Work Text:
Hilichurl bodies decay faster than human ones, which is strange because they were human once, too. Barbara plugs her nose and wipes the raindrops from her face. A basin of water sits boiling as the logs blacken underneath it. She counts the seconds as they pass.
Six. Seven. Eight.
At her hip hangs a stained pouch. Her fingers are covered in berry juice.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
Jean had smiled at her today. Nothing substantial, just a polite smile exchanged between relatives. Sister Victoria had been uncharacteristically kind, too. She even allowed Barbara the privilege of passing out communion wafers. Not the wine, though. Still not old enough for that.
Nineteen. Twenty.
In a few years, though, maybe. Maybe then she’ll be allowed to touch the wine. Maybe then she’ll be allowed to pour drops of golden forgiveness and red salvation.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
The rain comes down harder. Barbara adds a handful of wild mint leaves, then flicks her finger over the basin. The water swirls into a vortex.
The dirt beneath her boots is loose and shatters into a mess of white roots and mouldy pebbles. Worms love rain, Barbara notes idly. And the birds love worms, and the hunters love the birds.
Thirty-one.
Smoke fills the air, and it smells like clove, like ash, and like wet leaves. Beneath it all, there is the dirt.
Barbara stops counting. Instead, she stares down at her reflection, whose eyes are covered with twisting mint leaves and whose skin bubbles and pops. Her stomach rolls.
A squirrel darts up a tree and squeaks when the brittle branch snaps under its paws. It falls to the ground in a mess of furry limbs, then scrambles into a hole at the base of the tree.
Barbara’s hand goes to her hair and comes back black and smelling of sulfur.
Her reflection has a complexion that froths like warm milk. The edges of its lips burst like ripe pustules, but it smiled up at her regardless, ignorant of the agony, and it continued to smile at her even after she averts her eyes.
Grass crunches behind her.
She says, “Let the water boil for a little while longer.”
“I don’t mind the cold.”
“It’s to kill the germs. The mint helps with that.”
“Is that really true?”
“I read it in a book, once.”
Smoke curls like a wanton dream. It smells like decay, like metal, and like sweet snapdragons.
“Let me see your leg. Here, sit down and—where did I put my handkerchief? Don’t slouch, please; it’ll only put pressure on your thigh.”
Barbara scoops out a bowlful of water and blows on it. The mint leaves had shrivelled into dark slits from the unforgiving heat. She dips her handkerchief into the water, then wrings it out away from the fire.
“If it hurts, please tell me. You don’t need to tough it out.”
She gets a grunt in response.
The grass beneath her is wet. Her boots squeak as she shifts to readjust. The stockings were slashed to shreds. Barbara presses her handkerchief against the many lacerations. Heat rolls against her hand and permeates through her glove. She takes her handkerchief away and rinses it in tepid water. The lacerations are shaped like shrivelled mint leaves.
She looks up.
Rosaria’s chin juts into the sky. Like a dragon, she snorts another cloud of smoke. This time, it smells like slabs of meat hanging out to dry.
Barbara chews at her tongue. “I should have cleaned this earlier.”
“A little pain is necessary once in a while. You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“I don’t think infection is ever necessary.”
“Is my leg infected?”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Will you close it up?”
Barbara breathes out and nods.
The wooden bowl is stained red by the time she finishes cleaning the wound’s surface. What remains is ground meat, slivers of grey skin, and segments of fishnet stockings woven into the mess of muscle. A flash of white peeks out from within the red; it catches Barbara’s eye and winks.
She breathes in. “Are you still with me?”
“I’m fine. Do what you need to.”
A hand finds its way onto the top of her head and stays there.
“I just wanted to make sure. How’s your vision?”
“Blurry.”
“I have lollipops in one of my pockets,” Barbara says.
“You did not have to lower yourself to the ground.”
“I’m already filthy. A little more dirt won’t be the end of the world.”
“Maybe not to you.”
Barbara scoops another bowlful of freshly boiled water, swirls her finger over the top, then dips her hand in. The skin of her fingers is too deeply stained with red that water cannot hope to wash it all away. Her teeth find the inside of her check and grind down. She looks up.
Rosaria stares down at her. Her cheeks slope inward to create harsh shadows beneath her eyes. The edge of her lip is speckled red. Barbara looks away.
The water ebbs from her hands and slinks deep into the crevices of Rosaria’s wound. It moves sluggishly over the tattered muscle and engulfs the winking white bone in a languid swallow. Rosaria breathes out.
“Did you find the berries you were looking for?”
“I did, but they’re all crushed. I needed the intact seeds to make a salve.” Barbara shifts on her knees. “Sister Victoria worries about you, you know.”
“She should know better than to waste her time.”
A loose strip of skin yellows. Beneath it, there is a patch of flawless, grey skin.
“We all worry about you.”
The hand in her hair tightens its grip. The kiss of metal claws against her scalp sends a shock up Barbara’s spine.
“Poultice can wait until morning.”
Barbara shakes her head.
“Oh, was it an emergency? For whom, then? Dear, old Jean? One of your drooling fans? Some citizen with an invisible injury?”
“One of our Sisters, actually. She’d never say anything, but I’ve been watching her for a while; everyone appreciates soreness-alleviating salves.”
“Not everybody appreciates a stalker. You, of all people, should realise that.”
“I do.”
Fresh muscle is pinker than a young crab’s shell.
Barbara’s side is sticky.
“Does it ever wash off?”
“Depends. Most people scrub until their hands blister, but still can’t get the stains out. Others rinse their hands in the stream and come out like new.”
“Well, how about you? I don’t see any blisters.”
“Blisters covered my hands when I was younger.”
“Could you fall asleep?”
“Not for the first few nights.”
“Was it the pain that kept you awake?”
“Not just that.”
The glowing globule of water gyrates to the side and spurts out a black mess. It collides with a smooth stone and bursts into wet, flossy shrapnel.
Rosaria retracts her hand and sets it on her knee.
The top layer of flesh had withered into old parchment. Barbara touches it, runs her fingers over the rough grooves and hardened edges.
“I’ll have to cut this off to let the new skin breath. But if you’d prefer, I can leave it alone and let it fall away naturally.”
“There’s a knife in my belt.”
It hangs by Rosaria’s side. Its hilt is wrapped with stained leather that chews against Barbara’s palm. She unsheathes it and traces the silver edge across the yellowed skin. It comes away in strips that float like feathers to the ground.
The new skin is soft and supple. Barbara touches a finger to it.
“I felt that.”
“Good. No other cuts? Residual aches or pains?”
Rosaria shakes her head, then stands. Barbara looks away.
“It’s late,” Rosaria says.
Barbara nods her head.
“Give me a few minutes to reorganize things. Put out that fire, won’t you?”
Barbara does. The dirt under her boots shifts like sand and spits out tiny pebbles.
When Rosaria comes back, there is sweat on her brow. The spade in her hands is covered with wet mud. She tosses it into the bushes. A lizard scrambles out.
“Let me see your hands,” Rosaria says.
Barbara holds them out.
Rosaria’s face is impassive, but she cradles her hands all the same.
“There’s a river nearby. We can wash off the stains there.”
Barbara takes her hands back and clutches them close to her chest. She shuffles her feet across the earth.
Rosaria kneels her down and bathes Barbara’s hands in the river.
“Gently,” Rosaria says. “You’ll grow blisters if you’re too rough.”
The river is cold. Across the embankment, there is a fledgling bunch of snapdragons.
Barbara scrubs at her hands and pounds at her palms with a stone. The gritty sand nestles beneath her fingernails. Fragments of sharp shell slice at her fingers. The water clouds with sediment.
She lifts her hands out of the water. Her skin is red, raw, and weathered.
The stains remain.
She dunks them back in.
Rosaria touches Barbara’s wrists and pulls her hands from the water.
“You’re clean.”
Barbara’s hands are covered in splotches that drip viscous red. She tries to yank them back, to force them back under the water, but Rosaria’s grip is too strong.
Above, the rain clouds gather, and the downpour resumes.
“Mondstadt isn’t far,” Rosaria says. “We should head back.”
Barbara risks a glance at the river. Her reflection stares back at her with dull eyes and a wet face.
She swallows and takes her hands back, dries them on her skirt.
“Did your blisters ever come back?”
“Only once, but I knew how to make them fade.”
“Will you teach me?”
Rosaria leans over, and something wraps around Barbara’s neck. A hand goes to her cheek and strokes it.
The wooden beads are smooth and cold.
“I’m afraid of the thunder.”
“Do you need me to stay nearby?”
“Yes. Please.” Barbara takes a breath, then says, “The rain’s coming down hard.”
“So it is.”
“The ground is loose now. It’ll be difficult to get back to Mondstadt.”
“I won’t let you slip.”