𝐀 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥... 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭 ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

previously, part 14 of the fanfiction "There's light in the darkness" - 𝐀 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥... 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭 ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 : ᴬˢᵗʳⁱᵈ ˢᵃᵈᵈˡᵉʳ ⁽ʰⁱᵍʰ ᵖʳⁱᵉˢᵗᵉˢˢ ᵒᶠ ᴸᵒˢ ᴵˡˡᵘᵐⁱⁿᵃᵈᵒˢ, ᴹⁱᵍᵘᵉˡ ⁽ˡᵒʷ ʳᵃⁿᵏᵉᵈ ᶜᵘˡᵗⁱˢᵗ ⁱⁿ ʳᵉᶜᵒᵛᵉʳʸ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉⁱʳ ᴸᵃˢ ᴾˡᵃᵍᵃˢ ⁱⁿᶠᵉᶜᵗⁱᵒⁿ

ᵣₑₛᵢdₑₙₜ ₑᵥᵢₗ ₄ --- 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

ʟɪɴᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱᴛᴏʀʏ: ᴾᵃʳᵗ¹: ᵀʰᵉ ᴿⁱᵗᵘᵃˡ

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Done with this chapter in my fanfiction! Now, it was quite a challange to get through with it but happily, I finally maaaade it!

This last part of the series "A bad smell..." dives deeper into Miguel's perspective of the events and his personal wordview.

Make sure you read this final chapter when you have the time for it, for it's longer than the last parts!

Despite everything, it was really fun to write and I found it an unexpected rollercoaster, if I were to be honest :))

Enjoy your read!

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ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ'ꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ

The first thing I felt was the cold.

Not freezing... just… cold enough to drag me back up from the dark. The water sloshed quietly around me, thick with grime, like it had peeled off layers of me I didn’t know were there.

And then there were her hands.

Scrubbing... soft, then hard, but not painful... just... unflinching.

I didn’t need to open my eyes right away to see who it was. I didn’t have to... I knew it was her. I recognized the way she worked in silence, with precision. I was something ruined she had vowed to restore. Not even once did she flinch, though I knew I smelled like human remains and rust... like sin soaked into skin.

The first scrubbing was rough. My shoulders stung. Chest too.

It was the second time she was rinsing. Then again, the cloth pressed hard to my collarbone, my ribs, my neck. Again and again until whatever filth I’d been buried in started to lose its grip.

...I knew she was furious. I knew I have failed her. And yet... she chose to stay.

Still she bathed me.

Why did she stay?

To me, this... this wasn’t just cleaning. Not to me. It felt like a baptism. Like I was being stripped of something unworthy. Like I had failed her, and she was the only one who had the right to forgive and have me reborn into something new.

When she reached for my hair, she massaged something slimy into my scalp, something floral and strange and warm like spring.

I started to colors... images from long ago...memories of those old stories the elders from the village used to whisper... stories of unworthy men washed clean to stand before their saint.

She was doing this herself.

No acolytes. No rules. Just her.

And me.

I thought, If I die like this, I will die as the happiest person in this world.

I opened my eyes only when her hand touched my cheek. She was washing my face now. Like I was a statue being uncovered beneath the soot. My body hurt, but I let it happen. I let her do it. Because this was a marking.

I wasn’t just hers to guide anymore... I was hers to... keep. Or that's what I hoped, at least. I would like that... And maybe I would never be anything more than a borrowed thing.

And when her fingers brushed over that spot, where the skin folded strange over old, jagged edges, my body jolted back like I’d just been lit on fire. My elbow knocked the edge of the tub and water sloshed hard against the porcelain. My throat seized. My eyes blurred. For a second— I swear— I felt it fresh. Like the lash again, like the bite of the strike, like the floor beneath me was stone and I could hear someone calling me a failure again and again.

But... none of that was real. None of that was now.

I heard her gasp. Astrid stopped for a moment.

Her hands had frozen mid-air and her eyes had gone wide, staring down at the twisted, uneven mess stretched over my ribs.

She didn't say a word about it, just sat there, as if her silence could shield me.

Then, after a moment too long, she cleared her throat and said, “The shampoo… it smells like lavender.”

...and I swear I saw her turn red after she said that.

She fumbled with the small glass bottle, unscrewed it, and leaned forward, holding it to my face.

“Here,” she murmured. “You can smell it, if you want.”

And I did. I leaned in, half out of instinct. The soft perfume filled my nose. It was familiar. Like her room. Like her bed. Like her hair when she leaned too close.

After a pause, she spoke again, gentler this time. “I’m going to touch you again. Is that alright?”

But I didn’t answer. My thoat was tight.

...the scent was still in my nose, but my ears were ringing. My hands clenched the sides of the tub. I felt like I was back in the dark chamber again, tied and alone, the scent of blood and mold clinging to my tongue.

Then she touched it again. Just a brush of her fingers over the scar. A raw scream erupted tore out of my lungs.

I didn’t mean to.

I slapped a hand over my mouth the second it escaped, ashamed, breath catching sharp in my throat. My whole body folded inwards. I curled up as much as I could, tucking my chin down, not even looking at the scar.

Not looking at her.

I didn’t want to see what was in her face.

Pity? Shame? Disgust? Or maybe all of them.

I kept my eyes down, watching the water swirl with the last bits of dirt and oil. I didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

And then—

A hand. Warm. Soft. On my shoulder.

I looked up, cautious.

Astrid was still sitting there. Her face wasn’t twisted. Her lips weren’t tight.

She just looked… quiet. And sad.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked, voice small. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I didn’t answer right away.

The truth was... it shouldn’t have hurt.

The wound was old. Closed. It wasn't even from this punishment I woke up from. The skin was already pale and stretched tight with time.

But somehow, it did.

(Later)

The soft fabric of the new nightgown felt cool against my skin. Astrid had handed it to me carefully, the light blue material a sharp contrast to the mess I’d been in. The intricate embroidery on the chest was delicate, almost ethereal, something I could never dream of wearing in the world I came from.

I sat on the edge of her bed, my legs still numb from the punishment, but the weight of her care was grounding me. Her eyes, those eyes that always seemed to hold a thousand unsaid things, focused on me now with an emotion I couldn’t place. Her gaze was soft, but there was something fragile about it. Something that made the air between us thicker, heavier. I didn't know what it was.

She cupped my cheek, her touch so gentle it made my breath hitch. I didn’t move, didn’t want to break the silence. Her fingers brushed against my skin like she was afraid I would shatter if she touched too hard.

A lump formed in my throat.

"Can I braid your hair?" she asked, her voice a quiet murmur, almost as if she were asking for permission. "I think it would look nice... I want you to feel different tonight."

'...Different.'

The word echoed in my head, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. I could feel the weight of my old life... the one where I was nothing more than a lowly servant. It was something I couldn’t shake, no matter how many times I was bathed, no matter how many times she dressed me in things like this, things I didn’t deserve.

But I didn’t tell her that.

I just nodded.

She smiled then, a small, tender thing, before turning her back to me. I could hear the soft rustle of her hands as they worked on the wet strands of my hair. The rhythmic pull of each section felt like a lullaby, comforting, steady. And then, just when I thought she was only focused on my hair, she pressed herself against me.

Her arms wrapped around me, and for a split second, everything else in the world ceased to exist. It was just her warmth, her closeness.

And then, her lips found my shoulder. A soft, fleeting kiss.

“You smell so good,” she murmured, her voice so close to my skin that it made me shiver. “I’ll make you look really beautiful when I’m done. Tonight, you’ll look like a prince.”

...A prince? Was she really doing this...?

But as I sat there, letting her work, I realized something I hadn’t before: She wasn’t just giving me a new nightgown or a braid. She was trying to give me back a piece of myself that I’d lost somewhere in the darkness of this void. She wanted me to feel... something different... something better.

And, for the first time in as long as I could , I actually did feel 'different'.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Now, for those that are new to this AU of resident evil 4 where Osmund Saddler has a daughter, Astrid Saddler, and you haven't gotten a mental picture of these two characters, here is a visual representation:

Get to know the prisoners of the castle • (click on the link!

A merciful night

(click on the link!

+ art by me ♡

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

𝑀𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝒞𝑜_𝒟𝒽𝑒𝑒𝒶

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟