Hale, Hearty And His [Edited]

I kept count of every rung, less to avoid losing track, and more to keep my mind from wandering into foolish territory.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

A light breeze grabbed the edge of my skirt, pulling at it like a clingy child. I flattened it down. If I was going to plummet, I’d rather take some secrets with me.

Seventeen. Pointless. Completely pointless.

My right arm spasmed. Traitorous thing. The rung slipped from my fingers. I almost bit through my cheek to keep from cursing at the gods. A small hiss slipped out in spite of it.

“Tch. Useless.”

My arms could scrub floors and wring laundry just fine—but ask them to lift my weight, and they remembered they were decorative.

Physical exertion, I found bearable. What I truly hated was the dark.

There was something profoundly wrong about climbing into the unknown, with no sight of what was above or below—your fate in the hands of a rope ladder that hadn't seen so much as a safety inspection since the year of creation.

Then there was the person, themselves. Who the hell pitches a rope ladder over a border wall?

To throw one over the second-most guarded wall in Burnwake Ward was an act of madness. The place was guarded, watched, and whispered about like a legend. And yet someone had just gone and slung a ladder over it. For me.

Either they had an astounding talent for evading the law, or it was someone who knew the layout of the wall and the patrol timing.

Whoever it was, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were tied—loosely, distantly—to Alfred’s plan. Or—gods forbid—were a Wallwatch guard.

I nearly laughed. That was an optimistic, borderline brain-damaged thought.

The Wallwatch are the kind who’d poke me down with a broom and cite protocol. “Contain, confine, control.” Such was their mantra.

Definitely not the rescuing type. Unless...

I stopped, my fingers clenching around the rung.

Unless they wanted something.

From me.

I frowned, squinting upward. Fog or not, the stench of ulterior motives was impossible to miss.

“So that’s it, then,” I whispered. “Lured up a dubious rope ladder to be defiled.”

I sighed through my nose.

“If it comes to that, may he be quick, but also fastidious in his personal hygiene and, Gods help me, skilled in the act itself.”

I took one more look at how high I still had to climb, sighed, and continued my trek skyward.

Not long after, I felt it. A gentle wiggle of the ladder, nothing more, nothing less. But it made me stop.

Wind, probably.

I hated that it felt like a question.

I stretched up, searching for the next rung. My fingers only found air. I tried again. This time they found the cold, wet rope.

The fog was thick enough to bottle and sell as bathhouse steam.

The ladder shook again, stronger this time. I'd spent enough time on the ladder to know when it was me, and this was most definitely not my doing.

I became as still as a cat stalking a mouse, every muscle tightening. Even my fingers curled so hard they'd gone numb on the rung.

Then, as if of their own accord, the words came out. “Just how many idiots does it take to climb a wall?”

Without thinking, I muttered, “apparently two.”

And like a rock dropped into a pond, the weight came crashing down.

A confident pressure fell onto my head. Something heavy. My chin dipped to meet my collarbone. My back hunched to accommodate it.

And that's how I stayed—perfectly still. Blinking.

Carefully, I reached up, groping around my head. I found leather first. Thick. Rough. Damp from fog. Then something hard inside the leather. Bumpy. Somewhat bony.

Ah. So this is what doormats endure.

I pinched the ankle.

“Ow!”

It seemed my fellow traveler was still attached to a pair of functioning pain receptors because the weight lifted slightly.

So. Someone was up there—going by the pitch, male, albeit barely—descending.

Without a single warning or heads up, no less.

A guard?

I swallowed. The thought only now occurred to me—regrettably late.

...No, they’d have shouted by now. Or better yet, cut the ladder and let me savor the scenic route down.

I sighed. Back to being a footstool then.

The only thing left to do was look up at the person-shaped smudge. The rest would be up to him.

He peered down. I blinked up.

We shared a moment.

Then I spoke.

“Could you not use my skull as a step?”

His foot lifted. My skull rejoiced.

I straightened myself slowly, spine cracking with an assortment of noises similar to cheap firecrackers going off.

And then, slow enough to make a point, I looked up, pinched my fingers together and, with a performance meant only for the truly insulted, dusted the top of my head.

Twice. Because once didn't feel petty enough.

He watched from above.

Good.

Witness your crime, you oaf.

“Ah… apologies.”

A polite voice.

Genuinely polite.

“I didn't realize. Are you okay? That must have hurt.”

This fact was irrefutable. Yes.

“...Mm.”

I stayed still and stared. My expression doing what it did best: nothing at all.

Anyone who apologized so quickly, so easily, likely had practice. Probably daily.

“Well, if it's any consolation,” the voice continued, “your cranium made for a rather stable foothold. Quite rare, that. Most people's heads aren't as sturdy.”

I squinted at him.

Even the fog couldn't completely mask his smile.

I sighed. In all the scenarios I'd considered, this conversation was not one of them.

“Who even are you?” I muttered, narrowing my eyes further. “Don’t tell me—you’re a hitchhiker.”

He sniffled.

Once.

Then a second time.

“...Don’t.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t sneeze.”

A beat.

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, I will get covered in it. And then I’ll have to bathe in vinegar and burn these clothes.”

“What?”

“There are guards, you moron. Pinch your nose. Swallow it. I don’t care, just don’t—”

But, inevitably, it came.

“ACHOO!”

I closed my eyes.

A fine mist of smug mucus drifted over.

“...Did you just sneeze downward?”

“I-I tried to turn away.”

“Mm.” I opened one eye. “Of course. Very considerate.”

I stared suspiciously at the wet splotches staining my shoulder.

“Just to be clear, you sneezed with intent, yes? Burnwake Ward should prepare for a rival Blight, I assume?”

He actually chuckled. He had the audacity to laugh when I had all but accused him of biological warfare. The gall of this man.

“I'm not infected.”

"Yes, yes. Not infected. Then your shadow detaches and starts killing people.”

“Tha-That's a rather specific symptom.”

That stutter. That slight stutter after my statement. He'd heard of it, then. It was a Blight symptom unique to one of the six Plagued Wards of Heptagon City.

Which confirmed one thing—he was, without a doubt, from around here.

“But I'm quite certain that's not how it works.” He finished.

“Not in this Ward, perhaps, but maybe in yours.”

The man above me went quiet. The silence lasting long enough for the thought circling in the back of my mind to finally fall in place.

I stated it aloud, each word coming out carefully, “the ladder. You threw it down.”

“Guilty.”

“And now you’re using it.”

“Yes.”

“To climb into Burnwake Ward.”

“Correct.”

I clicked my tongue.

It all added up. The sudden ladder. The fortuitously unmanned wall top. The highly unlikely odds of a questionable male with even more questionable footwear landing on my skull mid-climb.

“You are a Blight smuggler," I declared with absolute conviction. “That sneeze wasn’t innocent. It was suspiciously productive.”

“Alright, I'll give you this much—that's a creative take.” He said it as if grading a child’s lie. “Alas, I'm afraid that theory is a bit too... imaginative.”

“Multiple Blights in one Ward tend to end poorly. Burnwake follows the usual Plagued ward doctrine. You should’ve known.”

“I did.”

I squinted at the smudge of man above me. “Then you’re a heretic and a criminal.”

“You're quite the little detective.” The smile in his voice was practically audible. “But let me set the record straight. I'm just a normal person with a family connection to this ward.”

I stopped.

My hands squeezed around the rung, then relaxed.

The word he'd just used, I repeated it in a low, almost disbelieving whisper, “...Family.”

“Mhm. You know. I'll show up. They won't expect me. It's easier for everyone.”

“Family,” I said again.

“Yes.”

“You threw a ladder over the second-most guarded wall in Heptagon City... to visit your family.”

“Exactly.”

I closed my eyes. A long pause passed.

So. He wasn't a Blight-smuggler. Or a Plague-peddler. He was just... someone’s son.

With living, loving, waiting relatives.

And I'd just accused him of bioterrorism. For something as ordinary as wanting to see one's family again.

I sighed. Then I mentally kicked myself in the shin. Twice, for good measure.

And of course, the gods must have been having a grand ol' laugh at our expense.

Because now, here we were. Two humans. A single rope ladder. Going opposite directions.

“Well,” he said finally, “this is awkward.”

I tilted my chin upward. “Quite.”

The ladder creaked between us, as if voicing a complaint.

I weighed my options. Which were exactly zero.

I couldn't go up. And he couldn't go down without me, once again, becoming a footstool.

“So,” I said, “what should we do now?”

“Well, I think...” he began, tilting his head, as if considering whether standing on my skull a second time would qualify as poor manners or just bad taste. “I have an idea.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Fine. Let's hear your idea.”

He laughed.

“...No.”

“Eh?” He sounded flabbergasted. “But I haven’t even said it yet.”

“Yes. And I’m saying no.”

“Oh?” He made a show of shaking his head, even though I couldn’t actually see him in the fog. “How terribly unfair. I planned to propose a perfectly reasonable solution to our little impasse, and you dismiss me before I even get to plead my case.”

“Your idea is to argue our way out of this.”

“Debate, actually,” he corrected, voice light. “You tell me why you're climbing out of Burnwake Ward, and I tell you why I'm trying to get in. Whoever persuades the other wins, and the loser retreats in the direction they came. How does that sound?”

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

“...So.” I finally found my voice, “you expect me to barter my position on a rope ladder by... monologuing.”

“Correct.”

“To a stranger.”

“You catch on quickly.”

“In this dense fog, where you could very well be anyone. Or anything.”

“Yet you're still talking. Brave of you.”

“And if a guard finds us—”

“We won't be disturbed.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I breathed out all remaining hope for this conversation.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don't care who wins. You're just curious—about me, about my reasons, about who I am.”

“Very. I've shared my reason. A heartfelt motive of love and family. Now it's only fair that you recipro—”

“No.” I glared up at him. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Silence. Blissful silence, at last.

Just as my shoulders relaxed, his next comment shattered my relief.

“You're running from something.”

A drop of liquid slid down the bridge of my nose. I focused on it.

“Something interesting,” he added.

“If we’re playing fair,” I said, watching the droplet fall. “Then sentiment shouldn’t be the deciding factor. Let's stick to what makes sense. Logic.”

“Ah, but logic is so much less fun.”

“Yes, but it leads to actual results.”

“Very well, my fellow logician,” he conceded, “present your case. Convince me using the power of reason.”

“I’m closer to the top.”

He fell silent.

There. I'd declared the obvious and shut him up. That should have been that...

But I should've known I'd be disappointed.

“You’re really quite determined to go up.”

“Yes.”

“I admire that,” he said. “But you're neglecting a crucial detail—I'm the one who found and threw down the ladder. I fear that I am equally determined to go down.”

“Then jump.”

“Now, now. Let’s not be dramatic—”

“I’m not being dramatic.” It was a simple truth.

He went still.

Then he laughed. Nervously. As if he was only now realizing he might be talking to a very specific kind of woman.

“You’re taking this far too–”

“Shut up.” The words left me before I knew they were coming. “Just shut up and get out of the way.”

I waited. He didn't say a word. Then, with less confidence than before—

“...I see. So it’s like that.”

He was staring. I could feel it like a physical weight. But all I allowed myself to see were the rungs and my feet. The fog made it easy.

I should've bitten my tongue. I wanted to tell him—

“Sorry.”

My eyes remained on my feet. Head bowed. Trying to make sense of what I'd just heard.

“Sorry,” he'd said.

That was supposed to be my line.

I wasn’t used to people reading a room. Much less my room. Especially with that kind of voice, soft. Sincere. I would have preferred his earlier sense of entitlement—that I knew how to handle. But now that his words were out there, I didn’t know what to do with it.

“...Hn.”

That was all I gave him.

I could have said thank you. Or that it was fine. Or come up with something equally meaningless. But I wasn't in the habit of making others feel better for doing the bare minimum.

The ladder shuddered. I didn’t have to look to know—he was moving. Climbing up. Without comment, smart or otherwise.

I followed cautiously. Keeping a fair gap between us. Enough that if he suddenly kicked down, I’d have just enough time to curse him before I fell.

But he didn’t.

He just climbed.

As much as I should have appreciated that... something about it—about how easily he yielded—bothered me. People like that weren’t supposed to be real.

After a while, he spoke.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said. “But I’ve decided something.”

Oh no.

“If I survive this, I’m going to make you mine.”

I almost lost my footing.

“What.”

“Your skull’s too stable to pass up.”

“You’re deranged.”

“Only for you.”

Fine. I sighed. Let him flirt. It was easy to ignore. That was at least comfortable ground.

The remainder of the climb passed quickly. He disappeared into the fog making it to the top first—naturally.

Then his hand poked through the mist, palm open. A part of me bristled at that. And it had nothing to do with trust. I knew exactly what would happen if I took that hand.

And I was right.

“—Hk!”

He'd underestimated how light I was and pulled too hard.

I pitched forward, feet catching on stone. Then, just because, gravity joined the conspiracy. The second I went over the edge, his footing gave.

We fell. Together.

Well. He fell. I landed.

Right on top of him.

I’d witnessed pelvic exams less intrusive than this position. We were fully clothed, yes, but if I had a brush and ink, I could’ve illustrated how the Cyphilis Blight spreads: Step One right then and there.

My hands had landed flat on his chest. He was fit. I could feel that quite well now. His face was uncomfortably close, close enough to assess—

My skin condi—

Oh.

That face.

I forgot how to blink.

I'd seen that face before. Many times. From every angle. In every lighting.

...

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I climbed up here to get away from this. That was the whole point. So why am I—

Why am I lying here, on the very thing I ran from? The reason they kept me fed. The reason I was still breathing.

It was strange. I thought I’d scream. But there was nothing. I was foolish. Simple as. Alfred and Fia's son. This was him. And I was the girl meant for him.