Physical sensation returned slowly, coalescing bit by bit from a chaotic numbness.
Yggdrasil felt as though he had been asleep for an eternity. His eyelids were as heavy as water-soaked felt, and every breath he took tugged at the lingering, hollow ache deep within his limbs—the exhaustion that follows the receding tide of divine power was far deeper than any mere physical fatigue.
He struggled, finally forcing his heavy lids open. What met his eyes was not the eternal, milky-white expanse of the divine realm, nor the blinding fire and blood of the battlefield.
Instead, he saw a familiar ceiling of roughly hewn stone, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the cracks in the window.
Floating in the air was the faint warmth of embers dying in the hearth, along with… a scent so familiar it brought instant peace to his heart: the scent of Balin. It was a fragrance like the finest aged ale, mixed with sweat, leather, and the smoke of a hearth fire. It was the first scent he had recognized as "home" after arriving in this world.
Stiffly turning his neck, his gaze landed on the side of the bed.
Balin sat there in a simple wooden chair, his head tilted to one side, fallen asleep against the backrest.
He wore a simple, slightly loose linen shirt and leather breeches. Upon his collar were a few dark brown stains that hadn't been fully washed away. His thick black beard was a tangled mess across his chest, and his face was masked in an undeniable exhaustion—dark, heavy shadows hung beneath his eyes.
He was sleeping deeply, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with each heavy breath, and his stout, rounded belly shifted slightly with the motion. The battle-axe that had accompanied him for years leaned quietly against the chair, its blade still bearing the faint scars of combat.
He had kept watch by the bed just like that, maintaining an utterly uncomfortable posture.
In that instant, Yggdrasil’s heart felt as though it had been submerged in warm spring water, becoming incredibly soft.
"…You silly fool," he murmured, his voice so raspy it was nearly inaudible.
An indescribable surge of tenderness mixed with heartache welled up within him. He looked at Balin’s face—which appeared almost innocent in sleep—and at those massive, callous-covered hands that remained instinctively curled even in slumber. The icy sense of detachment brought about by his divine power was being melted, inch by inch, by this clumsy warmth.
He wanted to reach out and smooth the lines of fatigue etched between Balin’s brows. He wanted to straighten that messy beard. He even thought of sneaking a finger out to gently poke that soft yet firm belly as it rose and fell with each breath—just imagining the scene made his cheeks feel warm.
But just as his fingertips twitched and a smile began to trace the corners of his mouth, the words of the Creator God, Zareon, rushed into his mind like a piercing, frigid wind.
"Every 'Liberation of Divinity' will draw your soul… one step further from the emotions of a 'Human'." "…Become increasingly cold, increasingly detached… an existence without emotion…"
The curve of his lips froze instantly. That prophetic warning was no longer a distant possibility; it had transformed into a cold mirror, reflecting a shadow of a future he dreaded with every fiber of his being.
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A profound sense of helplessness and a grief that threatened to drown him coiled around his heart like icy chains, sudden and tight, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
He looked at the defenseless, sleeping dwarf—the man he loved so deeply.
He forced himself to remember— To remember the unique scent of Balin, that masculine aroma of sweat and ale… Will there come a day when I can no longer smell it?
To remember the rich, savory aroma of the stews Balin made, thick with spices… Will there come a day when I can no longer taste it?
To remember the warmth of that robust chest during an embrace, the sense of security when their rounded bellies pressed together, the tenderness of those rough palms stroking his beard… Will there come a day when I can no longer feel it?
To remember that kiss upon his return to the city walls—that clumsy yet powerful kiss, tasting of blood and smoke, a tremor that had shaken his very soul… Will there come a day when all of this becomes… a meaningless, purely formal contact?
These thoughts were no longer vague anxieties, but living terrors detailed in every fiber. He was afraid.
He feared that one day, he would look at Balin’s smile and find only a dead, frozen wasteland within his own heart. He feared that one day, he would listen to the sound of Balin’s breathing and no longer feel this throb of warmth that currently filled his chest.
He feared that one day, he would become a cold monster he himself would loathe—a hollow shell merely "acting" the part of a lover through memory.
The fear was so intense it triggered a sudden impulse to flee—to flee from this warmth because he feared he would eventually freeze it with his own hands; to flee from Balin because he feared becoming the one who would hurt him the most.
His breathing grew ragged, and his fingers gripped the blanket until they trembled. A bottomless sense of despair seized him—he possessed the power to save the world, yet he might be unable to save the most precious connection between himself and the one he loved.
And yet—
His gaze, beyond his control, fell once more upon Balin’s sleeping face.
The morning light softly outlined his rugged features. His thick beard twitched slightly with his breath, and his full belly rose and fell steadily. In his dreams, the corners of his mouth seemed to quirk upward slightly, as if he were having a pleasant dream.
He was so real. So… warm.
Yggdrasil watched him, watching this dwarf who, in his own clumsy way, had given him a "home" and a "place to belong." Watching the man who was willing to resign from a stable job for him, who was willing to carry him home on his back when his strength was spent, who was willing to stay by his bed through the night… his Hearth-Core Cornerstone.
The icy despair in his heart did not vanish. It remained like a beast crouched at the bottom of an abyss, ready to swallow him again at any moment. But another emotion—more fervent, more stubborn—surged forth like an unquenchable spark from the depths of a hearth, burning tenaciously, almost obstinately.
It was love. It was a refusal to yield. It was the grit of Fujiwara Naoki, whispering: "I will not accept this."
"As long as this cornerstone remains, the hearth-fire in your heart shall never be extinguished." "As long as he is there, you will always be able to find your way home."
Zareon’s words echoed again, but this time they brought more than just warmth—they transformed into a desperate resolve.
Yggdrasil took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the grief and terror that threatened to tear him apart.
He did not know what the future held. He did not know if the price was truly unavoidable.
But he knew that right now, he could still feel. Right now, he was still in love. Right now, Balin was here.
And he would not let go easily.
This warmth—he would grasp it with everything he had, even if it were only for a day, an hour, or a single minute.
Carefully, using what remained of his strength, he reached out. His fingertips bore an imperceptible tremor as they gently, almost greedily, covered Balin’s large, rough, and warm hand resting on his knee.
He did not wake him.
He simply felt the pulse and the mortal warmth radiating from that palm. He closed his eyes, attempting to brand this sensation, this reality, deep into the very core of his soul—as if by doing so, he could fend off the approaching cold.
The morning sun spilled through the window lattices, falling upon their joined hands and upon the embers by the hearth that still flickered with a faint light.
The morning in Kalgurem, after a devastating catastrophe, was unexpectedly… quiet. And beneath this silence lay a soul’s deepest fear and its most fervent resolve.
