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“Now you know that I’m not them, um… I, I still hope that maybe you could learn to love me too,” Rue confesses. Vintage huffs out a breath. “I don’t know, um, it’s silly,” Rue backtracks.
“No, I get it, but…” Vintage chuckles. “Rue, you no longer have any use for me.” She begins to laugh louder.
Rue takes an unconscious step back—away from Vintage. Closer to the edge.
“You—you don’t have any use for me anymore, I mean, you—” Vintage breaks off into laughter.
“Wha—what do you mean?”
Vintage just continues to laugh.
Rue turns half-away, as if to run, but there’s no room left on the ledge.
Then, Vintage lunges forward, grabs Rue’s wings—and snaps.
“You’re doing great sweetie,” she says, and pushes her off—then screams.
Rue’s only falling for a second as they gasp out a “Wha—no!” before Vintage grabs the collar of their uniform and pulls them back up onto the ledge. There are tears in her eyes.
“Maybe you still have some use to me, after all,” Vintage says, then pulls out an axe. She strikes Rue’s head with the blunt end, and Rue knows no more.
***
Rue wakes up in pain in a cold, dim room, and shivers. They regret it quickly as the movement jostles their wings, and they let out a hiss of pain. Their wings are broken. Vintage broke their wings. Broke their wings and pushed them off the edge.
Vintage almost killed them. Why?
Rue hadn’t… Rue hadn’t thought she’d said anything too wrong. She’d thought Vintage would be understanding. She was probably the kindest person Rue had ever met, after all. Vintage had seemed to understand, even. She had even hugged Rue!
Maybe she’d come on too strong. It would make sense for Vintage not to be interested, knowing they weren’t Ruby. But… that didn’t mean that Vintage had to break her wings. That wasn’t something a kind person would do.
Maybe, Rue thinks to herself, maybe Vintage isn’t kind. Something in them rebels at the thought, but they push it down. She shouldn’t love somebody who hurt her.
She probably shouldn’t stay here, either. Rue wobbles to her feet, and walks to the door. It’s locked. They check their inventory. It’s empty. Rue looks around the room, and there’s nothing she could conceivably use to get herself out.
This isn’t a room, Rue realizes. It’s a cell.
***
Rue doesn’t know how long it is that she sits in the cell alone. There’s no windows, no sunlight by which to tell the time. It feels like a long time.
Then, they hear the door of their cell unlock, and Vintage walks in, locking the door behind her. Rue realizes, belatedly, that that might have been their chance to escape.
Vintage smiles at them. It’s not a kind smile.
“Hello, little clone,” she says, and advances on Rue.
Rue scoots backwards in fear, but there’s only so far she can go. Soon enough, they’re backed into the corner.
Vintage comes closer, but she’s in no hurry. “Please don’t come near me,” Rue says. Vintage just laughs.
Rue tries to kick out at her, but Vintage just grabs her leg, holding it tightly between both hands, and breaks it.
Rue screams.
Vintage smiles.
***
After Rue’s dragged herself painfully even farther into the corner of her cell, there’s not much left for her to do but sit there and wait. They try not to think about Vintage. It doesn’t work. How—how could they have gotten it so wrong? She’d thought Vintage was kind. Everyone had. She’d fallen in love with that kindness. Had it all been a lie? Or is Rue just some kind of exception?
Rue shouldn’t have tried to kick her. They’d just… they’d just felt so sure, so sure that Vintage was about to hurt her. And she had. But would she have done it if Rue hadn’t kicked out at Vintage first? Either way, she has a broken leg now. And—Rue risks a glance down at her broken leg—judging by the angle it’s at, it’s going to heal wrong, too. They grimace. Rue doesn’t think she can set it herself, and it’s not as if they have anything to splint it with. Nor does she have anything else to keep herself occupied with.
Rue risks trying to bend down and grab her leg, yelps in pain and quickly stops. They close their eyes so they won’t have to look at it anymore. Then, she opens them again, because with her eyes closed all she can do is think about how much what Vintage did to them hurts.
Rue tries counting the bricks in the walls of her cell. They get stuck when she tries to twist her body around to look behind her, and an incautious movement hits a broken wing on the wall. “Ow!” she cries out. Nobody else is there to hear it.
Hours pass. Rue thinks it’s hours, at least. Their mind keeps running in circles: How, how, how could she do this to them? Is it just that she’s not Ruby? Is it, as Vintage had said, that they weren’t useful enough? But since when had Vintage cared about that? Or is it… is there something wrong with Rue themself? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand.
When the knock on the door finally comes, it’s almost welcome. Rue looks up, but they don’t have a chance to say anything before the door is swinging open.
Vintage enters the room with a slight frown on her face. Rue wishes she could scoot backwards farther into the corner, but they can’t; there’s no more room.
Rue watches as Vintage locks the door behind herself, apparently unconcerned about Rue attacking her to try and get the key. Although, given their injuries, Vintage probably doesn’t need to worry.
“I’m really sorry about earlier,” Vintage says.
What? If she’s so sorry, why did she do it in the first place? And why would she think Rue would want to see her? Unless she’s here to let them out… maybe Rue should try and play along. They nod slowly.
“I know… I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for it, but… I’d like to help you set it, so it doesn’t heal wrong. And I brought you some cherries, too.”
Rue whispers, “Okay.” They’re hungry and thirsty enough not to care what Vintage has brought her. Cherries are annoying, a bit inconvenient with the pits, but it’s still food.
Vintage approaches Rue slowly enough that Rue can see what she’s going to do, but she doesn’t say anything before her hands are on Rue’s broken leg and—Rue bites through her own lip trying not to make a sound, and almost succeeds.
“I’m sorry, I should have gotten you something to bite down on,” says Vintage.
Rue… doesn’t know what to say. Should she say she forgives Vintage? But… Vintage had been the one to break their leg in the first place. It doesn’t make sense. Why would Vintage—
The silence has dragged on too long, and Vintage is—sitting? Not right next to Rue, but close enough to make her heart pound, with only a basket of cherries between them. Close enough they can just smell Vintage’s perfume.
Vintage takes a cherry from the basket, and Rue takes it as permission for them to start eating, too. Ridiculous of them, to need permission, or to feel as if they do, but—Rue still doesn’t know what she did wrong. If she did something wrong, or if Vintage just—
Their heart is still beating too fast, too strong, though there’s no reason to. Rue’s not interested in Vintage like that anymore, they don’t think, and if it’s from fear—well, it’s not as if there’s anywhere Rue could run to. Their leg may be set, but that doesn’t mean it’s possible to run on it. Vintage locked the door anyway. The only way she’s getting out of here is if Vintage lets her.
The cherries are gone. Rue’s not full, exactly, but they’re at least not hungry. Vintage brought them food. Maybe—?
Hoping against hope, Rue asks, “Can I leave?”
Vintage’s face falls. “No. I’m, I’m so sorry, Rue, but no. You have to stay here, I can’t—you can’t—you’ll die.”
Rue feels their lips purse.
“Please, I swear—I can’t tell you why, but please just—trust me?”
Rue turns their head away from Vintage to hide the tears springing to their eyes. She doesn’t know what to think of the—threat? Was it a threat? It doesn’t make sense. Vintage doesn’t make sense, not anymore.
Rue doesn’t turn her head back, but they still hear Vintage leave. She takes the basket with her.
***
Rue doesn’t adjust, exactly. How could they? But she does settle into a routine, of sorts. Vintage visits occasionally—not on any predictable pattern so far as Rue can tell, but reasonably often, breaking up the monotony.
Rue doesn’t quite live for these visits; Vintage’s unpredictability still scares them, and she can’t stop remembering all the times Vintage has hurt them. Maybe she should try to forget. Vintage certainly seems as if she has; she hasn’t apologized since the first time, and she’d never apologized for breaking Rue’s wings. Rue doesn’t live for these visits, but they anticipate them. Anything is better than the endless monotony, even if Vintage doesn’t always call Rue by their name. Even if she sometimes looks at them with something like desperate hunger. Even if she only ever brings Rue cherries to eat, never anything more filling.
Rue did try, ineffectually, to escape. They scraped at the walls with their nails, trying to pull free a brick. But the cell was too well-built for that to work,and it just hurt their fingers.
Eventually, after enough time has gone by without Vintage really hurting them again, Rue works up the courage to ask Vintage if they can ask a question.
“What is it?” Vintage says.
““I was just wondering… why you broke my wings,” Rue says. “And my leg.” They hold their breath as Vintage responds.
“I’m so sorry. I know it’s no excuse, and—and you don’t have to believe me, but—I’m, I’m just not sure I want to tell you that,” Vintage says. “I don’t know if you’re trustworthy enough.”
Not trustworthy enough? What is that even supposed to mean? Who is Rue going to tell, trapped in this cell? Is Vintage just making up excuses?
Rue focuses on their anger. There’s no point in showing the hurt; when has Vintage ever cared about that? Before I confessed to her, Rue thinks, in spite of themself. Before I changed things, she was kind. Wasn’t she?
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Vintage doesn’t trust Rue, anyway. If she did, why keep holding them captive?
Vintage reaches out and grasps Rue’s hand gently, as if to comfort her. They stay like that for a moment until, uneasy, Rue tries to pull away. Then, her grip tightens.“I suggest you reconsider what questions you ask,” she says coldly.
Rue keeps trying to pull their hand away, but Vintage’s grip is like a vice. She doesn’t let go as her other hand grabs Rue’s pinky and bends it backwards, backwards, so far it hurts, and then—something snaps, and Rue screams. Rue screams as loud as they can, but Vintage’s expression doesn’t so much as falter. Neither does her grip.
In the haze of pain, Rue almost doesn’t feel Vintage taking hold of her ring finger—almost. They scream, trying to beg Vintage to stop, but it comes out incoherent. They tug against her grip, but can’t pull themself free. Vintage remains impassive, saying nothing.
All Rue can do is scream as slowly, methodically, Vintage breaks each finger on their hand.
Then finally, mercifully, the bruising pressure on Rue’s wrist vanishes. Vintage lets go.
Her face crumples as though she’s the one with broken fingers, and she begins apologizing, acting frantic. “Oh, void, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t, I’m so sorry, I can—I don’t know, oh void I’m sorry.”
Rue can’t help it. They sob. “My hand!” she screams.
“I know, I know, Rue. I’ll—I’m going to fix this. I’ll—a potion of healing? We might still have some in storage.” Vintage sounds as though she’s trying to be soothing. It all hurts too much for Rue to care.
Vintage leaves after that, at least. Supposedly to get a healing potion, but Rue doubts it. Their wings and their leg weren’t healed, and Vintage had said sorry about those too. Had she ever meant it?
Rue keeps crying in pain and confusion for some time after Vintage has already left, trying to find a comfortable position to protect all her injuries and failing.
***
It feels like longer than normal after that visit before Vintage comes again. Somehow, it’s simultaneously a welcome reprieve from the fear of being hurt again and a terrifying departure from routine. If Vintage isn’t here, she can’t hurt Rue. But what if she leaves them alone forever? What if she decides to just let Rue starve to death, unwanted, abandoned? Would anyone even care? Rue thought they’d done enough to make up for scaring people, but she still did it. Maybe everyone else was thinking they were better off without Rue. After so long alone except for Vintage’s visits, she doesn’t feel certain of her memories of anyone else. For that matter, she doesn’t feel certain of her memories of Vintage, either. How is it possible for her to be so kind and so cruel?
Finally, there’s a noise as the cell door is unlocked. Rue tenses.
They look up as Vintage enters their cell. She holds a basket of cherries, and there's a nervous smile on her face.
"Hi, Rue," she says, "I, um, I brought you some cherries!"
Rue relaxes minutely. It's the kind Vintage for now, it seems, the one who's willing to call her by their name, as sweet as Rue had hoped for on that fateful day except for one thing: even the kind Vintage will not set her free.
Still, at least this Vintage is better than the cruel one, the one who smirks dismissively and likes to make Rue hurt, leaving them with broken bones in a heap on the cold, unforgiving floor.
Vintage sits beside Rue—not on the side she usually sits, not the side where Rue’s hand lays limp and broken—in the cell seemingly without fear that they will try to escape. That makes sense, Rue supposes, since it’s not as if they could get far with their still-healing leg and wings and hand. She places the basket of cherries between them, and they eat in silence, spitting the pits into their hands, or in Rue’s case onto her leg.
Rue used to like cherries. They think. Now, though, now that they’re all she gets to eat… well, they get rather tiresome. She eats them anyway. It’s better than going hungry.
Vintage reaches over to Rue’s face, and they freeze in place as she wipes a bit of juice from the corner of their mouth. She smiles. “Got something there.”
Had Vintage said something before that, given a warning, and Rue hadn’t noticed? Or had Vintage forgotten who and what Rue was?
”I’m not Ruby,” they mutter.
”I know, Rue,” Vintage says gently.
”I’m not—I’m not useful,” they say, repeating Vintage’s own words.
”You don’t need to be useful,” Vintage says. “You’re perfect the way you are.” Then, she hesitates. “Rue, can I—can I kiss you?”
What. What is that supposed to mean? Rue can’t stop Vintage from doing anything.
“You can,” they say.
Rue stays utterly still as Vintage reaches out, gently caresses their cheek, and presses her lips to Rue’s. It’s a lovely kiss, gentle and sweet with the cherry juice on their lips, but it feels wrong. Still, Rue can’t help but lean into it, even as they’re terrified that at any moment the cruel Vintage will return.
Vintage pulls away eventually, smiling softly. It’s a nice smile. It looks almost as if she loves them.
Rue sits still as Vintage moves closer, still tender. They feel a bit like a doll, not quite there, unable to resist Vintage’s sweetness. She can’t possibly mean it, but the words echo in Rue’s head along with their heartbeat. Perfect the way you are. Vintage can’t mean it, because—because—but what if she does?
***
There are more visits, more kisses, more sweet cherries. Vintage is almost always kind, even if sometimes she’ll make an incautious movement and jostle something that hurts. Rue always flinches, always wonders if this will be when things change, when Vintage tells them it was all a lie. It hasn’t happened yet.
Rue still wants to be free. She misses the sun, the sky, the wind, eating things other than cherries, talking to people other than Vintage, not hurting all the time—but they’re too terrified to ask to leave again. It wouldn’t work anyway.
Sometimes, after a kiss, or a conversation, Vintage will sigh and smile and say, “I’m so glad you’re here, Rue,” achingly sincere. She’ll say she loves them. Sometimes she says thank you. Sometimes she says sorry. Rue doesn’t know what to make of it. What if I don’t want to be here? Rue wants to ask. What if I don’t love you? Why did you hurt me? Why are you sorry? If you love me, why won’t you let me go? But every time they think those kinds of thoughts, Rue bites them back, remembering the last time she tried to ask questions. They only have so many bones left to break.
***
Rue daydreams, sometimes. Before they were trapped, they used to daydream about Vintage. About being accepted and loved. She doesn’t like to think about that anymore. Vintage does love them, or at least she says she does, and it’s nothing like what she’d hoped for.
Nowadays, Rue hopes for other things. For Marm or Leon or Anathra or Kittrix to wonder where they are, and find them, and free them, and tell them that Vintage was a horrible person for hurting Rue, and—well. They don’t know. They try not to think about that, either, at least not while Vintage is with her. Rue tries not to think about a lot of things when she’s with Vintage—who knows how she’d react if Rue said any of it?
They used to wonder about where Ruby was, too, and what ve would think of them. Rue still does wonder that, sometimes. Had Vintage treated Ruby like she treats Rue? Would Ruby be jealous? Or grateful? Would Ruby hate Rue for taking over their life? Rue doesn’t know.
The cell lock clicks open. Rue hears a knock on the door, and looks up to greet Vintage as she enters—that’s not Vintage. Rue stares, wide-eyed, at a stranger with a familiar face. Rue’s face, almost exactly.
“Are you… Ruby?” Rue whispers.
“I am,” Ruby says. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
Rue’s imagined being rescued, when they’re feeling optimistic. Rue’s imagined meeting Ruby, and occasionally hoped not to be hated by them. Never in her wildest dreams has Rue imagined this.
“You don’t hate me?” Rue asks. But no, that doesn’t matter, they need to warn Ruby— “You should be quick. I don’t know when Vintage is coming back.”
Vintage steps into view, into the cell. Rue flinches. “I’m already here. But, Rue, I’m never going to hurt you again. I promise.” Rue doesn’t—they don’t understand.
“Let me handle this,” Ruby says. “Go get a healing potion or something.”
Rue watches in amazement as Vintage ducks her head and leaves without another word.
Ruby comes further into the cell, leaving the door ajar, and sits down a fair distance away from Rue. Far enough away that Rue doesn’t think Ruby could touch them even if ve reached out.
“I’m not good at this,” Ruby mutters. “So, um. Vintage told us she was possessed. And that she “didn’t want to” do… this.”
Rue blinks.
“Hurt you, I mean,” Ruby elaborates.
Rue blinks again. This is… it’s everything she wanted to hear. It’s what she hoped for, deep down, that there was some reason for it all, that Vintage didn’t want to do it, that Rue didn’t deserve it.
Why is it not enough?
Rue clenches her one good hand. She doesn’t know who she’s angry at. Themself, or Vintage, or whatever was possessing Vintage, or—
Well, it’s probably not Ruby. “Thank you for telling me.”
There’s a brief silence.
“You don’t have to forgive her, you know,” Ruby says.
Rue breathes out. That… helps. They still don’t know how to feel.
“I want to leave,” they say. “I don’t want to be trapped here anymore.”
Ruby nods. “If Vintage brings healing potions,” xey say, “would you be okay with me setting your bones before you drink them.”
Rue thinks about it for a moment, enjoying the idea that if they said no Ruby would listen, and then says, “Yes.”
They wait. Soon enough, Vintage’s voice comes from outside the cell. “I have the potions,” she says.
Ruby gets up and takes a healing potion from Vintage, then comes back. Vintage follows him into the cell.
“When you tell me you’re ready, I’m going to start setting your bones, and then when I’m done you’ll drink the healing potion, okay?” Ruby says, handing the uncorked bottle to Rue.
“Okay.”
Vintage interjects. “Do you have something to bite down on?”
Rue’s eyes dart over to her. “Um, no…”
Vintage pulls out a handkerchief and passes it over. Rue fumbles to ball it up and get it between their teeth, still holding the healing potion.
Ruby resets her leg, and Rue bites down on the handkerchief. It’s a sharp pain, but no worse than the initial break. Then, carefully, Ruby moves Rue’s wing bones back into alignment. Finally, Ruby takes Rue’s hand gently in his own, and untwists the fingers. Rue breathes, and spits out the handkerchief.
“You can drink now,” Ruby says.
Gratefully, Rue drinks. They sigh as the warmth rushes through them and the pain eases. Her body is still sore, but… Rue flexes her muscles, and the shooting pain doesn’t come, only aching.
Vintage passes over another healing potion, through Ruby since Vintage is still standing awkwardly in a far part of the cell. Rue drinks it, too.
Shakily, they get to their feet.
Rue turns to Vintage. “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t think—I didn’t think. I should have—I didn’t think I would have to hurt people, I certainly didn’t think I would have to hurt you, and they promised me that—that I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”
Even if she didn’t want to, Rue is still somehow scared that she will, again. Maybe even especially if she didn’t want to.
“Was—was any of it—real?” Rue asks. She’s not sure what she means herself—the love? The pain?
“Of course it was, Rue—you’re an amazing person. I’m just sorry that—that I wasn’t as good to you as you deserved.”
Rue blinks back tears. “I think,” Rue says slowly, “I think… it might be best if we go our separate ways. At least for a little while.” Vintage might not have meant any of it, but Rue can’t help wondering. And whenever she looks at Vintage’s face, she remembers how she saw it twist into cruelty. They remember pain. They don’t—maybe Vintage doesn’t deserve it, but Rue doesn’t want to see her again. Not for a long time, if ever.
“I’ve been staying at Spruce,” Ruby says. “You could come with me.”
Rue smiles at xem thankfully. Nods.
“Of—of course. Whatever you want,” Vintage says, as though she has any right—
Rue remembers Vintage saying, “I’m so glad you’re here,” and wonders—will Vintage actually leave them alone? Or will she come back, searching for companionship, or for someone to hurt or kiss or love, out of sheer loneliness?
“You could go stay at Jungle, maybe,” Rue says to Vintage, hoping her ulterior motives aren’t too obvious.
“What?”
“So you wouldn’t be lonely,” Rue says.
“Oh,” says Vintage, and nods. “Thank you. For everything.”
Rue leaves the cell, but holds their breath until Vintage is gone, flown far away, where she won’t—can’t—hurt Rue again.
Rue is safe now. Safe, and free.
Fin.