*Tap-Tap-Tap*
The echo was rhythmic.
*tap-tap-tap-tap*
A metronome growing in distance.
*tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap....*
A clear pause to the tune to contemplate direction.
Then it resumed. Faster.
*...tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-TAP-TAP-Click*
A shrill intake of breath. A throaty scoff.
"Jelly."
Panning up two rows and down 12 jars... Go as far as the Jam, past the honey, but before the apple sauce.
"Grape?"
No. Next? Strawberry? No again. Coconut?
"How did they even... Ah. Blueberry."
The jar clicked off the umber shelving, leaving a circular ring untainted by dust. A sign of a malfunctioning ward. Not that the sole occupant cared. No one ever came around to fix things.
Well, someone did. But the scheduled cleaning was yearly and had been performed only five months ago. Visitors are exclusive.
*tap-tap-tap-tap*
The footsteps halted. The following sound was a low grunt as someone tried to unsheath a shortsword using only one free hand.
*clatter*
The sheathed weapon fell to the ground, kicked by the foot that was supposed to hold it in place.
"Huaah."
A deep sigh. The clink of a glass jar being set down. Two hands now. The sheath held between meaty thighs, the cold leather and metal stud uncomfortable. Both hands grabbed the hilt and pulled up and out with excessive force.
*Schlick*
"Woah-oh-oh... Oh no."
Refusing to let go, the momentum of a four-pound sword arced and directed the carrier to stumble backward and to fall on their ass.
"Ow."
It didn't hurt. Her soft behind broke her fall, and the roll downwards was relatively elegant. It was her pride more than anything.
Minding the pointy stick in her hands, she rose safely with the point sticking away.
"Heh."
The dry laugh that escaped her lips made way to anger. Why did she laugh? It was a pun. She would never make a pun, not before those study lessons.
So anger led her to spear her sandwich. A simple application of Jelly turned hazardous as she barely missed cutting off her middle finger. That was her favorite finger. The enormous encrusted emerald gem stood out, flanked by a slightly smaller red ruby and a lavender amethyst. A small jelly stain marred the orange opal attached to her pinky.
The thought of licking it off crossed her mind. There was no one here—no one to judge.
Her face screwed up again as she used a spare cloth instead. Enchanted to self-clean. Just like the silky pants she wore. And the blouse. And her slippers...
Jelly fell through the hole in her sandwich, falling into the creases of her blouse before magically fading away. She had no idea how someone enchanted clothes. It was supposed to be impossible. The flimsy material too loose, too thin, too inadequate to carry magic or to write runes on.
Her legs lifted to rest on the armrest, her feet dangling over as she let the rest of the sandwich fall into her mouth. Arms folded across her chest as she stared blankly at the decorated ceiling. Someone actually painted it. Inscribed it with runes.
"There they go."
The figures moved. Interacting in scripted motions like cardboard cutouts from a children's street play. But more violent. They fought a war of some kind. The colors brightened. Shining, even.
A soft red glow reflected off her sun-starved skin.
"What even is that?"
It swopped over the battlefield, spraying fire before being stopped by a man with long white hair. The two played together. The others ran, but the man yawned.
More colors. Flashing. Her favorite part.
Then everyone laid dead. Except the white-haired man. And then he killed himself.
"Tch."
She sat up abruptly. Annoyed again.
The painting replayed itself over and over again, the content even changing sometimes—a different pattern of exploding lights. But the ending was always the same. Expected. Nothing ever changed.
"Marching Men."
Suits of armor patrolled around her couch, not even registering her existence.
"Clocks.*
The annoying clocks chimed another hour. It seemed to be two in the morning.
"And..."
Her thumb pointed backward on its own. The grinding of gears, metal scraping against metal, and a large slam as weights fell. A thrum. A shockwave of cobalt energy. Reaffirming the enchantments and protections, she guessed. Not that it mattered. None of it mattered. The door was open. She could leave.
Laying back down, she closed her eyes to get some sleep. Maybe this time, she would dream. She liked dreams.
When everything calmed, and silence reigned, she fell asleep. Like a baby. Soundly, she slept.
Then she woke.
*Kong~Kong~Kong~Kong*
"Tch."
Awake. Again. And no dreams. The clocks chimed thrice before fading out. Closing her eyes again, she thought about going back to sleep. But there was no point.
She sifted through her memories. Not a dream. Memories reminded her of dreams. Though...
"Close the doors."
"Sir?"
"Do it."
Her eyelids fluttered open, her cheek twitching before her eyes closed again.
"I have amnesia."
"Amnesia?"
Again, her eyelashes waved.
"You're sure I wasn't a prude."
"Oh. Not at all. You were always polite. Though... If I may say so. You come off as much smarter. You learn quickly too."
"Do I? Hmm. Maybe you're just a good teacher."
...
"Why do these two letters look obscene."
"What do you mean, Bellavarn."
"Erm... Well... I don't know how to say it, but they look like there, you know."
"Hm?"
"You know. Having intercourse?"
...
"Are you always working out when I am not here?"
"No... I draw too."
"You draw? Can I see?"
"NO!"
...
"Melody? Are you okay? Is it too much or not enough? What's wrong-mhm."
...
"Who?
...
"Who did this!?"
...
"Who harmed her? Who did it? Who dared! Who-"
*Shatter*
The wine glass shattered across the floor, spilling crimson liquid and failing to stain the grey stone flooring. Her chest heaved, her face flushed. She tossed the table, kicking it and scattering the plates—leftover food flopping onto the floor. Grabbing the sword, she waved it around, bashing the air with all her might. The sword clashed with the ground, leaving nothing behind. Latching on, she swung again and again and again and again. No matter the effort exuded or how enchanted the sword, it wouldn't nick the smooth flooring.
Out of breath, she collapsed to her knees, hands in her lap, hair a mess.
Fury suffused her bones.
"...why."
Little air escaped.
Why did you scream?
Why did you care?
It was a scam.
A farse.
I stole your heart?
"AAAARGH!"
She swung again. Her tired arms. Once. Twice. A third time.
Are you a child!?
Her hands opened of their own accord. The sword set free.
The air was gone as she silently screamed, arms shaking as they held her up.
Why!
Why are you haunting me?
I tore it to pieces.
I burned it!
I own your everything.
I have everything.
Grabbing at her left breast, she removed the magic pen holstered there. Her hand trembled. Shook with force. The knick-knack would be crushed with ease. The magic weaker than her fist. Unable to crush it, she tossed it away. It splashed through the spilled wine, painting a red trail across the unmarred alabaster flooring.
Feeling at her face, she reveled in her grimace. She hated smiling. She never wanted her lips to twitch ever again.
Smiling hurts. She forced her muscles to curve so often; it wasn't natural. She expressed happiness in other ways. Mainly in content. Savoring. The only times she smiled—Laughed.
...
It was fake.
All fake.
A ruse.
She sat there, hunched and catching her breath. Claws unsheathed. Fists clenching and grinding teeth.
Gradually. The calm returned. She sat there in absence until the next bell tolled. And then waited for the armor to march once again and the clocks to chime nine. Then she stood. Looked at her mess.
She didn't clean.
Ignoring the mess, she walked over to the far wall next to the door leading out. Touching a dial, turning, clicking.
When it locked in place, another pulse of magic emanated throughout the room. Everything returning to how it once was. The shattered glass was swept away to be disposed of. The running liquid dried up. The food trashed. The furniture righted. The shortsword swooped back to its display case. The jar of jelly flew back to its place on the shelf.
A pen returned to her pocket.
"Grr."
How it knew, she had no clue.
Horribly blank. Filled with melancholy and dazed apathy, she returned to the wine shelf. Plucking a random bottle, she grabbed a glass and poured.
Skipping sipping, she gulped two glasses. Then let the third ruminate.
Again she laid on the couch. Staring at the ceiling and colorful flashes. Holding a glass of wine.
"Marching Men."
Silver armor. Their weapons were all spears.
"Clocks.*
Ten.
"And..."
The traditional thrum didn't come.
She waited.
And waited.
But what came wasn't the traditional grinding of gears. No. What echoed throughout the vast treasury was the sound of descending footsteps.
The creaking of an unlocked door.
Heels on the floor.
"Melody?"
Melody turned her head.
The Duchess stood over her. As beautiful as ever.
"Duchess..."
"You're enjoying yourself, I see?"
"Mildly."
She tried not to slur her words, deciding she needed another sip to straighten them out.
"Bellavarn is going to war."
"Is that so."
"My son."
"I gathered that."
"..."
Melody looked away from her swirling glass and looked into the Duchess' cold eyes.
It was the Duchess who granted Melody's wish of being rich. And now she had it.
"I'm pleased you haven't run off."
A soft huff.
Running? What for? Where to? There was no doubt if she tried, she would be hunted.
Again. No point. No change.
"It's time to go."
"What?"
Melody sobered quickly. Getting up from her seat and following the Duchess. The Duchess paced through aisles easily, picking out artifacts and throwing them at Melody.
Violently.
A flask. A cloak. A dagger. A necklace. A looking glass. More.
"There. Now get out."
"What? But I- Why? Where to..."
Melody yelped as her rump was literally kicked by an ice witch.
Trisha spoke a chilling word.
"South."