Coloring (19)

Consciousness came in fragments.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing that hit me was the smell of mold and old stone.

And underneath it, the faint metallic tang of rusted iron.

Underground prison, most likely.

I tried to push myself up, but my right arm didn't seem to be there anymore.

I turned my head to look. Below the forearm, thick bandages wrapped the stump. The clean white cloth was already soaked through with blood, stained a dark reddish black.

The severed end throbbed beneath that pathetic wad of gauze.

At least the blood wasn't dripping steadily, like thawing meat.

Though some unknown herbal stench was rising heavily from the wound.

Serepina surfaced in my mind.

The texture and the raw pain I'd felt every time she ground against the severed wrist still lingered, sharp and electric.

Right hand. Gone.

The revolver. Gone.

My fiancée. Gone.

My family name. Gone.

The past, and somehow the future too — all of it felt scrubbed clean out of existence.

I had no idea how much time had passed. No windows down here. Only the torch mounted on the wall, flickering low, barely clinging to light.

My head burned. Like a fever had settled in.

I stared blankly into the dark, back pressed against the cold stone floor.

Footsteps echoed from down the corridor.

Click. Click.

Steady, measured. Nothing wasted.

They stopped outside my cell. With a grinding clank, the rusted iron-barred door swung open.

A priest stepped inside.

His white vestments were immaculately pressed, his hair combed back with precision. Entirely too clean for this damp, filthy place.

He looked down at me, then quietly knelt before me — like a confessor preparing absolution.

He set a worn copy of the Scriptures on the floor and placed both hands neatly on top. Then he pulled a hard, desiccated-looking piece of bread from his robes and tossed it beside me.

The floor was thick with dust and a shallow pool of blood had collected nearby. It didn't do much for my appetite.

"I am Priest Matthias. Ravin Edelgard." He paused, correcting himself. "Ah — just Ravin now, was it?"

His voice was soft. Composed.

"I am well aware that you did nothing yourself."

Instead of an answer, I offered a faint smile.

"If you know so much, maybe let me out—" Cough.

My own voice startled me. Cracked raw from disuse, it dissolved into a dry hack halfway through.

"Or did you come all this way to pray for me?"

"Something like that. Though it is also for your soul."

Matthias didn't lose his smile. His face was serene, his eyes holding something that resembled compassion.

"God knows you did not kill the priests yourself."

"If your all-knowing God already knows, then let me out."

A flicker — just the slightest twitch — crossed his brow at the mockery in my tone.

He probably didn't understand the words. Not really.

I didn't even know why I was here. Not just in this dungeon. Here, in this world. Nobles, clergy, commoners crawling over each other everywhere I looked.

If I were next to Estelle, maybe. But one thing was certain — this place was never a joy to live in.

Matthias recovered his composure and pressed on.

"You have corrupted the Saintess."

"I sat beside her. Drank coffee. Shared a cigarette or two—"

He cut me off.

"Before she met you, Saintess Estelle devoted herself solely to carrying out God's will. But you planted the seeds ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of private sentiment in her heart. Doubt. Affection. Jealousy. Human emotions."

"For all that, the Order seems full of people who hate her guts."

"The Saintess is not human. She is not swayed by such base feelings."

A hollow laugh escaped me. It bounced off the cold cell walls and died there.

"Estelle was always that kind of human. From the first time I met her."

Matthias's face hardened. For a moment, he couldn't speak. His lips moved, shaping nothing.

A scream tore through the corridor.

"Aaaagh—!"

Shrill, drawn out, a raw-edged shriek. Muffled underneath it, the sound of flesh and bone being crushed.

I turned my head toward the noise.

Matthias followed my gaze, then looked back at me. Something like pride settled into his expression.

"If things had followed their natural course, you would be down there too."

"Mm."

"I have prevented the torture they intended for you. I consider torture a barbaric practice that serves no purpose. A confession extracted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠under pain is never true — it only defiles the body. God does not desire such savage methods."

He spoke as though he'd granted me some immense mercy.

And to be fair, it was. Even dangling by the neck had been agony enough. Put me in that room, and I was confident I'd confess to things that never happened and things that did.

I stared at him blankly.

"Then the person screaming back there..."

"That is a heretic. Not a person."

The priest's face went stern.

"So. What happens to me?"

I heard myself slipping into deference before I could stop it. Maybe the man's screaming had been a little too horrific.

"Punishment, naturally. Your very existence defiled the Saintess. Left a stain on God's glory."

He rose to his feet and looked down at me, delivering the sentence like a verdict.

"In two days, you will be purified in the square. Fire will cleanse your filthy flesh and your soul alike. The Saintess will share this fate. She, too, has been stained by sin through you. She too must receive due punishment. Losing the one she loves will be sufficient. That is God's will."

"What about a trial, or..."

The words came out before I could stop them — a last, faint hope.

Matthias stared at me with genuine incomprehension, as if I'd just claimed the sky was green.

"A trial? Who holds a trial in this barbaric age? Half-educated students from the lowlands... Tch."

His voice curdled with contempt and disbelief.

"God knows all, sees all, and punishes sinners directly. And you dare suggest that mere mortals gather together to pass judgment? A trial. Truly a savage notion."

He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Torture was barbaric. Trials, too, were barbaric. But burning a man alive — that, apparently, was civilized.

I could never understand the people who lived in this world, Ravin included. Maybe that was precisely why Estelle, who never demanded understanding, had felt so comfortable to be around.

Matthias turned, as if he had nothing left to say. Before he left, he added one final line.

"May God's mercy rest upon your soul."

"Sir! Are you actually going to burn me alive?!"

I didn't even realize I'd switched to formal speech.

He gave no answer and vanished into the dark.

The iron door slammed shut. Silence rushed back in. Alone in that empty black, I let out a bitter, empty laugh.

Then, driven by some dull hunger, I dropped to my stomach, picked up the fallen bread from the floor, and ate it.

Like a dog.

It tasted like shit.

The next day, when mealtime came, the iron door opened again.

This time, it wasn't Matthias. Someone slipped in carefully, carrying a tray.

Serepina.

Her face was hollow. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. Like she was close to dying herself.

She said she'd begged the priest who was supposed to come, asking to take his place. Her voice had a small tremor in it.

"...Ravin."

She set the tray down in front of me. Warm soup, hard bread, a cup of water. Steam curled gently from the bowl.

"Feed me the bread. Cut off the side someone's been holding onto."

I spoke while watching ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her flinch.

I didn't want to eat off the floor again, like some dog. My gaze flicked toward the stump of my right arm.

"Ah— yes. I'll feed you. Right now. Just—"

Serepina tore the bread into small pieces, one by one, soaked them in the soup, and fed them to me slowly with the spoon.

About halfway through the bowl, the tears started. A blank, numb ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠expression, and tears running quietly down her face.

"Don't worry too much. I'll be dead soon anyway."

I was the one comforting her.

"Levina?"

"Lady Levina... she's just— she shut herself in. Said she'd be convalescing at the family residence for a while."

"Any word about the Saintess?"

"...Nothing."

Serepina set the spoon down in the bowl.

"How are your injuries...?"

"I wouldn't call them fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"...I'm sorry."

"I heard you."

Serepina shifted, moving to sit right beside me. She settled in and buried her face against her knees.

"Why did you kill the priests?"

She whispered it. Her voice was full of resentment and grief.

"That's—"

I almost snapped. Said I didn't do it. Shouted it.

But I closed my mouth. I knew it wouldn't matter. She would never believe me. The same as always.

I knew that far too well.

And still I couldn't give up on Serepina. I was so good at pretending — enlightenment, indifference, all of it — while a faint, stubborn attachment lingered in some corner of my heart.

I was about to die. But dying or not, I wanted to keep looking at her, just like this.

Whether 'Ravin' wanted that or I did — the lines blurred. Honestly, I wasn't sure I cared.

I looked down at the bandaged stump of my right arm. The throbbing pain pulsed again.

"Who knows... how I killed them. The church will decide that for me."

She couldn't answer. She just started crying, no sound at all.

Thick tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto the cold stone floor.

"Hey, Serepina. I mean this."

I looked her straight in the eyes.

"I didn't do it. Not a single one. If I tell you I didn't do it — will you believe me?"

She hesitated. Her eyes wavered. She bit her lip.

And that was everything, right there.

She pretended to leave the door open, but she never actually stepped through. No matter how I bared my heart, no matter how many times I said what I wanted, Serepina only ever pretended to listen.

"But everyone says you did... the Order, the Academy — even the evidence all points to you. At the priest's residence, the cigarettes you smoke, traces of—"

"Serepina. If everyone says so, then I guess that's how it is."

I smiled faintly.

"They're going to burn me to death. I could've just had my head blown off. Quick, painless. But no. They want me to burn slow, suffering the whole time. I'm scared. I don't want to die like that."

Serepina bit down on her lower lip.

"So before I die, I've got a request."

I reached toward her, remembered my right arm was gone, and extended my left hand instead. Only cold air met my fingertips.

"Hold my hand."

A hesitant expression crossed her face. Then she reached out — her hand still marked with bruises, still worried raw from endless teeth — and placed it in mine.

I gripped it tight and pulled her toward me.

"...Ngh— Ravin?"

Our faces drew close enough that our lips nearly touched. I was about to kiss her. Instead, something sick twisted in my gut, and I pushed her gently away.

I'm not 'Ravin.'

"Don't stay by Kyle's side. I can't do a single thing for you, but please. I just... I don't want to see you next to that bastard, smiling."

My voice was barely above begging.

"I hope you never find happiness."

At the very least, I wasn't begging the woman in front of me.