Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Hey, Don't Do That.
Her vision swam.
Amelia felt the familiar breadth of a man's back. And a voice she had grown accustomed to. That face she had come to know.
....It was him. The man she had committed to memory each time she looked at him while being helped into the carriage—someone she could not forget.
"....Ah."
"..."
"...You can let go now."
She slowly opened her eyes on the sickbed. The voice that had been faintly ringing in her ears grew clearer and clearer. The first thing she felt was the acute pain wrapping her entire body. She could see the ceiling, but it wasn't sharp. The outlines were blurred. White upon white, fractured in layers, refusing to hold a single shape. She blinked for a moment, then carefully tried to raise herself.
And—
"....What is my current condition—"
How did this happen—the rest of her words fell away.
Because something far greater than the darkened field of vision in 1 eye had vanished from her.
The first thing she felt was a sense of wrongness. Understandably so—the complete absence of sensation in her right arm was something she simply could not adjust to.
More important than that, though, was this: her body felt heavy. Her arms and legs, which should have been light as feathers under normal circumstances, felt as though iron weights were hanging from every inch of them.
"....This..."
She stared down at her own arm, covered in scars, with eyes that looked momentarily dazed. She tried to make a fist, but there was no proper sensation of strength reaching her fingertips. The feeling was somehow dulled and distant, faint as though separated by a single thin membrane.
Amelia looked back and forth at the man for a moment, her gaze seeming to demand an explanation. Her heart already seemed to know the answer—she was grasping at straws, desperately praying that all of it had been nothing more than a dream. But the girl's wish had no power to overturn a cruel reality. And the result was, naturally—
"The best physician here recommended amputation. He said the infection could no longer be contained."
"…."
"That... what do you..."
Her vision flickered once more. Her right hand didn't so much as respond.
Anyone who wasn't a fool would understand what he was saying, and Amelia was no fool. Her mouth slowly fell open.
"...Ah,"
She couldn't form any words, and simply kept moving her lips in silence.
It had been the path she devoted her entire life to.
The only asset she had was the swordsmanship she had built up through sheer effort alone. Wielding that sword had become 1 with her life before she even realized it—she had never once entertained the thought of it disappearing. She didn't know how much misfortune and fortune she had endured. She had pushed her body to its limits and driven her mind to the brink.
Because without doing that, she could never have become a noble. It was the only road she had ever walked—and yet what he was saying now was no different from telling her she would have a permanent disability, a lasting impairment. And even the most minor disability could have an immense effect on wielding a sword.
And yet that sword—not only had she lost her position as a knight, but everything she had built now meant nothing at all.
For a swordsman, the body was everything—from the smallest detail of one's field of vision to a single finger failing to move properly, any of it could cause them to falter at a critical moment. Meteor seemed to have read her fear, and added something more, but right now she couldn't hear a single word of it.
Her heart ached. Her nose burned. Her ears felt blocked. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heartbeat.
So then. The sword—she could no longer wield it.
...I, a knight.
Those words pierced into Amelia's chest like an awl.
Having accepted that reality, her mind went blank. Tears she hadn't noticed falling were already rolling down beneath an eye that could no longer see. An enormous void unlike anything she had ever felt before, and the far greater terror of what was yet to come, tore her chest apart in pieces.
She froze, breath caught in her throat. Never being able to hold a sword again—it was something she had never imagined even once. Looking at this scene, hollow, broken laughter kept slipping out of her. With those few words, even breathing had become hard.
"..."
The image of her that had always carried herself with dignity, even as an Illegitimate Daughter, was nowhere to be found. Listless, downcast eyes. Trembling hands.
"Is...that so. Well... it is better than losing one's life..."
"Is there any other way—"
"—I understand."
Before he could even finish, Amelia's somber voice fell.
What was etched on her face was a grief on the verge of bursting, and bitter anguish. But almost immediately it was plain to see that she had recognized even those emotions were now meaningless and was resigning herself to it. As though she understood in her head that he could not treat her right now, had made her peace with it, and was barely keeping herself from crying out at the top of her lungs—that was the look on her face.
"I'm sorry. If I had been a little faster, I might have been able to save it."
"...No. It is not... your fault."
"..."
"...You took the best possible measures... for my sake..."
She held herself together because she was before her benefactor—it was a pride that refused to show her tears.
"To have it end at merely giving up the sword, rather than losing my life entirely... I am... grateful."
After staring at the floor for a few seconds with eyes that called to mind the deep sea, she finally—after some time had passed—began slowly unwinding the bandage on her arm and surveying her own condition.
"...This arm...?"
"The left arm... perhaps. You may never be able to lift anything heavy again. Thorough care will also be needed going forward."
Flesh that had been torn away and hastily reattached in a makeshift fashion. There were abundant traces of splinters being removed and festered wounds being treated. The forearm, where a considerable amount of flesh had come away, was a hideous sight even to her own eyes.
She didn't want to look at it any longer. She tried to rewrap the bandage with vacant eyes—but—
"...Ngh,"
—she didn't have the strength even for that.
Blood seeped out again from her trembling hands. There wasn't a single finger that was unscathed. Each knuckle, every joint, was wrapped carefully in bandages—fixed in place as though it must never come undone.
Amelia erupted in frustration, as though she had been dealt an indignity beyond words, but that was all. Even straining until her arms shook, she couldn't manage it anything like how it had been tied before.
All she had to do was wrap the bandage around the arm once, slip a finger underneath, then tuck the remaining length in. Even a 10-year-old child could do it without a second thought.
Hands barely clinging to the remaining roll of bandage, trembling uncontrollably. Lips pressed tight against the pain. It looked as though she couldn't do it alone, but her last shred of pride wouldn't let her back down, so she was simply enduring any way she could.
To begin with, right now she didn't have the strength to even lift a glass of water. The strength to hold up her arm, let alone actually keep it in place, was a torment in itself.
"I'll do it."
"....Oh."
Unable to bear watching any longer, he took the bandage from her and wrapped it in her stead. Amelia, who had been sitting in an awkward position, watched as he then placed the newly bandaged arm back on top of her hand, and said:
"...Th, thank you.."
"..."
The moment the words ended, a terrible silence followed.
It was Amelia who broke it.
"...Would you mind stepping out for a moment? Just for a little while... I'd like to be alone."
"Understood."
Click—he left through the door without a word.
Once he was gone, Amelia had no choice but to swallow alone the grief she had been holding back.
"Ugh...uugh, hup...kkeuk..."
Solemnly enough to make anyone who heard it feel subdued.
///
A cold breeze drifted in through the open window.
The surroundings were an unfamiliar sight. Fine furniture, and the clean, noble-appointed room. And the bandages wrapped around her arm, along with the faint lingering scent of a used potion—even without asking, it was clear that every possible measure had been taken to treat her as carefully and thoroughly as possible.
Amelia's 1 working eye, which had been constantly moving, came to a stop. There sat an opened potion bottle.
...Advanced—nearly top-grade potion. She had vaguely gathered that this was a noble household, but this wasn't the sort of potion that could be used on just anyone. If anything, it was something a commoner might work an entire lifetime and still not be able to repay. At the same time, countless thoughts began to flash through her mind.
'...Just who are they, to help me like this.'
There would have been no reason to use a potion of this caliber.
Could it be that they knew each other?
'...Why.'
She couldn't understand. They didn't even know each other's names, and yet he had saved her using top-grade potions. On top of that, he was using some unfamiliar, precious magic tool just to keep her alive.
And so—
"...I have to... be of use."
Limping along with 1 hand against the wall, she took a few steps before quickly falling into ragged breathing.
"...Hak, huu...hoo...."
Something was wrong.
Normally, a few steps... should have been nothing. But the moment she moved her body, every muscle screamed like an alarm going off. Even so, she couldn't give up.
Rehabilitation.
Even though he had said she would never hold a sword again—she had a reason she absolutely had to hold one again. She had to carry her own weight. If she didn't, she would eventually be discarded. Left behind. In the end, she might lose the person who had believed in her.
Amelia had always lived trapped in exactly this kind of obsession. The desire to never, under any circumstances, disappoint the person who had reached out to her first—someone who had perhaps given her a chance she would never see again.
It was a kind of psychological affliction, a compulsion.
To begin with—a potion powerful enough to heal her wounds, the mysterious, valuable bandages—the debt she already owed was immense.
And yet, in reality, she could not even walk a few steps on her own.
She had to prove her worth.
"......."
After that, Amelia tried again and again—trying to walk, attempting light magic, trying everything that came to mind—but failed every single time. When she tried to rise, she collapsed to the floor after just a few steps. Magic didn't respond at all. Only soaking her back in cold sweat as her vision began to darken—that proved her helplessness.
"..."
She had returned to the bed, and could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling in a daze, as though her very soul had left her.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing at all. As things stood, she couldn't even do the work of an ordinary attendant.
Power? Right now, the name Amelia was nothing more or less than a fugitive's. Whatever his reason for saving her...
"...Ngh,"
Just thinking such negative thoughts made her head ache.
If she returned to her family... would they take her back?
...Not a chance.
She was being hunted. If she left this place and they learned she was alive, they would certainly come to kill her.
"...If they find out I'm useless."
If she were cast aside—this time it would truly be the end. She couldn't put up any resistance. She'd be caught by her pursuers, toyed with, and killed. That would be all.
She looked down at her hands again with trembling eyes. Fingers bearing the traces of having been torn and regenerated over and over. Arms barely managing to hold themselves up, quivering weakly. Lips clenched tight, enduring the pain.
Right now, beyond the question of whether she could repay him or not—Amelia had to fully turn this man's heart to her side, with this broken body of hers. By whatever means necessary.
What if, at some point, he grew tired of her? What if this was all he ever saw of her?
"...Ngh."
The future that came to mind was harrowing enough to raise goosebumps on its own. That much, at least, she had to avoid. Better than being hunted again—
In that moment, what entered her field of vision was a Maid uniform, neatly folded.
"...This."
It was the clothing servants wore.
Something of value.
Offering body and soul alike would probably be of no use whatsoever—but if she offered even this...
Wouldn't he accept her?
Even if this had been his intention all along, it didn't matter. If it meant he could be satisfied, she could do anything.
The thought—one that would have made Meteor recoil in alarm had he heard it—was what moved Amelia to act.