Concerning the Events that Befall an Insignificant Girl and an Insignificant Princess (1)
The girl was looking down at me. The trembling in her sword hand was way over the top. Her eyes shook like crazy. Her pupils weren't even fixed enough to hold my gaze—it was like trying to lock eyes with someone mid-seizure. They darted nonstop over my face, my neck, my chest, and the floor pooled with the blood of all the dead humans scattered around.
With Ariel right there like that, I was just sitting. Just sitting—though for a guy, I couldn't even stand in the first place, so yeah, a bit of unfair grievance bubbling over. I could've crushed a frail little thing like her anytime, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Lost too much blood, probably. Drops plopping from my right hand—mine or someone else's? Couldn't tell. Drip drip, something trickling; that spot where the blade had punched a hole was still spurting. All red. If I'd had some padding like this girl, maybe it would've cushioned the roll from the carriage. Head wouldn't be spinning so bad.
Ariel's blue eyes brimmed with tears, right on the edge but not spilling over. Still gripping the sword, she brought her free hand to her face. Wiped from forehead to chin with her palm. No tears fell, so it was just a dry wash. Then she looked at me again. Expression shifted—not like she'd made some big decision, more like her face was just loaded up with pure hate.
The girl steps closer. One step. Two. Her shoe tip hits a blood puddle. Splash. Standing in my blood, the hem of her dress soaks red. Light fabric sucked it up fast. Washing that'd be a nightmare.
She bends her knees a little. Presses the blade to my chest. Cold. Not on the dress fabric—right on bare skin below the collarbone. Then slowly leans in. Sword tip slices skin. The thin layer parting wasn't as sharp as I'd thought. More like pressure than sting. Blade sinks deeper. Hits muscle past the skin, texture changes sharp. Fingernail deep. Probably. Blood curves down, soaks my belly. Warm. Everything from my body was warm.
Girl's breaths roughen. In, ha, whoosh, ha—. Shoulders up down up down, sword-grip fingers blanch white then flush red, over and over. Then she drops it. Clang. Sword hits floor. Stings pulling out of flesh, but bearable. Girl slumps. Legs give right there. Dress fans out over blood puddle, fabric blooming red like flowers.
Slumped now, she looks up at me. Minutes ago, she'd been looking down—roles reversed. Her lips part.
"S-sorry."
"……."
"F-for trying to k-kill you, sorry."
Voice cracked. Breaths leaking between syllables like breaks.
"Y-you, we're not even close or know each other, y-you haven't done anything to me... but I hate you, hate your house is Vintervalt, can't stand it, so th-that's why ugh……."
I look down at the girl. Black hair a mess. Tumbled from the carriage roll—one side plastered to her face, the other spilling over her shoulder. Dark shadows under eyes, lips chapped. But those lips say "sorry."
The girl can't even apologize or hate right. Can't do a damn thing properly. What to say? Yeah. Pitiful.
She scrambles closer. Crawls on knees through the blood puddle right up to me, presses the cross-shaped accessory from her bracelet to my chest wound. Lips move. Prayer, probably. Couldn't catch the words—just tiny rapid whispers chaining like a spell. Light flares. Warm energy sweeps the wound. Split skin knits, gushing blood slows to a stop.
Her hand shifts to my right. Sets accessory on mangled fingers, prays again. Flesh knits. Palm's fresh hole fills from inside out. Was this how Elana's wound got fixed last time? No doc called, far as I remember. Guess royals all tote these. Wearing that while yapping if gods exist or not.
Wound mostly closed, bleeding done, I grab her wrist, nudge away.
"Probably scar……."
"Will stay."
"……."
"Fine. Clothes hide it."
Only now, far off, riders crest the hill on horseback. Charging like loyal dogs. Armor clanking, spurs flying—look like heroes storming a battlefield. Hooves thunder closer; three dismount, step up. Spot the corpses, faces stiffen.
Three bodies. Two blood-soaked girls. Two knights drop to knees before Ariel; the third hangs back, fake-scanning the area.
"Your Highness! Are you alright!"
"No injuries, Your Highness!"
"Immediately—"
Knights holler. Armor clanks, swords half-drawn, heads swivel "guarding." All show. Obvious to my eyes.
Ariel no idiot—catches it, grits teeth, growls low. Sounds like a cute lapdog yapping, though.
"……Where were you? Not saying die, but not one... got tangled with me."
"We spotted suspicious movement, went to confirm—"
"All of you?"
"That is……."
"Who this time? Uncle? Brother?"
Girl's voice steady. Whole different person from stabby-me.
One knight kneels. Uncle/brother drop shifted the air, maybe.
"Your Highness. Our judgment was poor—"
"Judgment."
Ariel chews the word, spits it.
"Right. Judgment poor."
Doesn't press. Can't, more like. Kneeling knights' eyes unbowed. Heads down, but mouths flat. Say "off heads"—who swings? Ariel who couldn't stab me? No way.
Me from north? No clue. Knights pull this vile crap so casual? North, scum like this couldn't carry blades. Frozen dirt won't let vermin breathe.
Grab floor dagger left-handed. Right's healing but fingers stiff. Faint blue on blade. Sword Aura—dizzy earlier, nada; now flows. Cross refill blood too? Handy.
Body off, but one-two swings doable.
Walk behind kneeling, head-bowed knight. Ariel's blue eyes track me.
"What're you—"
Ariel panics; knight twists back. Eyes lock. Before mouth opens, swing. Harvest reaping. Swish—. Blade cross neck, doesn't cleave. No strength left. Deep enough, though. Knight clutches throat, flops sideways; red gushes fingers.
Other three tsk. No shock. Slow advance, formation tight. Staggering me—they grab swing-wrist, snatch dagger, chuck far. Fist slams solar plexus instant. Breath snaps. Collapse, hurl bile. Gurgle—clear slime only. Stomach empty, duh.
"Vintervalt girl...... quite chummy with you."
One knight to Ariel, reproach lacing. Kicks my ribs. Again. Each toe body rolls grass-dirt. Guts-blood surges, dyes soil red. Grabbed bloody silver hair drags dirt; kick mashes face. Didn't peg dying beat like this. Lucky—Ariel speaks, stops it.
"……What do you want."
Girl's voice tremor-free. No rage, grief, fear. Just weary resignation.
"If that one stays palace-bound, no touch—message said."
"...Condition."
"Speak."
"That kid...... my handmaid, so hands off."
Handmaid. Not knight. Handmaid.
"Tricky. Vintervalt girl tried killing Your Highness."
"......."