Chapter Text
A single gunshot.
Or was it multiple?
Clorinde had never told the difference. Losing count so many times, that pristinely-polished revolver she always held, that golden bullet piercing so much flesh and skin.
She wished she could get that out of her head. But there were costs to being a Champion Duelist, and these were sacrifices she simply had to make.
No. Clorinde never minded being a Champion Duelist. It was her fault for choosing this option, anyway. Wasn’t it?
“Master, wait.” She called out, her thin, boney legs struggling to catch up with Petronilla. “Are you not going to train me today?” The young girl was aching to duel with her master again, even though she would lose time and time again.
The Marechaussee Hunter simply laughed softly, stopping in her tracks. “No, not today. I have to do a mission with my fellow friends, Rínde.” She explained, kneeling down in front of the short girl, whose face was scratched up and dirty. “You need to take care of yourself better.” Petronilla scolded gently, wiping away the dirt from Clorinde’s face with a napkin.
Clorinde was unfazed. She did not feel anything at all. Not even the thousands of injuries staining her once flawless young body, now reduced to marks outlining every single inch of her skin.
“Do you get injured often, Master?”
“I used to. Just like you, but then I got stronger.”
“That’s why you should work extra hard, okay?”
“So that you can be strong and not get injured anymore.”
“Okay, master.”
How naïve of her, to listen to her Master’s words. When she knew that was all a false lie, hidden to protect the young girl’s innocence. Didn’t she promise that she would become a Marechaussee Hunter?
“Master. You’re hurt again,” Clorinde chided gently. She was growing so much in such a short span of time, her rough and calloused hands gliding over her mentor’s injured arm. “I told you to watch yourself.”
Petronilla chuckled weakly, crimson droplets escaping her mouth. “I’m sorry I’m not so strong anymore, my Rínde.” She whispered, brushing a hair out of Clorinde’s messy face.
“You’re getting dirt all over yourself again.”
She was getting injured all over again.
Again.
Again, and
Again and again
Again and again
Again and again
Again and again
Again and again
Again and again
“Clorinde?”
A voice, trembling, called out to the dark-haired girl. She had just… done something. What did she do? It couldn’t have been bad. Could it? Clorinde was a justice-seeker, always vowed to make the right decisions against the people that do wrong.
Her hands felt dirty again. She was all scratched up, the one thing Petronilla hated seeing the most when she saw her adored disciple. That cold, metallic scent… it felt warm. Too warm. She detested it.
“Clorinde, you must never harm the innocent. Make this vow to me.”
That vow… she made to who?
She was forgetting again.
Who did she promise that to?
Why can’t she remember?
“Guilty.” A stern yet soft voice called out from the upper court— Neuvillette. Right. Petronilla always told her about him, how he would judge the people that the Marechaussee Hunters had managed to capture and how he always gave the right verdict to each and every one.
Clorinde could only tremble. She was the disciple of a renowned Marechaussee Hunter, there’s no way she actually killed someone that didn’t do anything wrong?
“My blade moved on its own, I didn’t mean to—”
“How does one’s own blade move on its own? Ridiculous!”
“Blasphemy! This orphan is spouting nonsense!”
“Kill her! Lock her up in the most torturous cell you have!”
She hated this feeling. How she could feel the resentment and devastation of everyone in the courtroom. Clorinde could hear her ears ringing as the blood rushed to her head already. Archons, she was a murderer.
“Everyone, please excuse yourselves out of this court immediately. My sincerest gratitude for attending.” Neuvillette spoke simply with a courteous and graceful elegance to his firm tone, before his draconic eyes gazed down at the young “murderer”’s trembling form.
Clorinde had killed an aristocrat. A famous one, a rich one. Everyone loved him for his wealth and “generosity”. She wished she could scream out, “If he was so generous, why didn’t he give the orphanage any money?! Why did we have to starve!?”
But she couldn’t.
All she could do was hold back her tears. She knew Petronilla would be disappointed. If only she was here, watching Clorinde.
───── ⋆⋅𝜗𝜚⋅⋆ ──────
Those cold floors that she would never forget. Her skinny, frail and cut-up, scrawny hands falling limply in front of her, those bright violet irises dulling for the first time, closing as she drifted off to sleep in that cheap mockery of a mattress given to her by the other inmates because of their pity for her.
She did not need their pity.
Clorinde didn’t need anyone.
Someone like her was better off dead, instead of that aristocrat.
“Hey! It’s you, the new kid.” A man calls out to her, handing her a tray of what looked like stale bread and some toppings if she wanted to add them. “You killed that aristocrat, huh? Must be strong!” He laughed, commending her.
No.
No, this wasn’t right.
She wasn’t supposed to be appreciated for killing someone.
It was an accident.
“…Thank you for the food,” Clorinde mumbled out simply, sitting at the tables as she poked at her food, looking at it with a monotone and blank gaze.
Some of the other inmates gazed at Clorinde’s idle poking, looking at her with concerned or confused gazes. “Are you not going to eat that?” One of them asked, gesturing at the fact she was simply poking at her stale bread, not eating it at all.
I want to die.
I’m better off dead.
Petronilla would be disappointed in her—
“I’m not really that hungry.”
What a cheap lie, she thought. Nobody would care, anyway. She didn’t need to concern herself over what others thought of her. As long as she was strong enough to be a Marechaussee Hunter, as long as she was able to imprint Petronilla’s way of fighting in hers…
No. Petronilla wouldn’t want a murderer to take on her way of fighting.
Her master would be so disappointed in her.
She had relived that moment again and again, always struggling to forget. Clorinde wanted nothing more but to stop remembering, to stop feeling anything for a second.
She only wanted the pain to stop.