My Master and His Master (3)

"Honestly, all I can do is shake my head at you. You knew well enough that if you'd called for me at the entrance before entering the country, or even mentioned my name, you could have passed safely, didn't you, Eisa?"

The person who plastered an ointment-coated compress onto my face and let out a deep sigh, looking thoroughly exasperated, was... Azvaldo, my smithing master, whom I was seeing again for the first time in over twenty years.

It felt like a long time to me too, but the damn dwarf master of mine—whose age had always been impossible to guess—didn't look much different.

And as always, he could see right through my thoughts with ease.

"I know what you were trying to do. Thanks to that brawl, the rumor now racing around the country isn't that I invited an elf here, but that some strange elf went toe-to-toe with that miner Grander."

Azvaldo continued treating me as he spoke quietly and matter-of-factly, but maybe... he was a little angry.

Meanwhile, my damn dwarf master's wife was looking after Win.

Dwarf women almost never left the country, so little was known about their appearance.

Of course, I saw one for the first time after coming to this country, but she had no beard, and her appearance could be described as close to that of a human girl.

When bearded Azvaldo stood beside his wife, who looked no older than a girl, I couldn't help thinking... the pairing looked a little criminal. The memories of my previous life were entirely to blame.

"I understand that, as an elf, you wanted to emphasize that you were my guest, and that you didn't want to damage my reputation at this point. I appreciate the sentiment."

My damn dwarf master clenched his fist and thumped it against my chest.

His fist carried a trace of anger, despite what he was saying.

It hurt.

Far more than Grander the dwarf miner's fist—no, much, much more than that.

"But, Eisa, I'd already accepted all that when I called you here. I chose you over my reputation. ... Hey, don't you dare take me lightly, you damn elf. Do you really take me for such a pathetic man that I can't even look after one disciple?"

Ah... yeah, that's right.

He was that kind of proud man.

We'd been apart so long that we'd both misjudged the other.

My damn dwarf master had assumed that I would keep my head down in the dwarven nation.

I hadn't realized that he was prepared to take me in regardless of his reputation, so I'd needlessly worried about it.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. It's been so long that... I'd forgotten how to rely on you."

So I simply bowed my head in apology.

Seeing that, Azvaldo's eyes softened and the corners of his mouth lifted into a grin; then he thumped me in the chest with his fist once more.

No, that hurts.

What was that second one for?

"Oh, well, putting that aside... You did well. An elf who didn't lose a fistfight to a dwarf miner—even if that elf was a High Elf—must be the first since the world began. As a friend, I'm proud of that."

Then he gave a hearty, clattering laugh and thumped me on the shoulder.

The third blow hurt, too, but it was so nostalgic and comforting that I found myself laughing.

The home I'd been invited to—Azvaldo's—was so large that it could easily be called a mansion, with a splendid forge attached. It made me realize once again, in a very tangible way, just how high smiths' status was in this country.

Soon after returning from Vistcoat to the dwarven nation, he married, and he and his wife had four children in all: two boys and two girls.

Dwarf men apparently start growing beards at twenty, which is not even ten by human standards, and the eldest son already had quite an impressive beard.

The eldest looked like a full-grown adult to Win, so Win blinked in surprise when told that he was only a few years older than him.

Conversely, Azvaldo's children saw the half-elf Win as nothing but a girl. When the eldest tried to find out for himself, it escalated into a fight with Win.

...Well, yeah. Win probably didn't have much chance of winning.

On top of the difference in strength between a dwarf and a half-elf, the opponent was older, even if only by a few years.

A few years' difference is fairly significant for growing children, even among dwarves and half-elves.

But the important thing about that fight wasn't who won or lost.

If someone did something Win disliked, Win needed to say so and show his fangs with all his might, no matter how small he was.

If Win could do that, Azvaldo's eldest son, and then the other children, would acknowledge him.

Thus, although I was inwardly a little nervous, I didn't intervene and simply watched over him.

Before the fight, though, I did make him put on a pair matching mine—Greed Boar leather gloves.

I'd taught him how to fight properly by the time we arrived.

Whatever he had been like when we'd first met, Win was now quite thick-skinned and brave, and, more than anything, stubborn about the things he refused to give up.

So, yeah. He'd be fine.

Even so, I hadn't expected Win's first fight in the dwarven nation to be over something so silly and cute, rather than hatred of elves.

That was probably because the damn dwarf master watching the children's brawl beside me had raised them so they wouldn't harbor hatred toward elves.

Across the way, Azvaldo's wife was preparing the same kind of poultice as the one stuck to my face.

I wondered whether Win alone would need one, or whether the eldest would be getting one plastered onto his face as well.

Nor did his wife show any hatred toward us.

I was so happy about that that my heart leaped at Win's brave stand and the days ahead.