“I want my body back!”
What once was a silence that felt eternal, a stillness that whispered of death, was now a warfare of sensations culminating on the battlefield of mortality. There was a weight, heavy and unresponsive, yet slowly—oh so slowly—there was movement. Fingers twitched, the slightest sign of rebellion against corpse-like rigidity. The pulse of warmth spread, reaching downward, further—deeper. And with it came a tingling sensation, a reminder of what it meant to feel.
It was the flutter of life, a whisper that urged, "Breathe. Live. Remember."
As darkness transformed into consciousness, the existence of breath began to take form—shallow, tentative, yet instinctual. Each inhalation was a battle, drawing in cool air to fill lungs with the life that had been absent for so long. The air expanded within, a spark igniting the dim embers of the soul. With every breath, the heaviness gave way, the tightness loosening, allowing the heart to beat a little stronger, a little louder.
The sensations were foreign yet familiar, a reminder of a vibrancy once known. It was as if the warmth were a gentle tide, coaxing muscles to loosen, encouraging the mind to break free from the fog that had enveloped it for so long.
Mumbling. Soft yet urgent. What could be happening in the void beyond, the genesis of these distant whispers? The eyelids sought strength to open, yet only twitching violently in futility. A deeper breath filled the lungs, and with it came a surge of vigor. Confusion mingled with a flicker of hope, a promise of return, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat. Every pulse, every flutter, each one a reminder of something lost.
In the end, and at last, life had won the battle—and the girl began to reclaim her body, piece by piece.
From the depths of her stasis, her consciousness began to surface. Her thoughts crashed and receded like waves upon a shore as vivacious rhythms pulsed through her limbs. The warbles droned on as she neared the end of her struggle, but because of the terribly opaque fog swirling within the girl’s head, it was difficult to translate the thrumming in her ears.
“…found nothing…” someone murmured in a delectably low tone. “…still searching…”
“How have… found nothing?” A second voice, a woman’s tinged with budding hysteria, rebounded clearly in the girl’s ears, no longer a far-off hum. “I want—no, need—my body back!”
Suddenly, a glimmer pierced the mental fog of her imprisonment, leading the girl like a thin strand of brilliance to her escape. Finally, she managed a tiny sliver between her delicate palpebra, but even that minute shred of light was terribly blinding and painful. So much so that she could see nothing beyond the searing afterglow.
Someone yelled into the air, a throaty cry tinged with despair.
“Yorgrace—” The very first voice again. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
A commotion. Something—someone—crumpling to the ground. The disturbance stirred anxiety within the girl, who could neither completely see nor hear. It was an unnerving combination, resulting in the transmition of adrenaline to her heart in vitalizing bursts. Her eyes opened just enough to take in the misty silhouettes nearby as a tangle of environmental stimuli converged upon her senses like prey.
“Oh, Yorgrace! Please, the ground is filthy,” pleaded a third, another man.
“I cannot be trapped in this wretched body forever, Juliere!” Yorgrace wailed.
“On my life, I will never stop searching,” the deeper voice promised. “My men have found another lead. We will set out immediately."
“Three months and you haven't found shit, you fool,” Yorgrace sniveled. “I'm running out of time!”
“I—” The man paused, contemplating a response. “Forgive me, Yorgrace.”
“Save your worthless apologies, Wraith,” Yorgrace snapped, switching from misery to anger in a second. “Send your best knights instead. You stay here.”
“Yorgrace!” Wraith, the man with the alluringly sonorous tone, protested ardently. “How could I possibly entrust that to anyone else?”
“Don't make me repeat myself.” Yorgrace’s voice shook slightly, but her dominion was absolute. “I need you here. We need to figure out our next steps.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, the girl gasped and heaved, causing her to succumb to a violently instantaneous fit of coughing, which ripped her eyes fully open at last. Past the bed's canopy above, the room's coffered ceilings vibrating and whirling as her vision adjusted. She squinted, attempting to lift a hand to shield her sensitive eyes, but the deadweight in her stony limb disagreed vehemently.
All sound ceased as stunned silence cloaked the room, clinging to everyone like a fragile mist. Then, the girl’s body bounced as someone dropped onto the mattress, the momentum causing her to cry out in surprise. Hands gripped her shoulders, edging the girl into a wince as the vice slowly tightened. She squinted through the discomfort, eyeing the stranger through trembling vision. She coughed once more, her scratchy throat perilously parched.
“Yorgrace!” the one called Juliere exclaimed. “You may become ill if she coughs on you.”
“You do realize you’re referring to me, right?" Yorgrace growled. "The real me."
“I just meant—”
“Juliere," she hissed, "just shut up."
The rancor oozing from Yorgrace clashed terribly with her striking features. The girl opened her mouth, but found, not to her surprise, it was difficult to speak. The words lodged in her throat, spiny like a tangle of thorns wrapping around her vocal cords.
“Water,” Yorgrace demanded. “Water. Now.”
Her terse command triggered an uproar as servants broke into a frenzy. Within that chaos, Yorgrace procured a crystal goblet of clear liquid. She snatched the girl's face between the slender fingers of her other hand. The girl lacked the strength to fend off Yorgrace's irruption. With a squeeze, the stranger with fiery auburn hair forced a part between her peeling lips, nestling the glass' rim between the cracked flesh.
“Drink, or you’ll be sorry."
Her lips reacted to Yorgrace’s authority with little hesitation—or maybe it was the searing thirst that drove her mouth and throat into a frenzied swallowing as she greedily downed the refreshing liquid. Rivulets of cool water seeped through the corners of her lips, dowsing the collar of the thin negligee that clung to her frame.
The whole world exploded into hyperfocus. Besides the other woman situated before her, only two other things caught her interest as she peered over the rim of the chalice in wonderment. The first was the dazzling chandelier—the source of the penetrating light—hanging precariously by a single chain. Brandishing unnecessarily intricate glasswork, it was nothing more than a gaudy, dangling contraption that had stabbed at her sensitive eyes.
And to her left were two gentlemen of differing physiques, owners of the voices she had heard conversing with Yorgrace. One was shorter, impeccably dressed in a black suit-like ensemble, and sporting neatly trimmed raven hair that matched his sophisticated appearance. He had a sternness about his face despite his obvious youthfulness, hiding behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He adjusted the yellow bowtie atop his chest and she could only think he reminded her of a butler.
But it was not the ostentatious chandelier or the classy young man that had roused her curiosity. It was the exceptionally tall sentinel posted next to that man. Possessing a mop of tousled strawberry-hued locks, the bulk of which sat haphazardly atop his head, the rest was close-shaven in a fade. His crisp white uniform, adorned with golden tassels and various regalia, denoted his status as that of a knight, quite possibly one of high ranking. He bore far too many flashy motifs on his otherwise simple uniform to be anything otherwise.
Upon his broad shoulders sat a heavy red cape that billowed at his booted ankles each time he shifted his weight. Though the knight stared onward, the girl felt as if his eyes were directly upon her. The sensation made her shiver, though she was unsure if from fear or something else—something far more penetrating than any other feeling. The curves of the knight’s muscles were taut with discomfort, visible beneath the fit of his cavalier garb.
Unsurprisingly, neither the knight nor the butler budged as she was accosted. The girl choked on the final mouthful of water, consequently spraying Yorgrace's embittered visage. She yowled in disgust, reeling backward as she chucked the cup to the ground. A maid scrambled forward, quickly collecting it from the plush carpet while another hurriedly presented a handkerchief, dabbing at Yorgrace's face. The girl ignored the fuss and pulled her enervated frame into a full sit, propping herself against the headboard for support. She was entirely drained, a result of having been bedridden for what felt like a very long time.
“Historia.” Yorgrace snapped her fingers in the girl’s vacant face, impatient for her attention. “Historia!”
The girl blinked repeatedly, puzzled, staring back without recognition. She knew not what this odd word “Historia” meant. If anything, Yorgrace might have been insulting her. With obvious irritation, Yorgrace acknowledged her confusion with an overdramatic exhalation.
“You are Historia,” she hissed. “Ever since you woke up, you've had this stupid look on your face. Do you even understand a thing I'm saying?”
Historia’s gaze lowered to her pale hands resting in her lap, repeating her moniker in her head ten times over. It lacked familiarity, sparking neither sense of self nor identity. Even these surroundings instilled no semblance of belonging, the room excessively garlanded with furniture of exquisite design that she found too garish for her liking. The only semi-trite object in the overly spacious chamber was the giant white-stone hearth crackling restlessly across the room. The flames were a bright cyan, a shade Historia thought peculiar for fire. She thought to herself how much better it would be if it were orange or even red. Maybe both, with a touch of yellow.
“God—Er, Ephemeralis, give me strength,” Yorgrace breathed. She glared at the bedbound girl, her irises a piercing gold. “Just when I thought things were finally going my way!”
Historia felt compelled to match her grievance. After all, she was the one who had just awoken in a strange bed surrounded by callous strangers with no recollection of anything before the darkness. If anything, she should have been the one throwing a tantrum.
“Do you know who you are? Do you know who I even am? The hell I’m in because of you?” Yorgrace’s voice pitched an octave higher with each subsequent query. “Why am I even asking?”
Yorgrace’s barrage of questions seemed redundant. Was it not obvious Historia wished to know all that as well? To be grilled at maximum heat by such an insufferable woman, Historia felt the last few shreds of her composure snap. Her voice spilled in full force, seeking to unleash a verbal retribution.
“Th-Then why don’t you tell…m-me?” Historia bristled, voice blistering as she unloaded the heat sizzling on her tongue. In spite of her reprisal, she was elated to hear her voice functioning, though her tongue toiled to form the words properly. “Instead, I’ve been—b-been listening to your b-blubbering with not a single expla…n-nation!”
The men suddenly became animated. The formidable knight, daunting in his cold silence, secured a hand to the hilt of his longsword, but he did not further budge. Only the butler, with his mordant mask, dared approach them fully, exploding with a fury outmatching that of the two women’s intensity combined.
“Your insolence shall not be tolerated!” He bared his teeth like a faithful lapdog. “You will offer Her Grace only respect or fear.”
At that, something clicked in the recesses of Historia’s mind—a minute flicker of cognizance at the hierarchal appellation.
“Duchess?” Historia grimaced, dreading where this was headed. “You?”
“Not ‘You.'” Narrowed eyes accompanied Juliere’s correction. “Her Grace, Duchess Eternalli Novalina Von Schayer. Sole child and heir to the late Duke and Duchess Von Schayer—may they rest in Ephemeralis’ embrace—and the current head of this duchy.”
“Oh.” One fleeting word that bore all the weight of a very sudden realization. Her name was never “Yorgrace.” Historia felt foolish for thinking so.
Juliere continued to seethe. “Say you understand!”
“I...h-heard you,” Historia replied, directing her frown at the butler.
“It's fine, Juliere," Eternalli laughed, delight flickering in her expression. "Such audacity... But it's fitting. Can't have a groveling idiot possessing my body."
“Of course, Your Grace.” Juliere bowed deeply. His loyalty made Historia nauseas. It might have been typical for someone in his station serving a duchess, but witnessing the interactions firsthand felt somewhat ridiculous. In fact, nothing about the world around her seemed real.
“Wait,” Historia said. “That last th-thing you said. What does that mean?”
Juliere scoffed, incredulous. “It is Her Grace’s rightful title as duchess. It is how you shall—”
Historia gestured to the duchess. “No, wh-what she s-said.”
Eternalli gave the butler no time to retort. “About you being an idiot in my body?”
“Yes!”
It was not unusual for the duchess’ emotions to change rapidly, as Historia had come to observe in an extremely short span of time. She had been in despair, then hostile. Calm and amused. Now, as Historia watched her face shift once more, she was back to anguish.
“I don’t know why or how, but we've switched bodies. I've been trapped like this for the past three months, searching for a way to revert it. I want my body back!” Eternalli shouted, a feral glint in the sunglow of her eyes as she grabbed Historia by the shoulders again. Glancing at the grip on either side, Historia noticed the fine silvery blonde threads falling over her small breasts, which were far more exposed than she realized. Two pink beads peeked through the sheer fabric, proudly presenting themselves to everyone in the room.
“How can I face my bias—erm—love of my life like this? I'm hideous!"
From what Historia had gathered thus far, the body Eternalli was so repulsed by was, in fact, Historia’s. Naturally, she sympathized with the desire to return to her own, but she could not commiserate with her inexplicable abhorrence.
The young lady was, in every conceivable way, incomparable. Her smooth olive skin perfectly complemented the crimson tumbling like waves of fire from her head. The sharp contour of her eyes gifted an inherent sultriness, almost cat-like—an extraordinary blend of brilliance that shimmered like sunlit gold. They sparkled with an intensity that was both enchanting and perilous, a mesmerizing depth that ensnared anyone bold enough to look. Her eyes were not merely a feature; they were an invitation and a warning, a tantalizing glimpse into the fierceness that resided within.
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