Chapter Text
They play chess on Tuesdays. That’s how it has always been, and both Clarissa and Leonora are keen on keeping it up, their little thing, their get together, a conversation and a game, with a glass of wine, every week without a doubt.
This week, however, Leonora does not show up. She doesn’t send a note, she doesn’t do anything, just isn’t there, and when the clock strikes nine and she is officially an hour late Clarissa ventures out to pay a visit to the redhead’s chambers in hopes to find her. She’s always late. To staff meetings, to meals. Everything, except chess, not even when her knee is the worst it’s ever been, not when there’s over three feet of snow out there. She walks over to the castle, week after week, year after year.
Not today. Today Clarissa gathers the layers of her dress and climbs the three floors to Leonora’s office and her private chambers in search for her, only to be redirected by one of the wolves that guards the door.
“She isn’t here” he growls at the Dean for Good and narrows his eyes. The gold of her dress almost blinds him.
Clarissa, surprised at the words, furrows her brows and tilts her head. “Do you happen to know where I can find her?”
“I smelled her downstairs earlier today as I was passing the Doom Room. Maybe you have more luck there.”
The Doom Room. She nods, suddenly at a loss for words and not trusting her own voice enough to say anything, before turning on her heels to hurry back downstairs. Sure, they play chess. But they talk, and Leonora — even if she doesn’t reveal much — has made it clear that the room located in the dungeons of the School for Evil holds nothing but bad memories and feelings for her, bad enough for her to avoid it most of the time.
So, if Clarissa can trust the guard and finds the woman down there she knows that chess will be canceled for good that day.
“Leonora?”
She knocks against the heavy, wooden door before pushing it open, only to be met by wet, cold air and the gentle glow of a handful of candles on the walls. They don’t reveal much, the light reflects off the many torture devices — blades of knives and swords and spiked cubs just to name a few — and her eyes follow the glow until they come across the woman’s pale face.
Her head rests against the damp stone wall behind her, curls wild and all over the place, some stained, sticky against the forehead, others messy and tangled. Seeing her like this doesn’t come as a surprise to Clarissa, the redhead had spent hours in the blue forest before attending staff meetings or meals with clothes soaked in blood and twigs stuck in her hair, but the difference today lies in Leonora’s eyes. They are barely open, fixed to a point in the distance, while her lips are parted and her breath rattles in her chest.
“Lesso?” Clarissa steps closer and reaches out, touches the woman’s shoulder. Her coat is gone, possibly somewhere on the floor, and both the vest and the fabric of her pants are slashed, in some places displaying pale skin, even blood that clings to the wool, and the longer it takes for the redhead to react the more nervous Clarissa is beginning to feel.
Leonora doesn't respond immediately, her eyes remaining distant and unfocused. The atmosphere in the Doom Room feels heavy, and the dim light casts eerie shadows on the various torture devices surrounding them. Clarissa's touch on Leonora's shoulder goes unnoticed at first, but after a moment, the redhead blinks slowly, as if trying to bring herself back to the present.
"Dovey," Leonora mumbles, her voice hoarse and barely audible. It's evident that she's in a state of distress. The redhead's usual stoic demeanor is replaced by vulnerability, her guard seemingly shattered. She makes a feeble attempt to straighten up, but her body protests with a wince, and she clutches at her side.
Clarissa's concern deepens, and she crouches down to be at eye level with Leonora. "What happened? You're hurt," she says, her gaze flickering over the torn clothing and the visible injuries. The sight of blood makes her heart race, but she tries to maintain a calm exterior for Leonora's sake.
"I..." Leonora begins, her gaze finally meeting Clarissa's. There's a mixture of pain and embarrassment in her eyes. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," Clarissa insists, her voice firm.
Leonora hesitates for a moment, a subtle vulnerability breaking through her typically guarded demeanor. She takes a shaky breath, her eyes darting away before returning to meet Clarissa's concerned gaze. “I can’t tell you.”
“Leonora—”
"I said it doesn't matter," the redhead responds, her voice firm but tinged with a vulnerability that she can't completely conceal. "I've dealt with worse. I don't need your pity."
“I’m not pitying you. I just want you to be okay. Can you get up? Can you walk? You shouldn’t be here and someone has to stitch up your wounds.”
"Do you know how to sew?" Leonora asks abruptly, her gaze searching Clarissa's face for a sign of hesitation. “You do, you have to know.”
Clarissa is caught off guard by the unexpected question. She's proficient in basic first aid, including stitching wounds if absolutely necessary, but the idea of doing so in the dimly lit Doom Room isn't exactly appealing, just like the thought of having to stitch up skin instead of beautiful fabrics.
"Yes, I do," Clarissa answers finally, her tone cautious. "But we should really get you to the infirmary where there's proper equipment and lighting."
Her colleague’s eyes darken abruptly, a mix of frustration and fear flashing across her face. She begins to shift, turning her back to Clarissa as her slender hand clutches at her side, desperately trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. He was rough this time, worse than usual, and the throb that has replaced the previously searing pain between her legs is worse than anything in the world.
Clarissa senses the depth of Leonora's distress, a silent plea for privacy and secrecy. Despite her initial reluctance, Clarissa takes a steadying breath and moves closer, her concern overcoming her reservations.
"Alright," Clarissa says gently, placing a reassuring hand on her uninjured shoulder. "I'll do what I can here, but I need to know what happened first so I can help you properly.”
Leonora’s gaze is fixed on a distant point as she struggles to find the right words. The room is filled with an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft flicker of candles casting dancing shadows on the cold, damp walls.
After a moment, her voice breaks the stillness, barely above a whisper. "He... found me alone in the corridors, on the way to my office.” Her words trail off, and she clenches her jaw, clearly grappling with the painful memories. A low, pained groan comes over her lips.
Clarissa draws a shaky breath. “He was here?” she repeats, her voice low and filled with both empathy and concern. “What did he do to you? You’re in so much pain, oh god.”
A nod. “He’s angry. So angry, and I don’t know how long I can keep him at bay. I don’t know, Clarissa.” Her hands begin to shake, and she closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to hold back the tears that begin to fill them.
Leonora doesn’t cry. She doesn’t admit pain; she isn’t weak. Only this time, he broke her beyond repair, gripped her hair and forced her skull against the stone floor to keep her still, proving that she wouldn’t stand a chance. If there is something Leonora hates more than anything, it is being helpless.
Clarissa's heart aches at the visible torment in Leonora's eyes, her own eyes welling up with unshed tears. "Leonora," she whispers, her voice gentle but filled with determination as she reaches out again, hands curling around the woman’s bare arm. She is so cold. “I can help you to the infirmary, they’ll know how to treat your wounds.”
Leonora opens her eyes, and there's a flicker of defiance despite the vulnerability. "No, Clarissa. Just help me back to my room, please. Help me get patched up. I… I can’t do it myself, and I can’t have others know about this. Please .”
Leonora also doesn’t beg. She doesn’t even say please, or thank you. Unless it’s sarcasm. But now that she does it, with it not even being close to sarcastic, tells Clarissa everything she needs to know. This is the worst she has ever been, worse than dead.
“Shht” the Fairy Godmother replies and tries to soothe the other woman. “I’ll help you, don’t panic. Do you think you can walk?”
“N-no. No, I don’t think I can.” She swallows thickly, once again wincing in pain. Removing the hand from her side Leonora brings it to her face, carefully probing at her cheek before she applies more pressure against her jaw. Another groan.
“Don’t do that” Clarissa says to scold her, carefully moving her hand away. “I’ll take a look at it in just a minute. Can you get a guard to help you? I can get in through the window, that way they won’t get suspicious.”
It's a good plan, one that works, and only moments later, Clarissa finds the other dean on their bed. She fetches a bowl with water, preparing to tend to Leonora's injuries. As she begins to undress Leonora, who hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea, Clarissa sees her bare and naked for the first time.
Leonora doesn't allow her to take the pants off, and that's when it dawns on Clarissa. The realization hits her like a punch to the gut, and she freezes for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The slashes and the bruises on her scrawny, upper body – they tell a story of trauma, but the blood that is beginning to stain the wool between her thighs is a sign that it runs far deeper than just physical wounds.
"Leonora," Clarissa breathes out, her voice barely above a whisper. She knows that this goes beyond the immediate injuries. She sees the deeper wounds, the ones that may never fully heal, and a profound sorrow settles in her chest.
Leonora meets Clarissa's gaze with a mix of vulnerability and defiance. "Don't pity me," she mutters, her voice a fragile shield against the emotions threatening to overflow.
Clarissa takes a steadying breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'm not pitying you, Leonora," she replies, her voice gentle but firm. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need."
With a silent nod, Leonora allows Clarissa to continue with the makeshift first aid. The room is filled with a heavy silence broken only by the sounds of water being wrung out of a cloth and the muted creaks of the bed. Clarissa carefully cleans the wounds, her touch gentle yet purposeful, mindful of Leonora's lingering discomfort, before she locates a needle and a thread next to a stack of potions in the bathroom.
“I haven’t done this before” the woman says when she settles on the corner of the bed again, adjusting the position of candles for more light, before she looks up and meets the redhead’s eyes.
Leonora nods in acknowledgement. “It’s like fabric,” she explains quietly, thankful for the distraction. “Just get it done, don’t hesitate. It doesn’t have to look good.”
“It does” Clarissa argues softly and reaches for the cloth again to dab away the blood. “Do you have any pain numbing potions here?”
Leonora hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering with reluctance. "I have them around," she admits quietly, "but I don't like using them. They... they blur my vision, and I can't afford to lose focus.” The redhead sighs. "And I've gotten addicted to them before. It's not worth the risk."
Clarissa looks at her with concern. "Leonora, you're in pain. You need something to help you through this. Just a small dose, please" she suggests gently. "Enough to take the edge off. You need to rest and recover."
"Top drawer," she says quietly. "There should be something in there. Only half, not a drop more.”
The dean for good nods understandingly and retrieves a small vial from the top drawer of the woman’s nightstand, careful not to make any sudden movements that might agitate Leonora further. The dim light reflects off the glass as she measures a cautious dose and helps the other teacher to swallow it. “Just enough to take the edge off” she mumbles and watches Leonora’s face as she waits for the potion to take effect. “Okay?”
“Mhm.”
“I’ll try to hurry.” Taking advantage of the slightly eased discomfort, Clarissa begins her task. The stitching continues with ease, the tension in the room gradually giving way to a quiet sense of shared understanding. Clarissa works diligently, her hands moving skillfully as she closes the wound. As the last stitch is in place, she carefully ties off the thread and covers it in ointment. "There," she says softly. "All done." When she looks up she freezes and her stomach sinks.