West Short Story - A Tale of Loving

[shivalries]

Title: A Tale of Loving
Issue: Animage January 2021
Writer: Tsushimi Bunta

Proofed by iridesenescence and nyaitsuu thank you sm!!

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Peeking into Shylock's bar, you can spot the wizards of the West inside! It appears they've learned a new greeting from the Sage...

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Wizards are fond of love. At the same time, they fear it.

Bound by love, bereft of love, blessed with love, the heart transforms; wizards watch their own heart cautiously and with rapt fascination, wondering just how it will change this time.

"I learned a new phrase from the Sage recently."

From across the bar counter, Shylock listened to Chloe's report. A little tipsy from his favorite cocktail, Chloe seemed in high spirits, eager to chat. Noticing this, Shylock tipped his head to the side.

Shylock liked Chloe. He was naive and positive, reserved at times, and prone to daydreams—qualities as subtle yet dazzling as the clothes he sewed.

"Oh? What sort of phrase?"

"Merry Christmas! Apparently it's something you say on a day called Christmas. It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think? It starts out sounding soft, then the second word is nice and crisp. Merry Christmas—ooh, I like it!"

"Merry Christmas, you say? I rather like it too."

"The Sage said they really enjoyed Christmas. It sounds like there's some kind of extra pressure for adults, but there's also cake, chicken, presents, Santa, reindeer, Christmas trees... apparently the Sage was always excited for those things."

Shylock listened intently to the story of the Sage's Christmas. Vibrant, twisted, unpleasant, mundane, or astonishingly dramatic—he liked to hear all sorts of stories of loving, for they would set a breeze dancing through his chest, a wind that flickered the flames of his heart.

"The Sage also spoke about Christmas songs."

Sitting next to Chloe, Rustica chimed in. Shylock had no doubt a renowned musician like him would have taken interest in the Sage's stories and embarked on some fascinating venture. He looked on in silence, and Rustica continued without pause.

"They told me that there are songs sung on Christmas day, and that there are countless such songs in existence. Songs about Christmas with family, Christmas with a lover, Christmas with delicious food. So I thought to make my own."

"And what is your Christmas song about?"

"Christmas with the Western wizards. The lyrics have yet to be written, though."

As if touching the keys of a piano, Rustica let his fingers glide across the counter. A lively melody began to sound.

"Wow! It makes me wanna dance!"

"Go right ahead. You're my only guests here today."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"I love you, Shylock! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Chloe."

As he spoke the words, Shylock thought they sounded like a magic spell from an unknown someone in a distant land. He listened to the grand melodies while watching Chloe's charming dance in a blissful, enchanting little moment.

Shylock was good at dealing with love—or so he considered himself to be. He even loved the glass he was polishing and the sights of the bar around him. Of course, he loved himself, too. Surrounding himself with things he loved soothed his heart; he treasured each and every one as a precious memory.

Never had he used wealth, power, or magic to have his way. Like leading a nameless noblewoman by the hand, or serving a royal family robbed of their kingdom, he loved and respected all things that made his heart flutter, and brought them to his side.

The bar at the manor and Bar Bennett in the Western Kingdom were both products of his life and love. Opening the doors of such a hallowed place to new customers meant he was fully prepared for his exposed heart to be crushed beneath the sole of a complete stranger.

One day, a sudden visitor may come with shoes of glowing iron, branding a hot scar into his heart.

"Shylock!"

Shylock raised his head at the familiar voice. Floating in the air with magic, Murr pounced on him like a cat.

"Did you call for me?"

With a touch of trepidation, Shylock shook his head.

"No, I did not. I was listening to a Christmas song."

"Oh, Merry Christmas! I heard about it from the Sage. They said it's the day a god was born!"

A vivid green gaze seemed to peer straight into Shylock's heart.

With Shylock's cheeks in hands and staring into his eyes, Murr asked a question.

"When was your god born?"

Shylock's eyebrows rose. Lifting the side of his mouth in a sardonic smirk, he placed his pipe between his lips.

"I do not know, nor am I interested in knowing. Rather than a god, I choose to place my faith in the pain of the wound in my chest—in this sweet, sweet ache."

Fascinated and seemingly satisfied, Murr grinned.

"I wanna worship your sense of beauty, too!"

Shylock responded with a contented puff of his pipe.

"Liar."

"Murr, let's dance together! Come follow my steps!"

"Sure! Let's do a Christmas dance!"

"Indeed. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas!"

Rude men, boorish women, vulgar wizards, repulsive humans—Shylock had had his fair share of those who sought to trample upon his bar, unbeknownst of the love it was built from.

And yet some were not the arrogant customers he'd thought them to be, but had simply been misguided, either by arrogance or cowardice. Thus, with great patience, care, and magnanimity, Shylock loved them. Those he could not love, he nonetheless saw off with a polite and sincere goodbye. Whether he loved or could not, he was fond of each version of himself.

But that night had been a peculiar one.

One day, a sudden visitor came with shoes of glowing iron, branding a hot scar into his heart—and unfortunately, Shylock had grown fond of it.

And now, cautiously and with rapt fascination, he continues to poke at the smoldering wound.