L'undicesima Storia: Il Recupero e Ritenuta
Her eyelids fluttered open. Raw sunlight filtered in through the sheer white curtains of her room at the Governatore's mansion. Outside, the birds chirped out their lilting tune as Amica stared into the blank, white ceiling. Her mind was still numb with the shock of the night before. She laid still for some time, hoping the lethargy would slowly slip away. However, the longer she laid there, the farther she felt from wakefulness and clarity, isolated in the comfort and sanctuary of her sheets.
She rolled out of bed, her feet cold against the hardwood floor. She padded over to the small vanity, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes trapped by those amethyst voids, the eyes of a stranger. Flat and colorless, their familiar fire dead, only cold ashes remained. Her skin possessed an unnaturally wan appearance that matched the pallor of her silk nightgown. She was a ghost of her former self. Or perhaps not, perhaps she finally saw herself for what she truly was for the first time. A tarnished child standing amongst the tatters of her paper armor.
Her gaze drifted downwards, to her exposed throat, a stabbing ache rose to fill the void in her chest. Blue-purple bruises marred her creamy white flesh, serving as a painful reminder that last night was not some fantasy turned nightmare. His touch, which still tingled across her skin, was no mere illusion. She wished the memories could be forgotten, as if she could, by will alone, remove them from existence. Yet, at the same time, a piece of her wanted to keep them locked in her heart forever. That night, she'd felt something. He had too. She knew it, but the hatred that had flared in his amber gaze… It hadn't left much to uncertainty. Her arms coiled around her stomach, as if this simple action could clutch the shattered pieces of her brokenness together.
A muted knock at the door tore her from her thoughts. "Come in," she responded, monotonously.
The door creaked open and the elderly maid crossed the threshold, turning to shut and bolt the door quickly. The woman gave it a backwards glance before approaching Amica.
"Signorina Benedetta, there are two guards standing outside the door," the maid whispered, fervently. "One is the Governatore's, I know him. The other one is some dark-haired lad I don't recognize. Does he ever have the sourest expression?" She shook her head.
"I see," Amica replied. Sounds like Nova, she thought, a frown tugging at her lips.
"My, and you, too! Now, I'm not one to advise on the goings-on of noble ladies, but a woman is a woman, after all. No matter how the saints have blessed her. So, let's get you primped and pressed. You might surprise yourself with how much better you feel. Besides, you need to show that man what a fool he is," the old woman said with a mischievous grin. Debito was hardly the fool in this situation. She should have known better. He would never accept her after what she'd done. Amica opened her mouth to protest.
"I'll hear none of that, now! You ought to know you can't put one past old Nonna. These wrinkles aren't just for show, you know. Now, be a lamb, and get your face washed. I might be just a maid, but I'll not let my lady waste away hiding in her room," Nonna tittered on, gently guiding Amica by her elbow to the washbasin.
While Amica splashed her face with the cold water, scrubbing off the previous day's make-up powder and dirt, the old woman was rummaging through the closet. Amica turned to watch her pull out a new dress. She had to wonder how the Governatore procured so many in such a short period of time. Amica undressed, changing into the new undergarments Nonna laid out on an elaborately upholstered French-style sitting chair.
Amica stood silent while the old maid nattered on about the happenings of her evening the night before as she dressed the girl, and carefully styled her hair with her aged, yet still steady hands. Amica listened on, not noticing the small smile the crept across her mouth. Finally, the maid tied a petal pink gossamer scarf around Amica's throat and stepped back to admire her work.
"I think that about does it," the maid said with a self-satisfied tone of voice. Amica glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror and was shocked to find the vision of the beautiful, composed woman contained within its borders. The maid smiled knowingly. "Now, my lady, think not on the things that are done, but think of the things you can do."
With those words hanging in the silence, Nonna gave Amica a light shove towards the door. The pirate-turned-noblewoman drew a steadying breath, turned the deadbolt and opened the door to find it flanked on both sides by two young men locked in an irritable glare. On her left was the guard who escorted her to the ball, and on her right stood Nova. She gave Nova a quick nod of acknowledgement before turning towards the guard on her left. She pulled her shoulders back into what she hoped was a gracious posture, and stared up to the guard with all of the authoritative pompousness she could muster. He blinked back at her, a vacant expression spread across his dark, handsome features.
"Excuse me, guard. Tell me. Are there any herb gardens in the Governatore's mansion?" she requested smoothly. It was almost shocking how easily she fell into the role of noblewoman's condescension.
"Herb gardens, miss?" he questioned.
"Yes," she snapped, coldly. "I believe that was what I asked for. You know, a place where a doctor may gather his herbs?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Do you have business there?" he asked. Nova watched on, silently. Amica could almost see the hint of smile tug the corners of his mouth.
"Would I go there otherwise?" Amica responded. She may have sounded harsh, but at least, there would be no misunderstandings this time.
"O-Of course not, my lady," he stammered. "Please right this way." He turned his attention now to the dark-haired boy standing beside her. "And you, Regalo dog, your presence is unnecessary."
"No, he's fine," she said, lightly, waving her lace-gloved hand dismissively. "After all, he has his own interests to look after. Surely, you can protect me."
"I… Of course, my lady," the guard acquiesced begrudgingly.
She entered the glass-framed observatory in silence, dogged by her twin glaring shadows. Tall trees filtered out the bright morning sunlight and she moved along the meticulously manicured garden path. Occasionally, she would pause and pull a small green leaf from low growing bush before continuing.
"Nova," she called, gently, and at once the stoic boy was at her shoulder as they continued to walk through the garden. Her thoughts drifted towards the young man that took the bullet that was meant for her. "How is he?"
"Gloomy and sullen. Mostly, confused. He hasn't really spoken much since last night, but I don't think he is any danger to you, Amica," the boy replied with a cold, inscrutable expression. Despite this, his voice carried an unusual softness, which Amica took to be his form of reassurance. Even if this wasn't the person she intended to inquire after, a part of her was glad to know that Debito was safe, albeit worse for the wear. Nova was silent for a moment. "I saw your Arcana. Did you-"
"No," she interrupted. "I didn't want this."
"It's a defense mechanism. When our emotions run too high, the likelihood of unintentionally triggering our Arcana increases exponentially. It's happened to me before... when I was younger..." Nova trailed off, pain flashing in his deep blue eyes.
"And Debito?" Amica asked. Between the two of them, he had been more emotional, by far.
"He's different… His powers have been stabilized from an early age," Nova said, slowly. A wistful expression glazed across his habitually impassive face. "If you're at the Piccolino this year, he always tells it."
"At the Piccolino?" Amica asked, confused. Why would Nova assume she would celebrating Regalan holidays, and with Debito of all people? Considering recent events, he'd be more likely to shoot her than tell her a story.
"Just forget I mentioned it," Nova mumbled, recovering himself enough to change the subject. "Why have we come here, anyway?"
"For Liberta," Amica explained. Her voice took on a grave tone, heavy under the burden of her guilt. "I owe him a great debt. It's not like I expect that some poultice is going to make us even, but maybe it will help."
Nova only nodded in response. Amica gave him a weak smile, and continued walking down the path. Small lavender flowers caught the corner over her eyes, and stepped into the underbrush to kneel beside the short, wide-leaf brush. She bruised a leaf with her fingers, its soft bristles prickly against her skin. Nova's long shadow crept over her shoulder, and she turned, beaming a wide smile at him.
"Knitbone!" she chirped excitedly as she harvested her find. "This will be good for Liberta!"
"You know quite a bit about this," the boy commented appreciatively.
"Being a pirate, this sort of thing comes up more often than you would imagine. Rarely do I have access to fresh ingredients," Amica explained. Her basket now filled, she rose and wiped the dirt from her hands. "I think that about covers it. Garcon, I think we're ready to return."
"Of course, my lady," the guard responded with a subtle incline of his head. He turned on his heel, leading her from the garden.
Liberta groaned through gritted teeth, favoring his shoulder. If he thought it hurt yesterday, the moment his adrenalin subsided, he realized how mistaken he had been. A deep-seated ache radiated across his chest and back.
"I don't think it's really necessary to stay in bed for a week," he complained to the nurse who just smiled meekly in response. There was just no getting through to her. Maybe she didn't speak the same language. Even if she did, it might as well have been the case for all the good his grousing did him.
"Mi dispaice, signore," she mumbled. The same tired platitudes she used every time in her feeble attempts to placate him. He ran his hand through his blonde hair, still matted with grime and his own blood.
"Any chance of getting a bath?" he grumbled irritably.
His response was another weak smile and another, "Mi dispaice, signore." His jaw fell momentarily slack. She didn't even bother to dignify him with an explanation. Liberta had half a mind to complain, if only he knew who to complain to. The nursemaid dipped into a small curtsy before she quickly darted from the room.
"You've got to be kidding me!" He sighed and slowly, carefully reclined against the wall, hissing in pain as he tried to find a comfortable position. This had to be the worst he'd ever felt! And it wasn't just the fact that he'd been shot. By one of his closest friends, no less. More so, it was the anguish of boredom.
He stared vacantly at the opposite wall. White. Plain, boring white. He would look out the window at his bedside, but the curtain was drawn closed, and it probably wasn't worth the agony to open it. He settled in for a long, boring day. A subtle knock seized his attention. Any momentary elation he felt for the impending distraction was immediately replaced by a violent and searing pain that robbed him of the ability to breathe.
"C-come in," he choked out between gasps, a heavy dose of endorphins thrummed in his veins.
The hinges whined pathetically in response, and in entered the strangest sight. He blinked dumbly before rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palm. Surely, he was hallucinating from the pain. A vision, a beautiful woman, more beautiful than he could ever remember seeing, casually walked into his sick room. The ruffles of her white sundress swayed with every step, her rose colored curls glistening in the natural light that filtered into his room. He stared vacantly, before realizing his state of undress. A heated blush flamed across his cheeks, spreading as far as his ears. He pulled up the white sheet past his armpits and slouched into his bed, his only form of protection from her probing eyes. She removed her lace gloves and set them on the table at his bedside, and placed a basket at her feet. Her painted lips split in a bright smile.
"Don't bother, Liberta. It's really nothing I haven't seen before," she said, laughing. The young man blanched visibly.
"A-Amica?" he choked out in shock. Her violet eyes gleamed with a devilish light that set any doubt he had to rest. "You… You really clean up well, you know…" Liberta stammered out. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"Thanks, I guess," Amica laughed. "You look like a wreck."
"Yeah, that tends to happen when you get shot," he said lightly, rubbing the offending shoulder. Her gaze dropped to her shoes, and Liberta swallowed hard. "You know they won't even let me wash my hair!" he shouted in outrage, breaking the awkward silence. He was rewarded with a small smile.
A long, surprisingly comfortable silence passed between them as he watched her slowly take a mortar and pestle from her basket, and carefully grind large green leaves into some strange garish mixture. His curiosity got the better of him. "What are you doing?"
"It's a knitbone poultice. For your wound," she replied quietly. "It's the least I could do…"
"You really don't have to do that," Liberta said. "Besides, are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Yes, I'm sure." Amica laughed, and turned her attention towards the young man. Evidently, finished with her mixture. "You're going to have to sit still." He nodded meekly, unsure of what was to follow.
She was close. Far too close. His hands gripped the dining chair. A furious rouge dusted his cheeks as he tilted his head backwards. The warm water flowing down his neck in tiny rivulets as her small hands worked the lather into his straw-blonde hair. He watched her from the corner of his eyes, a tightness constricting his throat. Liberta thought that he'd never seen her like this before, tender and serious. He struggled against the urge to turn his head, electing instead to close his eyes. Continuing to look at her would do neither of them any good, if the hammer of his pulse were any indication. She poured the rinse over his head, the droplets of water splashing into the basin, like calming rain on a tin roof. A rough sponge gritted across his skin, wiping away the residual filth and blood. Her cool hands deliberately worked at his bindings, occasionally pausing to gently position his body. Her every thought and action tempered by her consideration for him.
Finally, she reached the thick wads of gauze, crusted to his skin with blood. She clicked her tongue in agitation. "Take a deep breath," she coached, and he complied. "Now, breathe out," she said as she ripped the gauze free in a single, fluid motion. In that instant, his breath expelled as a sharp bark of agony, his head rocked backwards, his body went rigid, his fingers clutched the silky, sheer fabric of her sun dress in his fist, clenched tight in pain.
"Cazzo! Warn me when you're going to do something like that!" he snapped.
His scowl melted at the sound of her chiming laughter. "So you could pull away, and end up hurting yourself more?"
Even when inflicting pain, she was considerate as to not cause further injury. He watched her hands tend his injury with purposeful intent, not a single wasted motion. He hissed as the damp cloth erased the dried blood from the skin surrounding his wound, bright red, angry flesh. She smoothed the cool poultice across his shoulder, and he sighed with relief.
"The willow bark should help with the pain and inflammation," she explained.
She turned to rummage through cabinets nearby the door until she found replacement gauze, and returned to his side. With the gauze in place, she leaned over him, wrapping the bandages around his now clean torso.
This girl is really something else, Liberta thought to himself.
Her work near completion, she gave an appraising look towards his bandages. A sigh passed between her slightly parted lips. They looked so soft, so warm. Her hands lingered in their gentle ministration, smoothing and tugging at his dressings. His eyes closed as he revelled in the strange comfort of her touch. When had she become this delicate and gentle? He found himself wondering of things… Things he probably should not. He opened his eyes, and she looked up to meet his gaze. He was lost in those amethyst depths, wide with concern. Her captured her fingers in tender embrace, holding them in place against his chest. He leaned imperceptibly closer, ignoring the protests of his aching sides, his lips crashed against hers. His tongue slipped in to fill the void between her lips, tasting her honeyed sweetness.
"I'm sorry… I can't," she whispered, abruptly pulling from his grasp.
Her hands darted upwards to obscure her watery gaze. Silence reigned as he stared blankly at the wall, listening to her retreating footsteps and click of the door closing behind her. Alone, he allowed his head to drop backwards, heaving a wearied sigh.
"Debito… Between the two of us, I'm not sure who's more the fool," Liberta muttered.
A/N: Thank you for reading The Eleventh Story: Recuperation and Restraint!
I very much hope you liked it. With this chapter we're kicking off the new arc. I've plotted it out with my friend nish0, and I think there will be three more arcs after this one. So we still have a long way left to go.
Gonna plug for nish0, she's working on a pretty cool romance a Shunsui-Rangiku pairing. Stay tuned for updates!
It's kind of funny, when I started this story, I'd intended it to be an action-adventure, but it's sort of become a shoujo-romance. *scratches head in confusion* I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm rolling with it. I think it was Fox Kit Princess asking for a pairing…
Anyway, please review. I'm anxious to hear your thoughts! I'll start bullying you for reviews. I'm not above such dirty under-handed tactics. ; )
Translations:
Cazzo = Italian expletive that literally translates to 'penis', but I think it's probably closer to fuck, in English. According to Wikipedia, it's the most common curse word in the entire language. **** The more you know.
Garcon = French for boy. Most commonly used to mean waiter, but can also mean "someone of lesser rank."
Mi dispaice, signore = I'm sorry, sir