Regarding the Trifles Befalling an Insignificant Girl and an Insignificant Princess (2)
Underground dungeon. Bound. Every breath hurt. Inhaling stabbed like a knife under my left breast; exhaling throbbed in my back. Probably a broken rib or two. Getting beaten like that without shattering would be the real miracle.
Romance? Who knows. But fantasy? Definitely. They didn't use gauntlets or sabatons—no iron boots—but surviving that thrashing without dying? Yeah.
Huuuugh— huuuugh—. My ragged breaths echoed in the cramped underground cell. The walls—close or far? Couldn't tell. Arms bound behind me. Rope or chain? Couldn't distinguish the texture. But something sharp bit into my flesh; that much was clear.
No light. No light meant more than darkness—it meant me ceasing to exist. I couldn't see my hair. That hair like moonlight melted down, shifting from pure white to pale sheen depending on the angle. My red eyes doubted the world they beheld. Rubies ground to powder, deep and opaque irises reflecting only black. Bound as I was, I couldn't even touch my skin to feel its softness. My slender fingers, clear pink nails, the flawless white backs of my hands without a single vein showing.
Nothing visible. Nothing at all. So was the world even there? I might still be some lunatic hallucinating I'd entered a novel. I had to keep cracking dumb jokes, shifting my thoughts nonstop. I had to....
Even my usual boldness was gone. In a place like this, I couldn't tell if I was Rebecca—the one who wanted to just give up and die—or the me who'd risen again. My head felt like it was splitting in two. Darkness terrified me. Ever since those memories resurfaced, only what appeared before my eyes felt real.
Before that, my life was just life. Not some novel, not entertainment fodder. Accepting that one day, upon recalling my past life, I'd become the girl of a ruined house? I could, because it was right there in front of me. Silver hair and red eyes in the mirror. Slender fingers. A face too beautiful. I'd tried to vanish with all that, but I saw my husbandless, grief-stricken mother. My siblings, oblivious to losing everything overnight. That's why I accepted it.
Had I not, I'd have run. Because I'm special, more perfect and beautiful than anyone. That's why I stayed. But now? No sight meant terror. My capable self wasn't reflected in my eyes. Was I still beautiful? No idea. How mangled was my face? The cheek swollen from tripping, forehead crusted with dried blood?
Only the distant drip of water marked time. Blood scent hung heavy. The dungeon's rot and damp clung inside my nose. How long? An hour? Half a day? A full day? Stomach shrunk flat—probably ages. Dizzy. Sometimes, even basking in warm sunlight back home, I'd felt this: alive here, yet not truly living.
Now I got why I'd impulsively lunged at those assassins, damn the consequences—why I'd knelt before Ariel and killed that knight. My body soaked in the thrill of being alive, every breath electric, addictive.
Eyes open or shut? Same blackness—no difference. Were my open eyes closed, or closed ones open?
Brother was probably trapped like this. In this darkness, seeing nothing. He'd manage. He's a bit dense. Me? Hypersensitive, delicate.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Endless water.
Lost in the void, staring into pitch black. Then—clank. Sound from above. Metal clashing. Bolt unlocking. And light. A faint beam swept the floor down the narrow passage. Eyes stung. Creeeak. Door opening, light widening. A silhouette in the backlight. Slender shoulders. Dress hem to knees. One step forward; candle flame flickered. Slowly descending the stairs: black hair, blue eyes. Ariel.
Silver candelabra in her hand. That tiny flame illuminated the dungeon, reflecting my image in her eyes. Silver-haired girl slumped against the wall. Dress ruined with blood and dirt, hair veiling my face. My shadow on the opposite damp stone.
Ariel approached cautiously, stopping before me. Shadows danced across her face with each flicker. Her blue eyes, gazing down, trembled as her voice slipped out.
"How's it feel, locked in a place like this?"
"...Not exactly a party."
My voice cracked. Thirsty as hell.
Ariel stared a moment, then slowly knelt to my level. Unfazed by her dress hem soaking in the damp floor. Candle neared; my right hand visible. Healed, but scars crisscrossed between fingers. Such beautiful hands, once.
"I told them you're my maid."
"...What?"
"To the ones screaming to kill you. That useless you who accomplished nothing—I'm keeping you confined at my side. So they probably... won't kill you. No execution without my say."
"..."
Ariel's hand rose. Gently brushed hair from my face. Fingertips grazed my swollen cheek—stung a bit, but bearable. Her expression twisted faintly at my revealed face.
"...Your face."
"How's it look?"
"A mess."
"Still pretty, though?"
Ariel didn't answer. Instead, she pressed the cross pendant from her bracelet to my cheek. Familiar warmth spread.
"Why'd you shield me in the carriage?"
"Said I'd be your knight."
"Still! You could've just... run."
"Then what about my family?"
"...Yeah, fair."
She chewed her lip, then forced words out.
"When you heard your house rebelled—what'd you feel?"
"Figured it made sense."
"When your house fell, dragged before me?"
"......"
She tossed the question without expecting an answer, just staring blankly.
"Can't get you out right now."
"Know."
"Might not be able to at all."
"I know."
"Still... wait for me. If you're my... knight."
The candle flickered. Twin flames danced in her blue eyes. I clung to it, moth to flame. Couldn't stay still.
Body bound, but words free.
"Ariel."
"...Huh? M-me?"
Only her here—asking if it was her? Absurd. First time calling her by name, come to think.
"Leave the candle?"
Ariel paused.
"...Only got the one. You sure?"
"Enough."
She set the candelabra on the damp stone. Flame trembled but held. Small, fragile light—but sufficient. My shadow on the wall. Silver hair matted with blood and dirt. Red marks on bound wrists. Me. Still alive, somehow.
Ariel rose, headed for the door. Before vanishing into dark, glanced back. Mouth shaped like unspoken words. Then turned, climbed the stairs. Creeeak. Door shut. Bolt soon after. Footsteps faded.
But the candle remained. Tiny flame dipped, steadied. Shadows rippled slowly up the wall. Hair visible—messy, but there. Right hand—scarred, but slender fingers. Seeing myself eased the pain of breathing, just a little.
The candle burned long. Wick shortened; wax pooled on stone. Faint smoke rose to the ceiling, vanished.
Suddenly, the thought filled my head: I didn't want to be alone.