“I killed a little girl’s parents. There are no accidents. I hit the father in the head way too hard, and he bled. Blood. So much blood. It was the only way to get out. Then I strangled the mother. She clawed at my arms to gasp for air, and my arms bled. So much blood. I wish she had clawed more and ripped my arm off entirely. Fat lot of good these limbs had done for me – if they weren’t out here writing lies, then it was out killing people.
There is no coming back from this. That little girl had watched her family get murdered, and if she comes to me in the future as my executioner, then I would gladly offer her my head.
Until then, I must finish my mission.”
-Unabridged journals of the Imperial Scribe; C???, p.???
As it turned out, the way out was to go further in.
Helen took Florence deeper into the tunnels, circling back on the corridors and passages that he and Aster once crawled out. The scribe watched, with little to no avail, how the girl had simply walked past the cells containing her unconscious father, and past the guards that should have been close to her, if this family had spent a significant amount of time leading these band of thieves at all.
“Here,” the girl opened a little hatch for them to crawl into, a space that could be easily dismissed for storage.
The space was just about the width of his body — too dark for him to see what lies ahead. Florence swallowed.
“Where—where does this lead to?” He dared to ask.
The girl knelt down and prepared to go in, without as much looking back. All she had with her was a small lamp, hopefully with enough oil to keep them on their journey. “It may take us a good distance away from the cave, sir.”
“Then Aster—”
“Will keep them busy, in the meantime,” she finished for him. “Please trust us on this. It was his plan, after all.”
Florence pulled back his robes and knelt. The first step was the easiest – after all, so long as there was light, then everything would be okay.
But as darkness stretched on, Florence began to feel the strain on his arms and the lack of oxygen. He felt the ceiling touch his back, and there were tight squeezes that almost had them crawling with their chest on the dirt. He had to convince himself that Helen knew her way forward, despite being faced with twists and turns. He didn’t dare speak in fear of breaking the girl’s concentration, yet the longer silence remained, the more he was made aware of the dirt in his eyes, the drag of their clothes, the cramped space, and the imposing darkness.
Just a slight shake and this tunnel could collapse over us. I’d be buried alive and eating dirt before I could even scream. No one would hear us. I’ll be lucky if I’m buried completely, but if the fates deem that I have my legs or half of my body stuck…
Florence took a deep breath, and found his chest feeling constricted. It was only then that he realised how tight the tunnel had gotten.
“Just a little bit more, sir,” Helen wheezed. She sounded far away.
He tried to take another breath, and coughed at the taste of dirt.
Oh God.
“Where are you, sir?” Helen’s voice echoed. She was getting further and further away, taking the light with her.
Before long, it was gone altogether, leaving him in pitch-black darkness.
Panic seized Florence’s throat. He clawed at the dirt instinctively. “Wait! Where are you? Don’t–”
Don’t leave me, he almost called out.
As if sensing his distress, some parts of the ceiling crumbled, leaving Florence no choice but to freeze on his spot. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hand over his head, and if he prayed to any god, then that would be between him and the dirt.
At a young age, Florence was taught that screaming was useless, especially if you're in a place that’s hellbent on seeing you suffer. He knew what it was like to peek at the small cracks of light when you’re stuck in a closet. He’d had bags over his head. Right now, he’s stuck in a tunnel.
If I die, he thought, so do those bastards. I still win.
“You’re not going to die, sir,” a voice whispered. Florence opened his eyes to a small bundle of light, where Helen stood in front of him with a gentle smile.
“Sorry I went ahead. The light went out a little bit, and the ground’s a little bit unstable for being unused for so long.”
Florence wasn’t aware just how tight he’d curled against himself until the girl slowly removed his hands on his head, easing him back to reality. In the dim light, the scribe could see that there was no judgement on the little girl’s eyes – only sympathy – as if she was perfectly accustomed to adults throwing tantrums and acting less their age.
In that one moment, their situations had been reversed. The little girl they had rescued in the woods had become the rescuer.
Slowly but surely, the scribe and the little girl crawled their way out, until the tight passages eventually opened up. In no time, Florence was back on his feet, bowing every so slightly to accommodate the low ceiling. He’d barely noticed how the girl was leading him by the hand, never letting go.
“Your name is…really Helen, right?” He asked, ignoring how small his own voice had gotten.
“Yup,” the little girl replied, “And I didn’t lie about needing help.”
***
When they found Aster, the man had upended an entire caravan by himself.
Dead bandits lay in heaps around the snow, painting the blanket of ice in a sick shade of cherry red. A carriage that he suspected to have been used to transport Aster had crashed on the side, upturned and totaled.
Aster didn’t seem to notice their presence. The man stood in the middle of the clearing, sword in hand, still dripping with fresh blood. Florence couldn’t see the expression on his face, but in front of him knelt a woman.
Whether Aster brought her to her knees by order or slashing her legs, Florence wasn’t sure. All he knew was the terrifying disconnect from the Aster he knew to the Aster right now – cold, ruthless, almost like a reaper.
“Mother?” Helen squeaked beside him.
Florence couldn’t speak – he could find himself to – in fear of what might happen next. The woman’s eyes met his, and he was struck by the pure, unadulterated fear in them.
Help, she mouthed.
Aster raised his sword. At that moment, Florence could only rush to cover the little girl’s eyes.
Slash!
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