The Grand Duchess Applies the Ointment
My wooden sword, swinging for the final strike, brushed lightly against Rebecca's right arm.
I heard the knights, who had been watching the whole spectacle with rapt attention, voice their disbelief.
"Wait, the young lady actually lost?"
"Prince Albert's conditions were favorable, but still..."
That statement was wrong.
...They were practically handed to me on a platter, honestly.
The conditions weren't just good—they were so overwhelmingly lopsided in my favor that even comparing the two sides felt embarrassing.
My victory was declared the moment my wooden sword so much as touched or grazed the Grand Duchess. It was nearly impossible to fight a duel under better terms than that.
In a match between opponents of similar skill, no one fighting under my conditions could ever lose.
Granted, Rebecca and I were not of similar skill.
Thinking about it now, the conditions under which Rebecca could win this duel had never existed from the moment it began.
The knight who first proposed the wager, and Rebecca who accepted it so readily, had both probably assumed I would exhaust myself and collapse before I could so much as brush a single strand of the Grand Duchess's hair.
Or perhaps Rebecca had intended to pummel me so thoroughly that I couldn't move at all.
Because there was no way a sharp woman like Rebecca would fail to set her own conditions for victory otherwise.
That seemed like the most accurate assessment.
Anyway, I had resorted to a rather underhanded (?) method, but since my wooden sword had successfully made contact with the Grand Duchess, this duel was, objectively speaking, my victory.
Having reaffirmed that fact, I approached Rebecca, who was still trembling with humiliation.
"My lady."
"..."
"Do you remember what was wagered on this duel?"
"...A wish..."
Rebecca forced the answer out, her face contorting as if she couldn't bear to say it with her own mouth.
Looking at that expression, I felt the wounds from the beating she'd given me earlier healing on their own... no, not really.
The places where the wooden sword had hammered me were still throbbing.
It seemed I now had reason to wish for something a little stronger.
"Then, might you have any idea what kind of wish I might make?"
"...How would I know that?"
"I'm considering wishing for a lovely kiss in front of the knights this time."
"..."
Rebecca glared at me with such naked killing intent that she might well murder me on the spot if I actually made that wish.
The Grand Duchess had always had a somewhat cold countenance, and had anyone fainter of heart been on the receiving end of that look, they would have fainted from sheer terror.
But I had received that exact gaze countless times over the past three years. By now, watching her glare was as adorable as watching a cat fix you with an annoyed stare.
"Aren't you even ashamed of yourself?"
"Ashamed of what, may I ask?"
"Of getting beaten half to death, finally landing one hit on my arm, and then declaring victory."
"If I were ashamed of that, how could I have said those mortifying words to you earlier?"
"..."
The Grand Duchess pressed her lips shut, apparently having no rebuttal on that point.
Her face had flushed a faint pink; she seemed to be replaying that earlier moment in her mind.
"So then. I will now make my wish."
"Which is?"
"Treat my wounds yourself."
"...Pardon?"
Rebecca asked me to repeat myself with a thoroughly dumbfounded expression.
"The places you hit earlier hurt far too much."
"..."
I was being absolutely sincere.
Those spots genuinely hurt. Unbearably so.
*
In conclusion, my claim that the injuries from earlier hurt terribly had not been a lie.
When we returned to the Grand Duchess's chambers and I inspected the throbbing spots, they were already blooming with deep purple bruises.
Some places were even genuinely cut open.
No blood was gushing, but the wounds kept seeping, drop after drop, refusing to stop.
How hard do you have to be hit to sustain injuries of this caliber from a wooden sword—and how hard do you have to hit someone to inflict them?
Truly the strength befitting the Munchkin Young Lady.
"...What is wrong with you."
The Grand Duchess, who had let the bruises pass with only a mild reaction, stiffened the moment she saw the wounds that were actually bleeding.
I almost found myself touched that Rebecca was worried about me, but.
"Aren't these your handiwork, my lady?"
"..."
Come to think of it, the person responsible for creating all those wounds was the Grand Duchess herself. Whatever warmth I'd felt cooled instantly.
"Getting smacked around by a wooden sword like that—honestly, it's more surprising there aren't more injuries, wouldn't you say?"
"...I didn't realize it was this bad..."
Rebecca's voice trailed off, genuinely apologetic.
Her two red eyes, brimming with guilt, gazed piteously at the wounds marking my body.
She looked exactly like a pet staring up at its injured owner with those mournful eyes, and a smile tugged at my lips without my permission.
"That's precisely why I wished for you to treat them, my lady."
"...I've never actually treated anyone before."
Rebecca murmured in a small voice, lacking confidence, but.
"It's all right."
I meant it.
"How well the treatment is done matters less than the fact that it's you treating me, my lady."
What I wanted wasn't good medical care—it was treatment delivered by Rebecca's own hands.
That was the very reason I'd made this wish in the first place.
"What... do you mean by that?"
Rebecca asked in a quiet voice, her cheeks gradually reddening.
Only upon seeing that expression did I realize what I'd just said.
...I slipped up.
I'd been so immersed in the moment that too much of my genuine feeling had leaked out.
If this strange, heart-fluttering atmosphere continued much longer, it was only a matter of time before the Grand Duchess noticed how I felt.
"What meaning could there possibly be? Obviously, it's so the person who struck me can treat me."
"..."
"Were you thinking of something else?"
The words tumbled out—the exact opposite of my true heart.
And naturally, the moment Rebecca heard them, her expression curdled rapidly, and the sweet atmosphere that had hung between us only moments before vanished without a trace.
"...I'll begin."
And so, with the words of a Grand Duchess suppressing her anger behind a small sigh, Rebecca began applying ointment to my wounds.
"...That stings."
"Bear it."
And throughout the treatment, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was deliberately applying extra disinfectant to the worst of the wounds.
Truly.
When her fiancé's sword touched her arm, Rebecca had been in a state of furious indignation.
The thought that she had once again been toyed with and defeated by that three-copper tongue was more than her pride could bear.
But the irritation and shame that had been on the verge of exploding out of her—
—had begun to dissipate the moment her fiancé named treatment as his wish.
And by the time she saw the wounds she herself had inflicted on her fiancé—
"...What is wrong with you."
—they had vanished completely.
Some of the wounds were already mottled with deep purple bruises, and others were still letting fall tiny drops of blood.
"Aren't these your handiwork, my lady?"
"..."
"Getting smacked around by a wooden sword like that—honestly, it's more surprising there aren't more injuries, wouldn't you say?"
Albert was right. This was entirely her fault.
Strictly speaking, his only transgression had been yielding to her stubborn insistence on dueling in the first place.
She had been the one to start the duel that created those wounds, and she had been the one to strike every last one of them into him.
That realization dissolved the irritation and shame that had been brimming over just moments before—and in their place, guilt flooded her eyes.
"That's precisely why I wished for you to treat them, my lady."
Albert spoke as if it were nothing, as if it hardly mattered.
But looking at those bruises and that steadily seeping blood, it was absolutely not nothing, and it was absolutely not all right.
She herself had never sustained injuries of this degree. And though he came from a Count's house, Albert had been raised preciously too—no doubt he had never experienced wounds like these either.
Her fiancé had wished for her to treat him, and yet she had never once performed such treatment in her entire life.
That made her feel even more sorry. Even if she tried, she doubted she could do much to help.
"It's all right."
And still, her fiancé said he didn't mind.
"How well the treatment is done matters less than the fact that it's you treating me, my lady."
As if he truly didn't care about himself—as if the only thing he wanted in the world was for her to be the one to treat him.
Thump, thump—
Was it from that moment that her heart had begun pounding like mad again?
It was always like this.
The man before her was, without question, the fiancé she wanted to smack for teasing her at every turn.
And yet whenever he spoke with such evident sincerity, her heart always betrayed her.
Hadn't the same thing happened during the duel itself?
She had been swept up by that phrasing—as if declaring himself to be entirely her possession—and had let her guard down.
Under normal circumstances, this was a duel Albert could never have won.
She hadn't gone out of her way to set conditions for her own victory, but coldly assessed, the odds of Albert so much as touching a single hair on her head had converged on zero percent.
But she had been careless. She had allowed his attack to land.
And the result was the sight of her now, treating her fiancé's wounds. She had lost a bet she couldn't afford to lose—no, that she must not lose.
And yet, somehow, her mood—which in the past would have soured rapidly after every defeat—was not particularly bad right now.
Even though she had just been beaten in a contest she could absolutely not afford to lose.
"What... do you mean by that?"
Asking the meaning of his words had been an impulsive act.
She was curious what intent lay behind her fiancé's words, and why she was feeling this way.
Curious why her mood wasn't bad at all.
"What meaning could there possibly be? Obviously, it's so the person who struck me can treat me."
"..."
Hearing what came next cooled her down considerably, but.
"...I'll begin."
All the same, she did her very best with the treatment.
"...That stings."
"Bear it."
True, she did use disinfectant rather liberally out of spite for the fiancé who had so thoroughly ruined the mood.
But she applied the ointment to his wounds with genuine care in her own way, and wrapped them carefully in bandages.
Doing her best to ignore the tingling warmth every time her fingers brushed his bare skin.