My gaze was still fixed on my reflection. Was it my reflection…..Yes sure it was, but it still felt distant—like I have wore someone else's body, it wasn't mine.
"…..Strange," I murmured.
No one replied, they continued in silence, finishing almost quickly before stepping back. Was I that disgusting?
"Everything id ready, my lady."
"...Thank you," the words felt unnecessary but I still said them anyways.
They bowed, still avoiding my gaze—not in manner but more in some covered sense, and then left without a single word left on the plate.
The doors closed softly with a single click.
Silence followed. There would be no one coming now, I was again left alone in the darkness like I have always been.
I stood there for a moment before looking down at my hand—the same one that had reached for him. He didn't like it...….. he was the one left, I can't accept loosing him too.
My leg was losing balance, not because I was weak but something that brought drought to my mental peace. I laid there- on the bed, don't know when the tears started rolling down my eyes, singing into the mattress…..I was heartbroken.
Don't know when in between those inner wails I slept, but I slept...and this time he didn't come to me—not even in dreams.
......…..
The first thing I learned about falling from grace—
…..was that no one prepares you for how ugly it feels.
The carriage jolted violently, and my body followed without resistance, my shoulders slamming into the wooden frame with a hollow sound. Pain bloomed dull and spreading, but I didn't react...…I wasn't able to react. Body was too numb.
Pain fades, but something stuck in heart—never.
Another violent bump. The wheels struck something jagged—stone, perhaps and the entire carriage groaned like a dying animal. The wood creaked, the joints strained, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if it would collapse entirely and bury me beneath it.
That…..might have been kinder.
"Quiet a noble life….." a faint, humorless breath slipped past my lips.
Morning had come like an ambush. The doors opened without warning.
Hands—so many hands—had dragged me from sleep before I could calculate anything. Their voices were sharp, urgent but empty of explanation.
The water had been freezing. It stole the breath from the lungs the moment it touched my skin. I had gasped, my body recoiling instinctively, but they hadn't stopped.
They scrubbed like some oily dish. Washed me up in just a few minutes and that's all how I was prepared—dressed up dully in heavy braided hairs noy even dried once.
Still fine...…
I let my head fall back, resting against the rough curve of a drum placed behind me. it was large, likely meant for transport—surface rough enough to bruise through bone. Every movement of the carriage drove it deeper into my spine, as if it were determined to remind my place.
No velvet or silk...….just rough wood.
And the smell—my stomach twitched. It clung to air like decay. Thick, damp, metallic—meat—carelessly dumped in the corner, wrapped in the cloth already stained through. the scent had seeped into everything.
Each inhale felt like swallowing rot.
I turned my face away, but there was nowhere to escape. No scape.....just this suffocating, enclosed box that rattled like it might break apart at any moment.
My hand moved instinctively—or tried to.
The sharp pull stopped me before I could even lift it halfway—right. The rope was crude—thick, coarse, unapologetically tight. It wrapped around my wrist several times before being knotted and fastened to a wooden rod fixed beside a stack of travel bags.
"....I suppose this is only natural." My voice sounded distant—detached. As if, it didn't belong to me.
For someone like her….this was mercy. For someone like me—I wasn't quiet sure what it was.
I shifted slightly to the window, ignoring the sting, and pushed myself up just enough to reach the small, square opening carved into the side of the carriage. The window—the frame was unevenly carved in haste. Still, that was enough.
Enough to look outside.
Enough to hold hope.
I leaned forward, my body swaying dangerously with the motion, and peered through it.
Dust. Wind. And endless stretch of uneven road.
I leaned back then forward. Just in case.
Maybe this time—nothing.
Again, nothing....
Again and again.
How many times have I done it already? I have lost count.
Maybe I'll see him once, even just once.
Even if it's far from afar.
Even if he doesn't look at me.
Even if—
The carriage tilted sharply, and for a fleeting second, the angle aligned.
I saw him—at the front.
Riding.
His back was straight despite the brutal terrain beneath his horse's hooves. The wind pulled at his hair, silver catching the lights like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Atticus Gabriol—The Second Prince, The Empire's blade.
The man people whispered about in fear—and My Love who doesn't remembers me.
Two soldiers followed him, silent, discipline, careful not to disrupt the invisible boundary that seemed to exist around him.
Even the air around him sensed to be different—it spoke for the chaos, but still controlled in rather ruthless manner.
Not everyone chose to such, it's the fate which bring about the turn.
I sank back slowly, the drum pressing into my spine once more, grounding me in the present. Inside the carriage—there was no maid, no attendant, no witness. Just me...
And the faint, suffocating echo of what I have lost.
"I don't even remember how it happened now…."
My chest tightened, the ache slow and deep, like something collapsing inward.
I closed my eyes briefly. Just for a moment.
But the moment didn't last. The carriage slowed. Gradually.
The violent shaking softly, replaced by a quieter, more controlled motion. Footsteps. Approaching. Then—
The door opened.
Light cut through the dim interior, sharp enough to sting. I lifted my head—it was him.
Standing just at my front—My Love, Atticus Gabriol.
He stepped inside as if the world had made space for him to do so.
"My lady," he said, his voice warm, untouched of the chaos outside. "Would you like to have something for lunch? Or else we have prepared one....."
He said something, I couldn't be bothered enough to have paid attention. My eyes were stuck on that ethereal beauty, my heart was still searching for the trace that he lied of not remembering me.
"Are you fine--?"
"ye..Yes," I remembered him talking about food.
"Lunch."
The word felt absurd.
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
His face had no trace of recognition. No hesitation. No…memory.
"…..I have a question." My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
His gaze sharpened instantly. "Is it about you being tied up?"
Straightforward. Efficient—as expected.
I shook my head immediately, "No."
Of course not. In the memories of this body which I don't will to share, the reason was clear—she had tried to die, more than once. Couldn't accept being sold to the tyrant warlord for the crime she didn't committee. She was no one here—could be counted just slightly above a prisoner—not a wife, not a bride, not a hostage...but a concubine who would be thrown whenever the king wished.
She was kept under restrain, for watching—now, that was me—Anaphora.
"Do…..you really don't remember me?"
The question hung between us. For a moment—something shifted.
He looked at me longer, exactly like back in those days when we chatted by the empty seaside.
His gaze wasn't that of disdain, but I could feel that he was evaluating—as if he was trying to determine if I was what I appeared to be, as if he was trying to bring any ceratin piece he missed...…
His silence stretched. In while I glared long into his eyes—we couldn't be like this...….
Then—
"No, My Lady," his voice did not waver. "I remember nothing."
Something inside me went quiet.
Not shattered.
Not broken.
Just...…..silent.
I lowered my gaze. What was I even expecting?
Before I could retreat myself further, he stepped closer.
I tensed, my heart was beating so loud that even I could hear fully. I didn't had any expectation...…I lied, I expected him to embrace me once, tell me how much he missed me, tell me that he was just pranking me, tell me he loved me.....
Instead—
His hands moved to the rope. He loosed it—carefully, slowly. As if aware than even the small act required gentleness.
The pressure around my wrist eased, the fibers loosening their hold. My skin stung as air touched it again, the rawness exposed.
I looked at the wrist for once—red, blue. The friction had tore it open, a line of red peeked through, raw and irritated. I didn't feel it all, my body was too numb—
Then—
His fingers brushed against me. barely…..but enough.
A sharp, involuntary reaction ran through me—my body betraying something my mind couldn't suppress.
That touch—I knew it. I always ran to it even in the darkness.
The warmth hidden beneath restrain. The gentleness buried beneath violence.
The same presence that had followed me—through dreams, through silence, through memories that made no sense now.
My fingers trembled faintly.
It was him.
It always had been him.
So why—
Why does he look at me like a stranger?
My voice barely formed as I whispered, "....you're the same."
And yet—I am the only one left remembering.