any official capacity.”

Her head shot up. Her eyes widened. Her lips quivered. “P-please, Lady Freya! I— I can still—”

“Your thoughts are clouded, and your judgment is impaired,” his Lady had said. “I cannot risk you accidentally saying or doing something improper with my likeness. Fortunately, you had the sense to bar the door, and Ottar was here to watch over you, but that won’t always be the case.”

His Lady gently cupped her face.

“Once you have resolved this matter, you may resume your duties.”

“R-resolve…?” she stammered. “H-how am I to…?”

“That is for you to decide. Do so however you deem fit.”

The one who sought to be as his Lady had departed, dazed, but he had said nothing. Scarcely would he say a thing. Rarely did he say a thing. The full context of the situation at hand was something he lacked, but it was something he could infer, alone, through the exchange.

“Is that approval I sense in your silence, Ottar?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

He did not lie to his Lady. He would not, nor would he ever seek or intend to deceive his Mistress. Watching the one who wished to be as his Lady departed, her heartbeat, he could hear, pumping in her chest. Her blood, he could hear, pumping through her veins. Faster than it had ever been, stronger than it had ever been.

“I’ve never asked of her to be anything more than what she is.”

“You need not ask, Mistress.”

She has not tried.

All who loved his Lady loved her with the fullest of their heart. All who did pursued her with their own ambitions. In that ambition, they grew, and for that ambition, they thrived. The attempt itself held glory, the attempt itself held meaning, the struggle and the pursuit spoke clearer than a thousand flowery words and a million gifts. There were almost none he doubted amongst his Familia, whose devotions were true. There were almost none he would question, whose love was pure, not when he saw it in the blood spilt, the sweat shed, the cuts gathered, the bruises hidden. Not when he saw it, in the drive behind their eyes, the fire burning in their souls.

It was not his place to question how others chose to love his Lady, but of the many whose love encircled his Lady, there were almost none he dared doubt.

Almost. 

His Lady sighed, shaking her head. “You have always held the opinion that she would benefit from encountering trials.”

“We all do, Mistress.”

Constant, endless trials were what molded the flesh, sculpted the spirit, and forged the mind. To live without trials was to embrace stagnation, and to embrace stagnation was to bid the arrival of decay.

However, of all those who pursued his Lady’s affection, the one closest to that decay was, paradoxically, the one who believed she was closer than all others to his Lady.

There were times, the one who wished to be as his Lady forgot herself, and acted as if she were truly a Divine Being. There were times, the one who wished to be as his Lady, behaved in manners as though she, and she alone, could truly grasp the heart, the thoughts, the depths of richness that swirled within his Lady. As though she were above all else and all others who pursued the affection of his Lady.

Whereas others struggled madly, in a wild furor, for his Lady’s affection, whereas they strove day by day to improve themselves, and grasp an understanding of his Lady’s heart, questioning endlessly, doubting ceaselessly, struggling to understand, to seize, to hold, to know…

She bypassed such trials by virtue of a skill.

His Lady had no objections to it, for her love was all-encompassing, and his Lady would never find any quarrel with it, for her love was Divine. It was such a skill which allowed his Lady to experience other joys and other pleasures. He, once, too, had no qualms with it, no grievances with it, until he saw that there was nothing more the woman desired. There was nothing more she pursued after ‘becoming’ his Lady.

She, and she alone, amongst all those who pursued their goddess’s affection, possessed a sense of satisfaction.

But satisfaction bred complacency, and complacency was the death of maturation. 

His Lady had yet to bloom, because his Lady had yet to find the one she was seeking. The woman who was closest to his Lady would know this. It was impossible for her not to know this; even so, she had done little to strive or improve in pursuit of helping his Lady achieve this, and even so, she held a sense of satisfaction with her station. 

For her desire to ‘become’ his Lady was never born in service to his Lady.

In his eyes, one did not love a person and seek to become them. Imitate them, perhaps, emulate them, echo them, parrot them, adopt their mannerisms, internalize their strengths, admire their traits and thoughts and behaviors…

But not ‘be’ them.

For love presupposes difference.

It necessitates desire.

And one cannot desire what they already possess.

“Let us depart.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

It was always the case, his Lady did, returning to Fólkvangr first, then, shedding her disguise there, before departing for the Tower of Babel, and its highest floor, from which all was seen. With her in his arms, the trip, which would have taken others minutes, took only seconds.

With a step, he was far beyond the gates of Fólkvangr, and with another, he was in the air, the wind rushing through his ears, and a woman cradled protectively in his arms. With a third, he appeared at the bottom of the series of stairwells within the Tower, and with a fourth, he was halfway through the top of the tower.

There was a private lift, an express one, disconnected from the public and made purely for his Lady, but even that was too slow when compared to the speed of the Champion.

The King.

As they arrived, he set down his Lady, the maids awaiting them opening the large, ornate doors at the very top, the highest point in all of Orario, if not all the surrounding lands.

His Lady, upon entering, let out a soft sigh.

“I sense you wish to ask me something. Go on. You may ask.”

His Lady could always tell. Even his silences, long and brief as they were, she had never failed to glean the nuances between them.

“Do you believe he is the one, Mistress?” he asked. “This Moses Vanderzee.”

“My Charm does not work on him. Not even in the least.”

His Lady had given him an answer to a question he did not ask. Yet, he did not ask further. Despite not being the answer he was seeking, it was the answer he was seeking.

“You need only give the word, Mistress.”

“No,” his Lady shook her head. “The color of his soul is monstrous. It is a bottomless pit, desperately screaming and demanding love and affection. Even if I took him away from his goddess, it would not change that. If anything, it might worsen it.”

His Lady’s lips upturned. 

“It is… funny, Ottar. He is not a person who can be possessed by one individual alone. He knows this. He is so vividly aware of it that even in his soul, he loathes himself for it. I cannot find it in me to hate him for it, but at the same time… it is… vexing, to know that one you possess interest in can never fully or wholly devote themselves to…”

His Lady stopped. Abrupt. Sudden. As though her words drew an eerily similar parallel to a different person. A person she knew intimately.

“Is that how…?” 

He was quiet. He would never lie, and he would never deceive his goddess. In that same vein, he would not speak truths he was aware could hurt her.

“I… see,” his Lady whispered. “I had no idea… this sort of vexation was something you all struggled with.”

“Our devotion to you is not something we consider a burden, Mistress.”

His Lady laughed.

“Before, I’d always taken it for granted, how it was that I could always know when you or others are lying. Yet, perhaps due to that…”

She shook her head.

“I’m exhausted, Ottar. I’m going to take a long soak, and perhaps fall asleep doing so,” his Lady moved towards the bathroom. “Wake me sometime after noon.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

His Lady had fallen into a long slumber, within her bath, and he had watched, guarding the door, at the highest tower. As night turned to day, his ears, sharp, garnered information, even from the top of Babel, as he did, about Moses Vanderzee. The rumors spreading about him, the details of his ability, the fact that he had beaten the record of the girl from the Loki Familia, all, without fail, entered his ears.

A blurry picture began to form, but the information was not enough. It was not clear. The image was not clear enough. What was clear was that this man had garnered his Lady’s attention. What was clear was that his Lady’s affections had been stirred. What was clear was that his Lady was willing to task her attendant to resolve that affliction herself, because it was not a trial for that girl, but because it was instead…

If you are truly the one, if you are worthy… then…

He needed to survive a series of trials.

At the very top of Babel, he had seen when he arrived. At the very top of Babel, he had watched as the man arrived. He watched, as his Lady’s attendant stalked him amongst others, watched, as Allen protected her, and in so doing, eliminated any and all obstacles in her path.

Yet, in so doing, in doing so, there would be no trial to face, not just for she who sought to be as his Lady—

But also for him.

Moses Vanderzee.

He took a step.

A clawed hand came for his throat. He grabbed it by the wrist, carefully and gently.

“Who the he—?” 

He stood beside Allen, holding his hand in place, a hand that had moved, on instinct, to react to a threat, shadowing the attendant on the outskirts of Babel. Allen’s instincts were keen. Keen enough that his attack had been done without thought. 

“O-Ottar?” he blinked, only now recognising who had appeared, without warning, without a sound, and without a trace, behind him. 

“I did not mean to startle you.”

“I—I wasn’t startled! Just… caught me…. Off guard. That’s all.”

Allen withdrew his hand, his cat-ears twitching. “Do you know what’s up with Horn? Why is she stalking that guy? No, why the hell are so many people stalking that damned bastard?”

Allen rubbed his face.

“Look, there’s another bunch of cloaked weirdos over there. This is going to get old real fast—” 

The group of five, Ottar saw. A faint smell reached his nostrils. Allen prepared to move. He placed a hand on the cat-man’s shoulder.

“Let them be.”

Moses Vanderzee had gained the attention of his Lady. However, as much as it was a blessing, it was also a burden. Merely being incapable of being stirred by her Charm was not enough. 

It could not be enough. 

It would never make him worthy.

More so, if those around him continued to strive in this manner, taking away trials from him, clearing them for him…

“...Tch. Yeah, I don’t think they’re a threat… they’re all Level One.”

Allen scratched his head.

“What’s up with her anyway?”

“Moses Vanderzee has stolen her affection.”

“You’re telling me Horn has the hots for that skinny guy? Really? Him?” Allen’s nostrils scrunched. “But wouldn’t that mean… wait, does that mean Lady Freya—”

“I suspect so.”

“I knew something was odd when that elf from the Hostess of Fertility was also spying on him,” Allen swore. “I just couldn't figure out why. She's probably scouting him for—”

“Might I know why there are two Executives of the Freya Familia shadowing us?”

A voice, commanding, cut through Allen’s words. He raised a brow. A slight commotion garnered his attention. Someone had sensed his hidden presence. Sensing Allen, that would be possible, but sensing him was a hallmark of one with proper skill.

The voice, he recognized it.

The Captain of the Loki Familia.

The Brave, Finn Deimne.

Allen clicked his tongue. “Talk about feeling overimportant… who the hell gives a shit about that shorty?”

His gaze swept through the Loki Familia, their top executives. However, they were not his current concern. Not now.

“Can you handle it?”

“Of course I can.”

Allen moved, his speed being hard to follow for most. He, on the other hand, moved in a different direction. 

The Babel Tower.

There, he watched. There, he observed. 

The kind of person who had earned the attention of his Goddess.

How will you pass this trial?

Yet, what Ottar saw...

“Today... is a good day.”

Defied his expectations.

=====)+(=====

Eighty-six thousand, four hundred.

Time and again, those Self-Help Gurus I carried in the back of my taxi would recite that same line, eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds are given in each day. If a person were to have eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars, and another stole sixty dollars from it, would they, then, discard the remaining eighty-six thousand three hundred and forty dollars in their fury?

Time and money are different, I would say. Time is money, they would counter. Shouldn’t you know that? You’re literally a Taxi Driver.

Some of them were snobbier than others, more self-righteous than others, louder than others. Some of them were there to sell me their get-rich-quick schemes, their ‘guaranteed lessons’ that would elevate me to financial freedom and guarantee retirement savings and 401Ks. Yet, though the motives were often varying, the sentiments were the same. I grasped what it was they intended, with their self-improvement talks, pamphlets, and life-changing courses. 

The idea remained that no matter what, one should not let a minor negative encounter turn a day into a negative day.

Today, being a good day could never be made into a bad day by others. Nor could it be made into a bad day by being trapped in an elevator. That I solved, by punching a hole through the top and squeezing my way out. 

Neither the attempt on my life nor being stuck in a lift were things I would ever consider troubling enough to overturn a good day. They were, and would always be, the sixty dollars taken from a wallet with bottomless funds.

Yet, there was one caveat.

The lift, below, was irrevocably damaged, the doors barred and dented, meaning my only way out was not to go down, but to go up.

However…

I rapped my knuckle against a sealed door. A metallic ring echoed out.

Every single door of every lift had been sealed. 

A mechanical failsafe, my ears whispered. Implemented to ensure protection of Babel’s denizens in the unlikely event of an attack or in the case of the catastrophic failure of a lift. All other lifts will cease to function, and all doors will cease to open until the failsafe is disabled. 

My ears whispered many things, new things, ever since I had touched Lady Hephaestus. It whispered of steel, of forges, of heat, of clockwork precision, gears and nuts and bolts. My brain thought of schematics and blueprints, of outlines and designs, grasped bits and pieces of the underlying engineering principles I’d once seen and of the constructions I’d once marveled. 

I did not question it. I would not question it. Just as I did not question awakening with a beard, or question how, according to my goddess, I could use Lilly’s Cinder Ella. 

I either wait for the failsafe to be disabled… or… continue upwards.

There was no knowledge of when the failsafe would be disabled; thus, I continued to climb. I ascended higher and higher and higher still.

There are several service and maintenance hatches… but… these are quite small, even for me. Were they built by Dwarfs… Prums?

I imagined an army of Lilly wearing yellow construction hats and barking commands. My lips upturned.

Ah, the Missus is so cute… I need to return to her. She must be worried about me… Missus…

Ascending Babel was a task many would have thought tiring, but I felt no exhaustion, nor did I feel any fatigue. Latching onto whatever I could hold. The gaps between the lifts, the small spaces where my fingers could dangle precariously from the edge, and in those places where it could not, I would use my staff as a lever, an anchor, jamming it into place and pulling myself upwards through it. I would never be able to repay Lord Takemikazuchi for his lessons and for his decision to guide me towards the use of a staff. The versatility alone was something that could not be understated, as was the option for its non-lethality.

Ascending higher and higher, I would grab a ledge, pull myself up with one hand, toss my staff up into the air, leap, catch it, and grab onto another ledge before gravity began the task of slowing me down.  The blessing of my Goddess, the Falna, granted me superhuman capabilities, that this task of ascending Babel through the lifts was something I almost considered to be the same difficulty as swinging on monkey bars on a playground.

Compared to back then… in the Dungeon…

Once upon a time, had I crawled in the Dungeon, in silence, for hours, or maybe days, because I had made the folly of closing my eyes to rest at a location where monsters spawned. I had awoken, with monsters on all sides and all corners, fearing then that the tiniest noise, the tiniest sound, would spell my demise.

Then, I’d found a hole, a small, cavernous entrance. I had not known where it would go, I had not known where it would lead, yet I had followed it, taking a breath, moving at a slow, agonizing rate. I had crawled on my belly like the lowest beast of the earth, crawled slowly, crawled, painfully, for a period of time I could not recall.

I had crawled, and I had crawled, and I had crawled. I had crawled, then, with scarcely enough space for my arms to thrive, crawled until my chin scraped and bled on gravel and granite, and crawled until, at the end of the tunnel…

There was merely a dead end.

A dead end.

I had cursed. I had screamed. I had cried. I had laughed.

There was scarcely enough space, scarcely enough room to wiggle. Going back, I believed, was impossible. I thought then, I would be trapped there. I would die there. I would perish there, in a cave in some monstrous Dungeon, unbeknownst to any.

Yet, then, I heard, again, the voice of my goddess. 

I heard only her words, as I had, as I always did.

“Don’t give up!”

“You can do it!”

“You’ll make it!”

I broke my arms, dislocated my shoulders, bent my knees at an angle it was not meant to be, found a way, in that horrid space, to turn around, and began to crawl, again, through the pain, and through the agony, back from whence I had come. I endured. I endured, endured, and crawled.

“Don’t give up!”

Because someone supported me.

“You can do it!”

Because someone cherished me.

“You’ll make it!”

Because someone believed in me.

When I emerged from the other end, the very end I first entered, the monsters were all gone, and my body was broken. Beyond the pain, beyond the agony, there was only the visage of my goddess, smiling at me.

“Yay! You did it!”

I recalled, then, that she had embraced me.

“I knew you could do it, Moses!”

Before I came to Orario, they told me I possessed Third Person Syndrome. They said it was the result of hoping and clinging and struggling, that it was a coping mechanism common to shipwreck survivors and mountain climbers.

But I didn’t believe it.

I never believed it.

My goddess, she had always been with me.

She had always been with me.

Death, if and when it came for me, I would argue with it, and I would fight it, I would wage war on it, kick, and scream and cheat and lie and cajole, and beg and plead if I must, if I must—

For it to grant me, even just one more second in my goddess’s embrace.

Because I loved her.

I would love her till the light left my eyes, I would love her, until the final breath that came from my lips. I would love her, thus that my dying words, should I be privileged to have them, would be mere four:

“You Are—

My Everything.”

My hands clutched the final portion of the lift. I looked upwards. There was nowhere left to ascend. No space left to go. At the very top, there was a separate, secondary, differing lift, which looked far more elegant than any other. It was disconnected from the main one and had its own power. Around it, there were much larger maintenance shafts. 

The construction was different. These were not built by the same architects who made the others, but installed, perhaps privately, after the Tower had been constructed.

Private lift… differing construction… this wealth…

Faintly, I recalled Eina mentioning that the very top of Babel was said to belong to one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful Familia in all of Orario.

The Freya Familia.

Freya… she’s the Norse Goddess of Beauty and Love…

She was the origin of the name of the day ‘Friday,’ just as Thor was the origin of ‘Thursday.’ She should be the wife of Odin, and, thus, be kind and magnanimous.

However, I had long come to learn that my knowledge and Orario’s did not align. They rarely, seldomly, scarcely aligned. That fact came, jarringly, as my goddess blinked at me owlishly, the second night we’d spent together, when I asked about her siblings.

“Zee… none of the gods are related.”

That had been as much of a shocker as finding out Hephaestus was female. No one thought or dared, or found it curious to ask from whence the gods came if they bore no kinship. It was taken that they simply… were. Sans creator, sans parents, sans origins. 

Unlearning most of what I thought I knew about Greek Mythology was the hardest part. I doubted, sorely, that the Zeus in Orario, who once possessed a Familia of high acclaim, had been anything at all like the one in my memory. Perhaps here in Orario, he was more akin to Disney Hercules Zeus.

But… It should be fine.  

I craned my neck and opened the maintenance shaft.

 As a goddess of love and beauty…

Her Familia should be compassionate enough to forgive unannounced visitors.