SALP Chapter 11

She had told herself that Aunt Louise was held, now, in the arms of the god and angel she had loved in life. Had tried to believe it. Had managed, some of the time.

She'd had no other choice. That was what was real. The Raphlishian habit of refusing to read death as only tragedy—it had helped, a little. Perhaps.

But the deaths Lanthe witnessed this time were different from those that had occurred in Roas before. She'd witnessed deliberate murder for the first time—humans killing other humans. The ones who'd done it were still out there breathing, still existing in the world. Living without consequence.

And there were people in this world who treated humans killing each other as simply what happened. The boy who had been raised Raphlishian was one of them.

"Even beasts know more shame than you people."

Speaking it felt like something closing around her throat.

The ground dropping out from under her. Falling somewhere deep and unreal.

This happened every time she said aloud that Aunt Louise and the others had been murdered.

She'd thought she'd come to accept it by now. With some composure. But the reality as it came out of her own mouth was still strange, and—

"Lanthe."

Something—a sound, or the memory of one—pulled her back.

Had that been Vigo's voice? She lifted her blurred eyes, not sure if he'd really spoken or if she'd misheard.

He pulled something from his coat's inner pocket and wrapped it around her clenched fist on the table. A soft texture burrowed into her palm.

What. A handkerchief. He carries a handkerchief. That doesn't seem like him at all—

She gripped the handkerchief.

"The Princess needs more time to recover, Prophet."

His low voice rang clearly through the room. His large hand had swallowed the back of hers entirely.

"I won't allow you to take her outside the castle."

Fiarelle stood trembling—the look on her face that of someone wronged by two people at once. Lanthe, who wouldn't wipe her own tears and kept staring. The lord, who kept obstructing. Both equally at fault, apparently.

"Can't you reconsider?"

Vigo gazed toward the wall, lost in thought briefly, then opened his mouth.

"St. Marca's feast is this weekend, isn't it? After that until the next feast day, Hermea closes its gates. If you'd like to discuss matters with the Princess until the weekend, I'll give you that time."

"We're pressed for time, Lord."

"Then regrettably, safe travels."

Fiarelle's shoulders heaved greatly. She closed her eyes as if in prayer, then spoke in a considerably calmer voice.

"...Very well. I'll return to Newbella and consult with His Majesty again before sending correspondence."

"Yes. Please do so."

Vigo withdrew his hand from hers.

He leaned back in the chair. He looked tired.

"You needn't worry, Princess. We'll protect you well until the earth season arrives. One season should be enough time for King Derek to mostly finish his expedition and prepare to transfer Molheom to me."

"...Even though we've entered the season when guests aren't sent away, I'm grateful you'll allow me to return to my lord."

Even as her lips trembled, Fiarelle managed to throw out a bit of sarcasm, but he smiled generously.

"Truth be told, I'd like to earnestly dissuade you from going out into the cold as well, Prophet. But how could I stop a woman from returning to her husband?"

"Lord!"

She glared at him with a reddened face.

"Please restrain yourself from excessive jokes. I didn't know the Lord of Hermea enjoyed such improper humor."

"If I've offended you, I apologize."

Vigo nodded with a completely unapologetic expression.

"As you can see—barbarian blood in the mix. These things happen."

When he raised one eyebrow slightly, his eyes reflected the candlelight burning on the table and gleamed red.

The same violet—but different from Lanthe's. Deeper, more saturated. His complexion too: there was more life in it than hers, the way there is in someone who has made a place their own.

Fiarelle was going white across the cheekbones. Her gray-blue eyes held something Lanthe knew. She'd worn that expression herself—behind her smiles, in the moments she couldn't quite hold it back.

Why would that be? 

Vigo wouldn't harm Derek's envoy. He had no reason to.

So why the fear?

Because he outranked her here? Because his soldiers outnumbered hers?

Because this was a world where if you had enough power, you could do whatever you liked to a guest?

She didn't know.

"Show the guest to her chambers."

Vigo ordered his subordinates.

"No. We'll depart immediately."

Fiarelle, who'd been frozen standing, drew a breath and moved. She fled the meeting room like she was escaping, Newbella's knights following behind. Then Vigo rose.

Lanthe didn't move. She watched from her chair as they exchanged stiff words outside the door—two people performing politeness at each other.

Suddenly Fiarelle turned and came back into the meeting room. She bent close and whispered something—about cunning, about coming back, about taking care.

Lanthe didn't bother storing the words.

While she whispered this nonsense, Lanthe looked at Vigo leaning against the doorframe with a faint smile. She didn't mind—it almost felt like he was mocking Fiarelle on her behalf.

"May Ailea protect the Princess."

Eventually Fiarelle disappeared from view along with the noisy knights making thud, thud footsteps.

Was it over? It couldn't mean she'd never return. In any case, she'd said she couldn't come back for a while. Until when? He'd said Hermea's gates would close until the next feast day. If Fiarelle returned with Derek and soldiers, would Vigo refuse to open the gates even then?

"Up."

His voice came out roughened—catching slightly, like something had caught in it.

"Come on."

"......"

Lanthe rose silently and left the meeting room. 

The knights filed past. Some of them glanced at her, but she found she wasn't frightened of them the way she used to be. The enemy of my enemy, and all that.

The handkerchief she'd been clutching with both hands had been wet for some time.

"The handkerchief, I'll..."

Wash it and return it later, she was about to say as she tried to pass him.

He caught her hand.

"Follow me."

He took her hand—the wrist too, his palm closing around both like something might slip through—and started walking. Behind them she heard Rix's voice instructing the remaining soldiers to dismiss to their positions, and Lanthe hurried her steps.

'Your stride is too long.'

'You used to be smaller than me. Slower, too—Aunt Louise always caught you first when she came after us…'

As they passed through the long, dark corridor, Vigo's pace gradually slowed. The tap-tap sound of Lanthe's near-running footsteps also quieted.

The path—lit at long intervals by pale yellow candlelight—felt like it might lead somewhere outside of time.

If we just kept walking. If we came out the other end in that gentle forest village, the one from long ago.

But the corridor ended where corridors end.

A room with a large bed.

"...Is this your bedroom?"

Like her room, this one had no door either. She found it puzzling that public places like the meeting room had doors while personal rooms had none.

"Yeah."

Vigo let out a tired-sounding sigh and removed his coat. As if she'd been watching nearby, a maid entered and placed a basin of washing water and towels on the long table against the wall.

"Why did we come here?"

Was he going to interrogate her about why she was called Princess? Lanthe surveyed the room while tucking the handkerchief into her skirt pocket. There was no table or seating prepared for guests.

"To sleep."

Is that so?

"Then can't I go sleep in my room too?"

Though the situation was strange, Lanthe deliberately adopted a docile attitude. She'd been pleased by what he'd done to Fiarelle earlier. She was willing to humor him a little.

"That's difficult."

He glanced back at her while drying his wet hands on the towel.

"Starting today, you'll sleep here too, prisoner."

"Pri... what?"

Did I mishear?

"Prisoner."

He narrowed his eyes as if delighted and confirmed the word again.

"Your ransom was higher than expected. A precious prisoner who can be exchanged for Molheom and more than 20,000 krone."

"......"

"I don't know what you have that makes Gebimonde so desperate. You and he both won't talk, so I'll keep you by my side and watch."

Whoosh. He pulled his long shirt up over his head and tossed it aside carelessly. The broad, solid chest muscles that had settled like thick leather cushions immediately grabbed her attention.

Standing there stupidly, Lanthe thought of the alpha wolf she'd once seen in Roas forest. Larger than the others. Movements that made you understand at a glance which one was first.

A wolf! It's a wolf!—the way she'd shrieked and bolted, back then. She wanted to shriek and bolt now.

My small, pretty Vigo grew up and turned into something like that, and he's calling me a prisoner.

"What is it? What do you have?"

His body didn't look the way it used to—the yielding softness she'd known. It looked solid. Immovable. Like if you pressed a finger in repeatedly it would just push back every time.

Lanthe answered bluntly. She kept her eyes lowered obediently, but her feet felt restless. She somehow wanted to back away and escape right now.

"There's nothing. I don't have anything."

"No. You know." He looked up at her. "What he's planning to use you for."

His sharp words made Lanthe feel like she'd break out in cold sweat. Even without raising her head, she could feel Vigo's piercing gaze.