namelessWrench

The Only Rotten Dollhart Webring

A hideous fruit, disgracing itself.

Allo-Aro



zandravandra
@zandravandra

(continued from Part XII | Act I | Act II | Part XIV)

For the longest time, there was nothing else.

Just echoes in the dark. Stray whispers in the murky fog. A world of vitreous smoke, illuminated by distant lightning in thunderclouds. And in the center, where it all began, there was her.

And she was drifting away.

It took a lifetime of wandering to find her again, an existence spent searching the formless unknown. An eternity of sifting through ghosts in the mist, a cavalcade of grey on grey, expressions frozen on faces that vanished in the breeze. But there she was; what was left of her.

A bit of ground to call her own.

A sprawled out pose in parts unknown.

Herself, her own skin, cold as stone.

The fog was clearing, yielding to the void. A light, like sunrise, arose to banish the surrounding clouds to blissful oblivion. This world of formless smoke was vanishing rapidly, shrinking in on itself. But there was no fear in that impending nothingness; only release. Only peace. Where else, then, to spend the last moments but in her company?

Where better to lay down one's head than against her bosom, still and cooling, and wait for this warm all-encompassing glow to subsume everything?

But there came a spark. Pain, ferried by shouts. One cry, the same cry, repeated over and over like a ritual to the beating of a thunderous drum. Her face remained still, her skin remained stone, but across her chest there came a fracture; a fault line like a lightning bolt, glowing in rhythm to the beat of each yell, of that same singular word so loud it threatened to tear the world asunder. And not an idle threat—for any ritual, repeated long enough, performed with sufficient passion and strength, could rip a mountain from its roots. Could bring a statue back to life.

In the face of such a display, how could anyone decline to be summoned? How could anyone refuse the undeniable truth of being wanted?

The pain became louder. The shouting, inescapable. There came a beacon of light among the light, searing in its singular purpose: to bring a long-lost wanderer home. And so it was answered.

And so she awoke.

Lou gasped loudly as the covers gave way to flailing arms. Where is she? There were flashes, images, memories. Frederic, looming overhead, haggard, eyes bloodshot. A familiar sight in the dark of the night; a comforting one.

Lou tried to shake away the dream, or nightmare, unable to tell either apart. What had happened? Where was this? All it took was a cursory look to confirm the sun was up—just barely—filtering through the loose curtains and lighting up the modest apartment. This place looked familiar. Ah, right. One of the safehouses; the one above a bakery. Already the smell of freshly baked bread was coming in through the crack in the window.

Sitting up immediately proved to be a bad idea as Lou winced. Something was wrong. This was pain on the level of broken bones, but even then it was much more intense than it was supposed to be. What was going on? A quick look around the room didn't reveal any danger, but it did catch some movement by the wall—

And then Lou saw her face.

Her Majesty's face, staring, wide-eyed, from the bed on the other side of the mirror.

Lou stared, trembling, unblinking. The realization came and went, bouncing off several times as if something deep inside refused to believe it. But when she gingerly raised a shaking arm, spread out her fingers, made a fist—all movements identical and accounted for—it was impossible to refute anymore. It was her.

She jumped out of bed, stumbling to her feet, catching herself on the edge of the nearby dresser. Pain wracked her entire body but she didn't care. Lou put a hand up against the mirror, mouth agape, head shaking. Her Majesty's face was staring back at her. Her eyes, uncannily different, tired; her makeup, tear-streaked; her lipstick, smudged. What had happened?

Lou limped back to the bed as the pain caught up with her. She sat on the edge of the mattress, wincing, putting a hand out to the nearby nightstand for support. If this was happening... if she had Her Majesty's face, then...?

Her hand slipped on a piece of paper. She quickly caught herself from falling over, then brought the note closer. This was Frederic's handwriting, hurried and smudged as it was. Lou's breath caught in her throat as she read.

Sir,
Her Majesty is safe, in the castle, in your body.
Sending someone for first aid.
Rest and heal in place until I return.
—F

She read it again, and again, hoping that after enough times, she would find reassurance in those words. Her Majesty was safe. That was all that she needed to know, in theory. In practice, she had many more questions. Who had attacked them during the coronation? Had they fled? Were they still a threat? Surely Frederic would have mentioned something.

But perhaps Lou's second-in-command had been in a hurry. When time was of the essence, only what was strictly necessary was communicated. Therefore, she needed to take each line to heart. Her Majesty was safe. Someone was coming to the safehouse. Lou needed to stay put. Perhaps it was still dangerous outside after all. Especially considering the current situation.

Especially considering the importance of her cargo. Lou looked into the mirror again. She was in Her Majesty's body. Regardless of the how or the why, that's where she was. She needed to keep it in pristine condition until all of this could be reversed. And she had her work cut out of her, considering the pain coursing through her chest. Had she already failed? Was she like this when Frederic had left her? She almost reached for the opening at the top of the outfit she was wearing; almost. But no. This was not for her eyes to see.

She gingerly leaned back onto the bed, trying to stay comfortable, while awaiting the mystery doctor. She only hoped she was doing this correctly. She—

CLACK!

Lou bolted upright, immediately regretting it as white hot pain shot from her solar plexus all the way to her chin. Something had shoved itself into the window's opening, some sort of... stick? A silhouette behind it jammed the piece of wood sideways, then up, lifting the window the rest of the way. A hooded head peeked into the room.

end of preview

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