“Is that how it works?”
“It is, but looking at the state of this place, I’d say it didn’t put you at ease at all,” Benedictine said, sounding both amazed and as if she was teasing Belle. And so still grumbling, she went around the room, briskly cleaning up the place.
This Mermaid woman had basically stormed into her house, mouthing haughty complaints, while soothing and reassuring Belle. She let Belle lie in bed while she cleaned, opened the window and curtains, and put the clothes littering the floor in the laundry.
The room really was in a bad state. It wasn’t just dirty or cluttered; the whole place illustrated Belle’s silent screaming. Clothes lay discarded on the floor in heaps, drenched with sweat. The bath was also covered in puddles from when she was in cycles of sleeping until she got sweaty, took off her clothes to bathe and then went back to sleep until she got too sweaty again.
The overturned tableware, the fruit left rotting in the fridge, the vomit on the floor, the broken dishwasher, and the tipped-over chairs and the scratches on the walls: It all spoke to the cycle of mental anguish and stress she had been going through in a direct manner that was perhaps typical of Belle.
Benedictine rinsed and scrubbed each of those things thoroughly and carefully, while making exaggerated exclamations and comments to hold Belle’s attention. She cleaned—or in Mermaid terms, purified—the room.
“It’ll go cold,” Benedictine said, approaching Belle.
“Hmm…?” Belle raised her head, still groggy, looking at the cup of maisen tea Benedictine had left on the table earlier. It smelled nice, which incentivized her to reach for it.
“This is expensive, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I’m considered a top Solist, you know. Unlike you, I make a decent living.”
Chuckling, Belle took a sip. The murky surface of the tea rippled, distorting her reflection.
“Um… About earlier, Benet. I’m not saying it’s my fault just to make myself feel better. It’s just… How do I explain it? It’s one way you could look at it. And I’ll admit I got a little fixated on that one side…”
“Oh, but why? I’d very much like to hear why you think you’re at fault,” Benedictine said with a dissatisfied expression.
After cleaning up a little more, she brought a chair to Belle’s bedside table and sat on it, giving her a view of Belle’s face, and started peeling some of the pease fruit she’d brought. The smell of fruit milk pleasantly tickled Belle’s nostrils, but the sweetness of that memory brought with it a twinge of sadness, reminding Belle of the pops. The way their beady eyes looked up at her, the brutal circumstances of their life and death; it all naturally connected to Adonis and her differing feelings toward him. Thoughts she kept shut out and pushed away rushed into her mind, flowing in smoothly like all the sediment weighing them down was gone.
“I couldn’t understand his suffering. And I feel like I can’t understand,” Belle said. “But I tried to get him to understand me… To fill up his heart with just me.”
“And he was much the same, except what he did was much worse,” Benedictine retorted, exasperated.
But there was a question hidden in her tone: How did the two of you get like this? This was the real reason Belle kept her thoughts buried deep down in her heart, and undoubtedly where her memories of betrayal and injury stemmed from.
Benedictine curtly—or maybe that’s just how she tried to make it seem—reaffirmed Belle’s thoughts, soothing her and spurring her to realize this on her own. Belle could sense this intention physically on her skin, which went to show that her intuition, the keen empathy she felt toward the world, was recovering.
“I like Adonis when he’s strong,” she muttered.
Her reflection in the cup wavered again. She waited for the ripples to stop before she continued.
“Seeing him weak makes me anxious. He can’t save me when he’s weak. Instead, it spurs me on. I feel like understanding Adonis when he’s weak will make me lose Adonis when he’s strong. So I rejected it; I didn’t want to understand him. I’d sooner let him kill me than see that happen.”
“Well said. So what were you expecting out of this strong Adonis, then? What did you want from that bigoted, cowardly man? Isn’t that the issue?”
“A Journey…”
Belle trailed off.
“Say it,” Benedictine snapped at her scoldingly. “What’re you holding back for? It’s sickening. Just say it. Well, what do you want?”
“For him to go on a Journey with me,” Belle said, then looked away from Benedictine nervously.
“You hopeless girl,” Benedictine said with a smile, looking as if she really felt this way. “I already knew that. You’re…going to leave on a Journey.”
“I…”
The tea in the cup was splashing in her grip. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Benedictine gently took the cup and placed it on the table. She picked up a piece of pease fruit and popped it into her own mouth.
“Delicious.”
Benet turned her eyes to Belle, like she was offering her some, too. Belle wavered for a moment, then nodded, prompting Benedictine to poke some of the fruit with a fork and lift it to Belle’s lips. The sweet, sugary fragrance of fruit milk filled Belle’s nostrils. She bit into it, and Benedictine beamed at her like a child.
Belle was surprised she could make such an expression. As she chewed the expensive fruit, she realized tears were running down her cheeks. Sweet and sour mixed in her mouth, and she saw Benedictine cock her head, watching her.
Horizontal became vertical; vertical became horizontal.
“I like you when you’re weak.” Benedictine sipped on her tea. “Deep down, I think you deserve it. It makes me feel good.”
Belle cracked a pained smile as she wept. She accepted the cup Benedictine offered her wordlessly, taking a sip to wash down the rich flavor of the pease fruit. She returned the cup, which was unquestioningly placed back on the table. It was all casual, natural, no questions asked, like they were two sisters who got along well. The air between them could indeed be called familial.
“I think I understand why I wanted to see you all this time even though you’re so mean,” Belle said to the Mermaid.
“Oh? Well, go on. Why?” Benedictine chuckled, her eyes moving from the plates on the table to scanning over the room and eventually stopping at Belle.
Her eyes seemed to ask if Belle still had complaints after all the kindness she’d been shown. There was a certain sarcasm to it, but it was also charming, as if to ask, “Who else would treat a woman like you as sweetly as I do?”
And she’s right.
This arrogant woman, as mean and jealous as she was, had contrasted with Belle since the moment they first met. She was effectively the first fellow woman Belle had interacted with. All of Belle’s peculiarities—her unusual birth, her abnormal powers, the way she was isolated from the land—all of it made Benedictine react in a utilitarian, knee-jerk reaction of envy. “Who do you think you are, standing out more than me?” it seemed to say. “I’m much more famous around town than you are.”
It was a plain, easy-to-understand emotion. Benedictine liked being compared to others, felt joy at coming out on top. And she treated Belle that way, just like she did with any other woman.
There stood another person, clear in their contrast, on the other side of Belle. They competed in all the same areas, acknowledging each other in the same aspects. She was the first person to give Belle the feeling of sharing the same line of thought, something akin to empathy.
“Standing next to you makes me feel like I’m a fine woman after all,” Belle said.
“Huh? What does that mean? You think I’m just here to make you stand out? Me?” Benedictine seemed to take genuine offense to this, pouting adorably at Belle.