WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Malfoid

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ Fragments of Thorns and a Cradle ◈

Chapter 22

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Content Warning: domestic abuse; physical violence; pregnancy loss; sexual exploitation and slavery; suicidal thoughts or self-harm.

Then a small hand touched her cheek.

Agnes flinched.

"Don't cry. When your baby is born, I'll take good care of it. I'll cherish it."

Endymion wiped away the tears on her cheek.

Agnes lifted her head.

"I think it will be a girl."

"Why?"

"Just because."

As Agnes reached toward him, the bedroom door opened.

Endymion looked at the servant who entered.

His expressionless face remained calm.

The servant removed the shackle around Agnes's neck and helped her stand.

Then he bowed to Endymion and led Agnes out.

A day later, Agnes faced Randolph again.

The sight of every piece of furniture smashed to ruin made her legs weak, but she did not show it.

Randolph studied her.

"Did you sleep with him?"

"Does it matter?"

"You have no right not to answer me."

"I did not sleep with him."

"You expect me to believe that?"

Randolph smiled coldly.

Agnes did not shrink back.

"If you will not believe me regardless of my answer, why did you ask? Even though I said I did not sleep with him, you will believe I did."

"Agnes."

"You married another woman and slept with another woman! Why can I do nothing? I want a husband too. I do not need jewels or gold. I do not even want dresses. I only want to make a home with a man who cherishes me and loves only me."

"I am already your husband."

"What woman is called an insolent slave for sleeping with her husband? What woman is pointed at and told she became pregnant before the mistress of the house was even brought in because she carries her husband's child?"

"Who said that to you?"

Randolph asked coldly.

Agnes laughed bitterly.

Of course. This man knew nothing.

No one dared criticize her before him. Agnes had never told on anyone. She had thought those were words she deserved to hear.

This was the life of a woman born to a concubine, a woman who warmed a nobleman's bed. She was a slave, but ate well and dressed well, so people naturally envied her. She had thought it did not matter.

She had been complacent and foolish.

But Agnes could no longer endure it.

"Must I name someone? Everyone says it. My lord, I cannot bear this anymore. I do not think I can live at your side now. I would rather die than live this way. This life is worse than death. Even if all female slaves live lives worse than death, I truly, truly..."

Agnes swallowed her sob.

She did not know why things had become like this. She did not know why she had to hurt and suffer so much.

If the sin was being born to a mother who had been a slave in some man's bed, she wanted to die.

It was all right if she could not start over. She wanted to die and end it.

"You... you..."

Agnes's shoulders shook.

Randolph gripped her reddened, trembling shoulders.

He could not answer her question: Why was he not the only man in her world? Why could she not be his only wife?

He wanted to say anything, anything that would make her stop speaking, but it felt as though his throat were blocked shut.

Even his tongue had gone rigid. He stared at her, stunned.

Agnes staggered and tried to push him away.

The moment her small hands touched his chest, Randolph pulled her into a hard embrace.

He was afraid.

Afraid Agnes would run from him. Afraid that after crying like this, she would leave him forever.

Shivering with cold, he stroked her hair.

"Let me go. Let me go!"

"...You cannot go anywhere."

I was wrong. Beating you. Ignoring your child. Being jealous when you loved your child. It was all my fault. I am sorry I moved my body with another woman. It was wrong to cherish her child before you.

So please, Agnes...

"You will be mine even in death."

But those were the only words he could say.

Gregory had always been lucky.

He somehow avoided the soldiers, escaped all the way to Trieste, the central city of Gwendel, and hid in its outskirts for four full days.

Then he bought a travel bag and a few necessities at a general store and stood at the road leading into San Arzok.

This was his only chance.

Whenever he thought of the marquess, his legs trembled. The blue gleam in those eyes, the cold madness with which he clung to what he considered his, made sweat run down Gregory's back.

Still, he could not turn away.

To live, he should flee at once. He should not waste this gap in the pursuit.

But he could not leave.

Perhaps he would have fled if he had not seen Agnes dragged by the hair.

But how could he turn his back after witnessing that?

Even if he died miserably, he had to try.

So he infiltrated San Arzok to take Agnes back.

He bought stage dye used by clowns, dyed his hair red, and added a false mustache. He looked quite different.

At dawn, he slipped into San Arzok by climbing its lowest wall rather than using the servants' back entrance.

The security was stricter than anything he had seen before.

With every step, extreme tension made him sweat.

Once inside the inner castle, Gregory knocked out a passing servant, stole his clothes, and put them on.

If he could only reach Agnes's bedroom, he would succeed.

"Did you hear? She miscarried."

"Really? You mean the white mare of House Santos?"

Santos. White mare.

Gregory's expression hardened.

Santos was Agnes's birth family. White mare was slang for a prostitute.

He did not need to ask whom they meant.

Agnes was openly used as a subject of servant gossip. It was not even surprising that they spoke filthy insults that would get them killed if the marquess heard them.

But...

"Who else in this castle would miscarry?"

"You're right. Ha ha. Good."

"It is good. Who does she think she is, getting pregnant? I felt sorry for the baby, being born with a slave for a mother. It is better this way."

"It is better for the child too. Of course. If my mother were a concubine, I would die of shame. It is fortunate that it will not be born. Still, why get pregnant again without knowing her place?"

"Those foolish women cannot even manage their own bodies properly. Men, though..."

They were in front of Agnes's bedroom.

They knew she could hear.

How could they speak this way in front of a woman who had miscarried?

Angry tears rose in Gregory's eyes. He remembered Agnes being struck and falling before him.

The marquess was a man who humiliated his own woman in front of a mere gardener. How much worse must the violence have been where no one could see?

And how much had the servants laughed as they watched?

They were not human.

Gregory's fists shook. He held his breath so he would not rush out.

Then...

"Men what?"

It was a flat, low voice.

Gregory felt cold.

"Y-Your Excellency!"

"Go on. Keep talking."

The mockery was cruel.

His face had frozen into something so merciless that madness showed in it.

"Your Excellency, we, we..."

"You look very happy. How well you speak... using those filthy tongues to speak of my Agnes..."

"P-Please spare us. Please, Your Excellency."

The two maids shook and pressed themselves to the floor.

The marquess did not speak again.

Two knight-attendants dragged them away.

Gregory could not bear to imagine what would happen next. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.

After the maids disappeared, the marquess remained there for a long time.

Like an unwavering knight guarding her bedroom door.

Or a black ghost wandering a graveyard.

He could not bring himself to turn the handle. He only stared at the door.

He showed no emotion, but Gregory could tell.

He was grieving.

His face looked like that of a man driven to his knees by the pain of regret.

Gregory had not known the marquess could wear such an expression.

"...Agnes. Agnes!"

Someone shook Agnes awake.

Agnes, faint with fever, opened her eyes and looked at him.

The outline filling her blurred sight was familiar.

"Greg?"

"Yes. It's me."

"Y-you're alive?"

"Shh."

Gregory put a hand to his lips.

Agnes felt as though cold water had been thrown over her. She saw Gregory glancing around nervously.

With her fevered body, she sat up and grabbed his shoulders.

Their eyes met.

Agnes seized his large hand.

Their hearts beat at the same steady pace. Their breaths touched above their lips.

Neither knew who moved first.

They kissed.

After a deep kiss, they opened their eyes and fled into the night.

They took nothing and did not look back.

They left the city by boat from the foothills rather than the harbor.

For a year, perhaps a year and a half, they never settled.

They wandered the kingdom endlessly, living on the road. Sometimes they slept in other people's barns. Sometimes they stayed three or four months in empty houses, watching their surroundings.

Even after their daughter was born, they wandered for some time.

At last, they settled in a village near the border.

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