Episode 32 - Warm Soup for the Weary
The warm soup given to me in my exhaustion wasn't like the pig slop from before, that mishmash of leftovers. It even seemed a bit bland, as if they were proudly calling it hospital food. But it didn't look tasty either. Surely nothing could be softer or warmer for filling a starving belly, yet as my fatigue deepened, I could no longer muster any positive feelings toward food.
Maybe the demon beast meat I'd eaten alone back at the Demon King's Castle, with Kudbeka waiting behind me, would have been better after all. At least then, the only flaw was the taste— the mood and atmosphere had been fine. Or perhaps the sausages from that village when Kudbeka and I had fled. No, taste wasn't the issue. It was who was beside me. It was the intent behind the food.
At the Demon King's Castle, the food was just food, so I'd eaten it. When fleeing with Kudbeka, we'd arrived at a village and felt compelled to try the local specialties, stuffing our faces. It was a pure desire to fill our stomachs, a means to enjoy the moment. That's why eating had been pleasurable.
But with the hero? The first food after starving was garbage mashed from scraps. Then a potato from the floor. Honestly, whether due to circumstance or not, it had tasted good. And eating that potato at the inn had felt nice. But the pride I'd had to swallow to get it was indescribably massive.
And now, this soup. Beyond the taste, the situation and the intent behind it made it hard to even pick up the spoon. Still, if I didn't eat, I'd end up whimpering again, encountering Lobelia once more, suffering all over. No thanks to that. After agonizing, I clumsily grasped the spoon.
"……?"
How did you hold a spoon again? I hadn't forgotten this. It felt so awkward, my mood soured. Anyway, I scooped up the soup. The smooth, viscous liquid rose, carrying a nutty aroma with just a hint less salt. One sip, and nausea surged.
Revolting.
I hurled the entire bowl of soup away, clutching the chest of the cloak wrapped around me, gasping for breath. It hurt. I couldn't eat.
"H-heave, h-heave."
As the bowl tipped and soup soaked the floor, the hero stared at me with wide eyes. Was he about to torment me again? I didn't care. More than that, my mind kept crumbling; even gathering the pieces was a struggle.
"…Why are you…"
The hero trailed off, perhaps knowing the cause. Yeah, don't say more. It's disgusting. My head spun; I clamped my mouth shut, swallowing tears. Luckily, having already vomited even stomach acid, there was nothing left to hurl—just my body convulsing. Exhaling deeply, a sense of calm returned, letting me close my eyes.
"……."
Damn it.
In the silence, I sat blankly, then lay back on the bed, eyes shut. Even in the softness, my body trembled. Only then did I realize: I feared this comfort.
The first time my body was violated, in that cold prison, my mind had been too dazed to grasp it fully. If I'd been born a woman from the start, maybe different. But the second time, on the bed, I already knew. I'd been warned what would happen, understood fully, yet dragged and laid down. And that place was a soft bed.
Who knew softness could feel so repulsive? My attempts to steel myself only backfired, rotting my emotions further.
With trembling hands, I shoved the blanket aside.
"Where do you keep trying to go?"
As I rose from the bed toward the floor, the hero swiftly grabbed my arm, scolding.
Simply asking nicely or casually wouldn't work; he wouldn't listen. So I begged. Like pleading for my life.
"Please, please let me stay on the floor…"
With my left arm caught, I pulled my right arm over, clasping hands together, groveling desperately. For you who live with shoes, chairs or beds are your only rest. But I'm different. Captured as a slave, forced into slave life— the floor feels more comfortable.
"……."
The hero said nothing, just released my arm silently.
Free again, I shuffled shaky legs to the floor. Near the wall, I cautiously sat. Comfort seeped in. Yes, this was what I craved. I'd never imagined this hard, cold floor as my haven. At least the hero had given me his cloak when taking me outside, so I could cover myself— fortunate, though anything from him felt repulsive. Still, better than covering with my hands from shame.
Leaning against the wall, I curled my weary body to one side, then flopped fully onto the floor, staring blankly at the hospital room. I had nothing to say to the hero; he seemed speechless too. Silence blanketed the room despite us both.
Might as well sleep; it was quiet anyway. As long as I didn't collapse from exhaustion, no Lobelia encounter. Just sleeping. As my eyes drifted shut, the hero spoke.
"I'm sorry. I treated you like a slave bought from a slave market."
His apology didn't improve my mood. If apologies fixed things after the fact, my fork to his throat should've been forgiven too. He relished holding others accountable for his pain, yet expected a mere sorry to suffice for his— I wanted no part of that repulsive mindset.
Just let me sleep.
"I thought treating a slave with force would make them submit, but I didn't expect this."
This wasn't equal. A slave apologizing to a master was one thing; what now if the master apologizes to the slave? Does that melt my heart? Force forgiveness? I don't know. I'm just scared of you. Terrified of how your gaze changes at night; I don't want to be near. Knowing what mounting the bed means, even its softness now prickled like thorns, chilling me.
After groaning in silence, I glanced at him, realizing he awaited a reply. This quiet was prompting one. Squeezing out a raspy voice, I answered.
"…It's okay."
Seemed the only response possible, so I glossed over it verbally as forgiveness. Words are scary. They bring relief when spoken, but demand social accountability. Dodge responsibility, and gazes turn suspicious— you handle the fallout. Silence bears no responsibility but festers like parasites, rotting you inside if glossed over with "it's fine."
Some burn them out, pretending nothing happened; others rot from within. I was the latter. Who could shrug this off, act like it never was? Yet fear of defiance and punishment, worry over refusing forgiveness— I said nothing.
Biting my lip to hide gloom, as I sat dazed, the hero sighed.
"…Alright. We'll depart in two days. No one knows what the Demon King is plotting— like at the count's estate before. Could be preparing invasion. If you know anything, tell me; I'll protect you."
His announcement left me exasperated, but I didn't scoff. Who protects whom? No law let a rapist safeguard his victim. If slavery enabled that, what a grand system— Martin Luther King, Lincoln's legacies suddenly seemed greater. Wishing for such a figure in my lifetime, I replied.
"…Yes."
Even if I spoke, he couldn't protect me. The moment he learned I was the Demon King he sought, I'd worry how I'd die. Groaning inwardly yet responding dutifully, hunger returned. But I'd hurled even the hospital soup from revulsion. Bitter-faced, I closed my eyes in fatigue.
*
This wasn't the plan. I'd meant to start strong, clarifying master and slave. From yelling at the master, ignoring words, to holding him accountable for unpermitted actions. Slaves needed permission for everything— eating, bathroom, sleep.
But seeing the demon woman's state, that resolve vanished. He'd been taught to treat slaves thus, yet after their sexual acts, her repeated vomiting made harshness impossible. She'd yelled, overturned his offered food, cowered in fear— and that fear targeted him.
He'd thought fear would make her obey better; opposite occurred. Fear so great she seemed mentally frayed— obeying one moment, trembling and defying the next from flight instinct.
Yesterday was the worst. Questioning if slaves normally reacted thus to a master's lust relief, he recalled she lacked such mental conditioning— natural response. Grinding teeth, reminding himself this demon slew his precious ones, he craved striking her— but couldn't.
Her small, weary replies faded to sleep like a cornered mouse. Verilrude Anemos clicked his tongue, trying to calm turmoil. He'd thought killing demons emotionless, but seeing her vomit and suffer furrowed his brow unavoidably. Like viewing something unpleasant.
Whether disgust for demons or mere discomfort, he knew that much.
"Haa…"
He'd vowed to use her fully, yet abusing and pushing her only felt misguided. Her body, starved and sleepless, neared collapse— no rebellion beyond hiding a fork for his throat. Truly no hidden mana?
Amid inner chaos, Verilrude sighed to cool his muddled head.