Flesh Mends, But Not Every Wound Can Stitch
Beatrice counts three scabs and four scrapes on Jessica's hands. Her skin has knit back together, yet it still appears raised. The scabs are a deep red color and have crusted, jagged outlines. With a scratch, they will bleed, and the healing will have to start anew.
On Jessica's right fist, she spots a bruise. The color is royal azure, much like her eyes, bold and dark. She notices it when Jessica rubs her wounds, her attention focused solely on her injuries, all of which are self-inflicted.
Jessica shakes her head, sighs, then raises her fists to her chin. She bounces in place, her worn sneakers squeaking on the cobblestone. She thrusts her right hand forward, her open palm smashing against the punching bag, the sound making Beatrice's shoulders tense. It swings away, threatening to fly off the hook and crash into the roses. Centrifugal force flings it back to her. Again and again, Jessica fires a flurry of blows, grunting with each attack, her teeth clenched so tightly together that Beatrice believes they will crack.
She has been training in the rose garden for hours. Beatrice believes she has been there since the morning. The moonlight rays have already slipped through the deep bubblegum clouds of the Golden Land, covering the night sky. She hasn't eaten, nor has she spoken to the other denizens. Jessica has focused entirely on training for a battle that she has already lost.
Beatrice sucks in a breath. "Jessica," she states, extending her hand. Her pipe appears in a swirl of golden butterflies. Smoke wafts from the tip, and Beatrice sticks it in her mouth, inhaling its delicious scent.
Jessica glances at her. "Golden Witch," she replies, and she snatches the bag. It stills in her hands, her skin raw and red.
Beatrice blows out the smoke, feeling it caress her tongue. Jessica wrinkles her nose. It's merely out of habit, muscle memory from her old life. In the Golden Land, all illnesses have healed upon the remodeling of their soul.
"Do you have to smoke?" she still snaps.
The corner of Beatrice's lip curls. "Yes. I'm fond of it. I haven't quit in a thousand years, and I don't plan on doing so for your comfort."
Jessica rakes her fingers through her wavy, blonde locks. Her shade is lighter than Beatrice's golden curls. Focusing on her hair, Beatrice lowers her gaze to Jessica's face. Sweat gives her skin a shiny sheen, the droplets collecting in the crease in her brow and rolling down the sides of her face. Her cheeks are flushed the color of the rose adorning Beatrice's hair. Her pupils are dark pinpricks, her features sharp and focused, her jaw tight as Beatrice inhales the smog, comforting herself.
Beatrice gestures at Jessica's fists with her pipe. "I've noticed your hands have been continuously injured during your training session," she explains, frowning when Jessica's nostrils flare. When she slams her elbow into the bag, it quakes, threatening to topple off and crush a portion of her garden again. Beatrice sighs. "Cease that behavior at once. We're having a civil discussion regarding your physical health."
"I already know where this crap is going," Jessica seethes, advancing on Beatrice. She attempts to snatch the pipe, but Beatrice snaps her fingers, making it reappear in her other hand like a game of hot potato. The wispy smoke thickens around them. Jessica sucks in a hacking breath, her eyes closing, her lungs evidently taxed. She covers her mouth, and Beatrice hums, knowing why she still coughs, but she still takes a final puff.
Beatrice tosses her pipe to the wind. It vanishes into golden butterflies before it hits the fence. Jessica snorts and doesn't offer her gratitude. Beatrice decides to overlook it rather graciously, leveling her irritation with the slightest pursing of her lips.
"I don't need your magic," Jessica snarls, raising her fist. Her knuckles press against her skin, lightening the color of her bruise. "I want them to heal on their own. Naturally."
"Your callous nature is annoying, but as you are a human, I suppose I understand. You already accepted my magic, but you refuse to enjoy its benefits because of your inherently stubborn nature," Beatrice jeers, flashing her fangs. She extends her palm and presses her fingernail onto her thumb. With a twitch, she cuts it wide open, and Beatrice chuckles as Jessica gasps. Blood trickles down her finger, but as quickly as it appears, it fades. Her skin smooths over, baby-soft. And the blood evaporates like bubbles, leaving behind a cool, damp sensation.
Jessica glances at her hands. Her expression relaxes for the briefest of seconds. Beatrice senses her apprehension, unable to contain herself as a cackle escapes her throat, her victory at hand. Jessica grunts the moment Beatrice sneers, and she steps away from her, her fists still raised to her chin, prepared to land the killing blow.
"And so what? Your magic is real, and it's awesome! You can summon demons and battle towers out of thin air!" Jessica huffs, and out of instinct, Beatrice licks her lips at her submission. "There! Did I stroke your ego enough?"
She strokes her chin on purpose, humming far too loudly for Jessica's liking, which she knows very well. "Oh, I'd prefer a little more fawning but-"
"But nothing! I don't need you or anyone to heal me!" Jessica bellows, stomping her foot. Her head jerks forward so swiftly that Beatrice cannot move in time. The tip of her nose nearly juts into Beatrice, and her warm breath hits the witch's face. "Just back off! I don't need your help. I never asked for it. I never asked for any of this!"
Her fist jolts toward Beatrice's stomach, but the hit never lands. Beatrice's expression shifts, her gasp escaping her as metal clangs on the ground, rebounds off the arbor, carves through the punching bag. They skewer their target with efficiency and poise, and Beatrice squeezes her eyes shut, the stakes perforating through Jessica's extremities, her bones snapping in too many places.
"Fool. You know my furniture will protect me from any perceived threat regardless of where we are," Beatrice murmurs, and the stakes dislodge from their prey.
The sisters, splattered in ichor, reform and bow to their master. Lucifer addresses Beatrice, but the witch doesn't hear her. She focuses on the deep gouges puncturing Jessica's body. Her muscles have split wide open. Brain matter seeps from the hole in her forehead. Blood gushes from her wounds, soiling her clothes and staining her tanned skin. Jessica's strength ebbs from her, but as if deliberate, to aggravate Beatrice, she drops on her back and lands with her knees knocking together instead of falling before her splayed out.
"Beatrice-sama, again, we apologize for reacting without your command," Lucifer says, raising her voice, and the girls crowd around Jessica.
Beelzebub licks her lips. "She was yummy, but the aftertaste is sorrowfully sour."
"She was so warm, but now, I'm just too cold," Asmodeus adds, hugging herself.
"For all of her training, it amounted to nothing," Belphegor remarks, shaking her head.
"What a foolish girl," Satan reprimands, crossing her arms. "She had this coming for insulting Beatrice-sama! Know your pla-!"
Satan's breath chokes in her throat. Beatrice glares at her with such fury that the other sisters shriek. They huddle together, scuttling to the fence as Satan clutches her neck. She moves as if someone is strangling her, hobbling in one place, gagging.
"You will remember," Beatrice growls, "that everyone is equal in the Golden Land. There are no assigned places here."
The way Satan nods so feverishly is enough to amuse her for a century. She is certain Lambdadelta would agree. Satan sputters, tears slipping down her face, her legs beginning to involuntarily kick. Beatrice relinquishes her invisible hold, and Satan drops to her knees, clapping her hands together in supplication. With a tilt of her head, Beatrice dismisses the sisters, Satan thanking her profusely as she vanishes, and she returns to the matter at hand.
She kneels by Jessica's corpse. Her hair spills out behind her and neatly crowns her face. Beatrice cups her jaw, using her thumb to rub her high cheek that resembles Natsuhi. The witch raises her other hand over Jessica's heart and pauses. Her eyes fall to Jessica's hands, which are now definitely the least concerning of her injuries.
She sighs. "Come, come. True to remember your true form. Your strength, your confidence, your belligerence. Remember your spirit to form the true self you wish to have in the Golden Land."
Jessica's body glows. The blood dissipates like steam. Her skin comes together, sutured without any scars. Her expression, twisted in shock, relaxes as if she is having a pleasant dream.
Then, she awakens. Her eyes blink open. Beatrice places her hands in her lap, allowing Jessica to sight upright. Immediately, Jessica checks for injuries that no longer exist. And as Beatrice anticipated, Jessica looks at her hands where the scabs and bruises remained imperfect.
"You didn't heal them?" she mutters, furrowing her brow.
"You didn't ask for them to be healed, so I abided by your wish. This is the form you desired, the form your soul constructed," Beatrice explains.
Jessica doesn't answer. Birdsong fills the silence. The wind blows, golden flower petals rustling. Tears fill Jessica's eyes, her lips trembling and her face reddening. Beatrice waits for her answer with all the time in her immortal world.
"I'm sorry," Jessica murmurs, lowering her head. "I'm still - this is so - I don't know." She swallows, hiccups, smearing the back of her hand across her eyes. "I just wanna heal my way, but I can't, and I don't think I ever will."
Her voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. Beatrice wreathes her arms around Jessica, holding her tightly to the point where she almost fears breaking her spine. Jessica chokes and buries her face into the warm cloth of Beatrice's dress, her chest providing a nice pillow for Jessica to rest her aching head. Beatrice listens to her sobs, letting them fill the void between them, her own heart hammering in her chest as she accepts the solemn truth.
The Golden Land is her paradise. That does not make it a paradise for everyone. It can, however, become their paradise when the others accept it in their hearts. But Jessica is young and her life has been stripped from her in a manner that churns Beatrice's stomach when she remembers. Broken, battered, her face resembling something inhuman, skinless, full of tattered muscle and eyeless sockets. And in other countless worlds, she died, unable to heal, full of wrath, full of anguish, full of confusion.
"Everyone in the Golden Land loves you, Jessica. I love you, too," Beatrice croons, stroking through her hair. "Please, don't continue to injure yourself like this. You can heal here, even if it is not the way you prefer, but I promise you that one day, we will both heal."
Jessica blubbers and apologizes. Beatrice accepts her sins, even if she knows they are not truly transgressions. They ache together, yearning for closure. Beatrice laces her fingers with Jessica, understanding that one year of living in the ageless Golden Land cannot heal a lifetime of suffering.
Battler is not awake. He will not arrive for quite some time, or perhaps, he never will. As his soul lingers in limbo, between life and death, the Golden Land will never be truly at peace, but Beatrice prays that one day, he will awaken, and full acceptance will be granted.
For Jessica's sake, she hopes that day will come soon.