'Umm…'
Clint looked at me, his face unreadable as always. Right, he was here too, I thought, while I struggled to bear Fjor's weight. Why the hell was he so heavy?!
'Sorry, you won't be returning home tonight it seems,' I said, smiling awkwardly at my own joke.
'That's fine,' said Clint, the crystal from earlier still in his hands, gripped tightly. 'I will be keeping this crystal with me for a while.'
'No!' I said, immediately cursing myself afterwards. He looked at me, waiting for me to continue. 'Just…don't take it with you.'
I could have gotten rid of it then and there! Why did I need to go out of my way and deny him? I screamed internally as I walked past him, biting my lips in frustration. Things just kept getting worse.
I had found myself in a mess I had no intention of being in, and that mess kept getting messier with every passing moment, and from the looks of things, it was going to continue that way for who knows how long.
A civil war had already started.
Fjor found himself in the middle of who-knows-what, and so did my sister.
I'm pretty sure I'm not safe either.
I have no memories of the past month.
AND THIS BODY ISN'T MINE TO BEGIN WITH!
'FUCK ALL OF THIS!'
I screamed my lungs out. Clint and Lune both turned to me in unison, concerned and confused, but I paid their glances no heed.
'Just take that damn crystal,' I said, turning towards Clint. 'And don't ever bring it back to me!'
Who knew what more mess that would pull me into?
The world was closing in on me, Fjorcroft's weight somehow increasing by the moment, pressing down on my shoulders as I wondered why I was even bothering with carrying him.
I don't owe these people anything.
I'm not Zoras.
There was no reason for me to play along.
A thought crossed my mind, and thought that I had before but had quickly brushed off. What if I were to die now? Would that bring me back to my old world?
I was right outside my room.
I had a gun in my wardrobe.
Zoras was probably dead anyway. That was how transmigration stories typically went. The character died in their old world and the main character then gets transmigrated to their body.
That was probably the case here.
So what if I pull the trigger a second time?
…
I paused for a moment, letting out a deep sigh.
'I'm sorry,' I said, as I dragged the unconscious Fjorcroft downstairs. I needed to think clearly about what I should do. My life was in danger, that I was sure of, but at least I had something to protect myself with…
An image flashed in my head.
An image of me holding the gun. My finger had only just left the trigger. In front of me was a man I did not know. That man looked at me, his eyes filled with rage and despair, red and swollen, as he desperately clenched his chest; the piece of cloth there dyed a crimson red, spreading slowly.
Smoke left the tip of my pistol, fading away, the scent of sulphur still in the air.
'No.'
I shook that thought away, but that didn't stop my hands from trembling, or the sweat dripping from my forehead. I put Fjorcroft down on his bed. His room was as large as Lune's, but the sheer volume of bookshelves and instruments lying everywhere made it a lot smaller. It was right next to the kitchen, opposite to Lune's room.
'The last few days have been rough on you, haven't they?'
I pulled the sheets over him.
'Right, your soup!'
I had made some for him, and I brought them over to his room, keeping them on the table and covering it with a plate. I stood there for a bit, staring blankly, before Clint called out my name.
'Sooo…where do I stay?'
I turned to him.
'You shower first.'
'Huh?'
'You heard me.' I pointed towards the washroom. 'You stink. I'm not letting you sleep anywhere near me with that odor.'
'Zoras I don't have a spare change of clothes on me.'
'You can have mine. Just go!'
I pushed him into the washroom, then closed the door shut.
'Make sure to bathe properly,' I said. 'There should be a towel inside. Use that.'
The riots outside made it impossible to leave, and I could only hope that things would calm down a bit the next day.
✴✴✴✴✴✴✴✴
In a different corner of the country, Her Grace Alcaria sat in her room. It was big, extravagant, with floral patterns all over the walls, the floor made out of marble. She sat on her window sill, the windows open, letting the winds whisper into her ears and the moonlight into the room, bathing it in her hue. She wore her usual silk nightgown, nothing fancy looking, except for the floral engravings near the hems, but the fabric used was quite expensive, and she was one of the only few people in the country who could afford it.
She looked out from her window, three floors high, at the courtyard of her mansion. It was a big garden, dots of silver light floating over the dark green, lush grass. In the centre was a fountain, tall, its water sparkling under the moon as it was shot from the mouth and cascaded down in a series of terraced steps. The red hue of the moon illuminated the water in her celestial palette.
A path made of mudbricks divided the garden in half, going around the fountain, and standing right next to the fountain were two people wearing black overcoats, their faces hidden from her sight by their hair and their tall top hats, but the duchess already knew who they were. They had already been at her place for a week now, and would finally take their leave tomorrow. She wondered why he would give her the task of watching over them, for she hadn't noticed anything remotely suspicious in the time that they were here, and she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to report.