Chapter Text
All the questions Marianne wants to ask crowd in her mind, leaving her briefly speechless. There are just… so many things that don’t add up. Her skin, despite there only being the already healing scabs from her attempts to sweep, remembers the sensation of burning. More than just that accursed heat, it recalls nerve-deep pain. Perhaps her first awakening wasn’t a dream, but she suspects that her memory of it cannot be entirely trusted. Because such injuries would surely have left a mark.
Eventually, she manages to focus her mind enough to force her lips and tongue into cooperating. “Why?” At this, Marsha tilts her head slightly, clearly confused, so Marianne tries to elaborate. “Why save me? Why all this effort?” There must be some kind of reason other than just… selflessness. In this war, there is hardly any place left for such sentiment. Furthermore, Marsha hadn’t just saved some casualty of battle. Marianne should have been executed. A traitor to the country. By saving her, Marsha was also putting herself at risk. She’s harboring a criminal right now.
Marsha’s expression shifts to something almost akin to pity. Marianne doesn’t know what to do with that. There’s something about the way Marsha expresses her emotions that makes Marianne feel overwhelmed. For some reason, the idea of Marsha being affected by her unsettles her. Someone like Marsha should never even look upon Marianne, shouldn’t even know she exists, and yet here they are. Seeming to consider how to answer, Marsha chews slightly on one side of her lip. Unlike Marianne’s, Marsha’s lips somehow aren’t dry from the heat. In fact, they look rather soft. She cuts off this train of thought. This is unnecessary information. She raises her eyes back up to Marsha’s. The blue is going to swallow her.
“Well… it was sort of just by chance, really,” Marsha starts, folding her hands in her lap. She doesn’t fiddle with her gauntlets, doesn’t shift their position. Every movement Marsha makes reads as being perfectly controlled. Purposeful. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and I… saw you. And if I could try to save a life, why shouldn’t I?” That can’t be all. Marianne can think of plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t have.
Attempting to push herself into a more proper posture to raise herself to Marsha’s height, Marianne lets out a little hiss of pain. She immediately regrets this. Not because she cannot handle the feeling, but because of the way Marsha’s face crinkles in worry, eyebrows drawing together and mouth opening slightly, the question of concern already written. Marianne doesn’t think she can manage dealing with that, so she just plows on with her points. “You did not know me. My character could not have been gathered from an unconscious body,” she argues.
Guilt curls in her stomach. Marianne shouldn’t be arguing with her savior at all. Still, her curiosity has always driven her down dangerous paths. She gathers her strength and continues. “But you should have been able to tell that I was meant to be executed. Did that not indicate to thee that I might be someone best left to rot? What wouldst you have done, were I some kind of monster?” And honestly, that point is still up for debate. Her lineage is hardly a great start, and then she chose to become a murderer. Marianne ducks her head and mouths a prayer of apology. It will hardly fix anything, but… she cannot do much more, now.
Marsha reaches for Marianne briefly, but then seems to think better of it and returns her hand to her lap. Embarrassing as it is, Marianne cannot help but be grateful for it, with the way her heart jumped at the motion. “You don’t seem a monster to me. Just… a soldier, following orders,” Marsha says gently, still careful as one handling a stray cat would be. For the first time, Marsha shifts her hands uncomfortably, pressing her palms together. Marianne can’t help the little scoff she makes at that statement though. Following orders was more or less the exact opposite of what she’d done. But she does understand Marsha’s point. She herself would hardly blame any of her fellow infantry soldiers. Not even those on the other side. They were all just swept up in the same tide of suffering.
Leaning back slightly and raising her eyebrows a touch, Marsha holds Marianne’s gaze. “You disagree?” Marsha’s pupils are pinprick-small, and Marianne is half afraid that the blue is about to swallow them entirely. Light doesn’t seem to reflect off them at all and Marianne fights to suppress a shiver.
Almost hurriedly, Marianne shakes her head. “I do not. Not… not on principle, at least,” she says. She doesn’t believe every soldier on the field to be a monster. They’re all just people, caught by the deception that there might be some kind of glory in war.
“So what, you’re uniquely deserving of death?” Marsha questions, and Marianne knows exactly where she’s going with this. As if this isn’t an argument she’s had with herself countless times. She’s not some kind of figure suited to claim the suffering of the many. It’s not as if she can blame herself for the conflict in the first place. She knows these things. But neither is she uniquely deserving of life. It has only been luck that has brought her thus far. Luck to have a more defensive skill, luck that a shell never got to her directly, luck that a bullet from behind never surprised her. And it was chance too that brought Marsha to her. If she’d died in that execution, as she was meant to, she could hardly complain. The price would have to catch up eventually, in some form.
Thoughts swirl in Marianne’s mind, chasing each other in fruitless circles. In the end, all she says is, “Yes.” She doesn't think she can fit her feelings into words.
And the look Marsha gives her at that nearly makes Marianne break. She should bow her head to this untouchable being and beg for forgiveness, prayers spilling freely from her throat until her wretched tongue cannot form another word. She should flay herself in supplication and let her insides be picked clean, presenting her heart for judgement. There are a lot of things Marianne feels she should do, but all her body actually does in reality is turn away from Marsha slightly, no longer able to meet those consuming eyes.
Marsha sighs slightly. “Well. Whatever you think of yourself, you’re alive now,” she says carefully, and Marianne nods. The addition of please don’t waste my efforts is left unspoken, but Marianne still feels it. She won’t. She’s indebted to Marsha now, and leaving her a statue would hardly do her any good. Marianne needs to make up for what she’s taken from Marsha: time, supplies, and energy. So, her first priority now should be to heal properly. Which is going… a lot better than she would have ever expected. She’s not in constant pain already. Big win. Tentatively, she presses against her left side, where the burns are.
…The burns. Marianne’s hand meets smooth and whole skin. There’s still no injury. Why would there be? She was shot, not put on a pyre. And yet, for some reason, her body is telling her that there should be pain when she presses there. Marianne’s brows furrow. Well… memory is a finicky thing. Whatever she might think, the reality of the matter is that she has no burns to speak of. She should try to move on. She has more questions, in any case. Looking back up at Marsha, Marianne poses probably her second biggest question about this whole situation. “What was that heat?”
Strangely enough, Marsha looks a little awkward, faced with this question. “Ah, yes. That,” she says, stalling somewhat. A hand reaches up to adjust the bandages around her throat. “To be entirely honest… I don’t know either.” Marianne blinks. Has she just been living with that ridiculous temperature this whole time? Or perhaps it only started when she brought Marianne back. What’s causing it, then?
Marianne just knows this is going to consume her thoughts, but for now she just nods slowly. They haven’t quite established enough rapport for Marianne to ask of her theories. It’ll just be something for her to puzzle over in her free time, which she suspects she will have a lot of, while healing. For now, at least. Hopefully she’ll be able to get up soon at least… being confined to just this alcove will probably get stale quickly. Not even ‘probably’, Marianne is already not looking forward to when Marsha next has to leave. But she can hardly ask for more than what she’s already been given.
For a few minutes longer, Marsha stays, waiting to see if Marianne will ask anything else. She knows she’s hardly entitled to such things though, and keeps her mouth shut. She's already pushed enough. “Well,” Marsha eventually says, standing up and returning the chair she’d been sitting on to the little dining table. From a cabinet, she takes out a glass and a jug, then puts the glass on the table close enough for Marianne to reach. “For now, it really will just be lots of rest. I’ll go get you some water, then I’ll head out to try and get a more proper supply of food.”
Mutely, Marianne nods her understanding. Marsha still lingers for a moment, hand resting on the back of the chair. In the end, she goes out without another word. She has no idea why, but as soon as the door closes behind Marsha, Marianne finds herself relaxing, tension bleeding out of her posture as she leans back against the pillows. Perhaps it’s just the absurdity of the entire situation, Marianne tries to reason. It’s not every day that you wake up from your execution in a stranger’s cottage, after all.
And besides, this is… new to both of them. But surely it’ll get less…. awkward, she supposes might be the best word in this scenario, in time. Marianne is properly conscious now. More likely than not, Marsha will be home for an extended period of time in the evening and that… Marianne isn’t scared. There’s no reason to be scared. It’ll just be a chance for more casual conversation, hopefully. As casual as one can be with the person who saved their life and pulled them out of the war.
Marsha comes back with her jug, now filled with water, and puts it on the table along with the glass. She opens her mouth, hesitating. “Is there anything you need? I’ll likely be out for a while, this time.” Marianne only shakes her head in response. No. She should not ask for more. She’s eaten enough that she won’t starve, and Marsha has already supplied her with water. She has blankets and a comfortable place to sleep. There is nothing she needs, now. It seems for a second that Marsha wants to protest and ask again.
Marianne is left alone once more. She will get used to it. And it’s not as if she hasn’t spent a few hours by herself in the past or anything. Honestly, she should appreciate the peace and quiet. You could hardly get a moment to yourself in the trenches. This is luxury in comparison. Closing her eyes, Marianne carefully shifts back to lying down. If she is to heal properly and repay Marsha, she needs to let her body rest.