The Mouse and The Monarch

21

~MOUSE~

The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete as Ophelia slowly blinked awake.

She felt weightless, suspended in a surreal state between sleep and reality.

Gradually, the haze that veiled her vision began to dissipate, revealing the familiar surroundings of the barrack.

As she stirred, a gentle yet firm grip cradled her, guiding her to lie down.

The softness beneath her was a paradox, like sinking into a cloud that bore the subtle fragrance of sandalwood.

It was a comforting aroma, a fragile tether to the world she was regaining.

Her eyes, still drowsy and unfocused, attempted to make sense of her surroundings.

König's presence loomed above her, his features obscured and hidden beneath his hood.

Despite the mask, Ophelia recognized the quiet strength in his eyes, the unwavering determination as well as the panic.

König's movements were deliberate as he gently laid her down, his hands cautious yet confident.

She felt a strange mix of vulnerability and security in his touch.

He could kill her easily, she had seen him do it. But he was being gentle with her.

The sensation of being laid upon something soft prompted Ophelia to shift her gaze sideways, her surroundings coming into sharper focus.

The barrack.

When had they gotten back?

The mask that had shielded Konig's face now hovered close, his deep blue eyes wide as he nodded down at her.

"Okay, I-I think I have to take your shirt off," König's voice, muffled by the mask, broke the momentary silence.

His words were tinged with a stiffness that betrayed an unfamiliarity with vulnerability, a discomfort that mirrored Ophelia's own.

Groaning softly, Ophelia mustered the strength to sit up, the pain in her body a reminder of the gaping stab wound and bullet graze on her arm.

Her memory snapped into focus as she realised why she was lying down with her body on fire.

With a weary determination, she began to undo the gear that clung to her, the metallic clinks ringing in the stillness of the room.

The layers peeled away, revealing the marks and bruises that painted across her body, all of her scars and burns on display.

She had no time to feel self-conscious.

Ophelia's hands moved with mechanical precision as she rid herself of the protective layers encasing her.

Her eyes, mere slits struggling against the weight of exhaustion, were greeted by the sudden assault of cold air on her exposed skin.

The barrack's temperature seemed to drop as if mirroring the chill that ran down her spine.

Despite the weariness etched into every line of her face, Ophelia retained a stubborn resolve.

As she reclined, the softness beneath her moulding to the contours of her body, the ache in her side became an insistent pulse.

The wound throbbed with a rhythm that matched the beating of her heart.

In the stillness that followed, a warmth enveloped the injured side of Ophelia's body.