Hiraetha
Mystic
[ Michcat Ced ]
She could find no light to focus on in the boundless darkness of the cramped, humid cell. Nor could she concentrate on the thoughts drifting in her mind and bouncing from the walls within her skull; pain pulsing from her fingertips, radiating from her chest. The creaks of the floorboards and clattering of shackles where muted into a dull hum for Ciri, whom spread her fingertips slowly over the canvas covered hay bale that she lay on. It felt nothing like the soft velvet that she had grown accustomed to rubbing her fingers against when she became nervous or hysterical; or both. Then again, she was unused to everything about the space she was crammed into. The smell of decay and waste, the sticky feeling of the air, the salty taste to her dried, cracked lips- left over from the tears that had previously slid from her eyes.
Slowly, the Moor opened her dark charcoal eyes, peering in the feeble light towards the iron door that kept her trapped. Enclosed, in two layers of thick defenses. One in front of her, and one in her mind. Perhaps she had already accepted the fact that she would never leave the dank, humid cell. Or perhaps she had just given up in her fight to live, to battle each day against the beasts outside and those locked up in her mind, waiting to strike when her thoughts strayed too far this way or that. She slowly lifted her bloodied, scarred, calloused hand, peering at the stolen rings that adorned it- dropping her hand against her head, her fingertips running over the bluntly cut strands of shock white hair, now matted and dirty once more from her stay in the filthy cell. Finding but little comfort in this action, her thoughts drifting far away from the cell once more.
~~~
She could feel the scissors that the man held snipping at her long locks at the base of her neck, moving around her head- ridding her of years of pain and lies. Seemingly at ease, the newly bathed Moor shifted her gaze back to the man in the reflection of the window, watching him closely. Watching both his colored and discolored eyes, locked in concentration on cutting her hair. Observing the scars on his face, and the faint furrow of his brow as he snipped the final strand of long hair from her head. Only removing her gaze from him when he lifted his gaze to peer at her reflection, Ciri would smile softly at her new self. Still plain, still herself. But different. Bathed, rid of dirt, an most of her hair gone. Peace, and a bit of excitement swelled in the woman's chest, as she glanced towards the blood red velvet gown that was set out on her bed. Perhaps, finally, she could make things right.
~~~
Things had been right, for the smallest amount of time. Tugging weakly at the now grown out strands of hair, Ciri rolled onto her back on her little hay bale, a hiss of pain escaping from her cracked lips as pain radiated throughout her chest. Of course, nothing had stayed right for long. Not even a full day, if Ciri could recall correctly. But then again, everything in her mind was a jumble- the words that had been spoken, the gestures exchanged, the promises whispered. The only thing that she could recall clearly was the shocking pain of the woman's dagger plunging into her chest. Inching, inching forwards. Breaking her tissues, twisting about- and the cold look that she held throughout it all, clearly anticipating the Moor's painful death. And the feeling of the metal blade sliding out of the wound that it had created, blood pouring from her chest, soaking her tunic.
Her heart still beat, her skin still felt. Her lungs still breathed, and her mind still thought. But Ciri was running out of time, and this was made blatantly obvious in the muted cries of other prisoners, as they where beaten and tortured, prepared for death. Surprisingly, given her profession and daily brush against death itself, the Moor had never really thought about what it would mean to die. But now, as she sat in the musty room, her mind reeled. Perhaps if she hadn't attacked Tzemik; perhaps if she had just kept to herself, and let other people die trying to put her down. Little did anyone that had ever encountered Ciri knew, the Moor still had some bit of heart to her. Deep down, hidden below layers and layers of locked iron doors. Inside of her sat a scared child girl, curled in a dark room, shackles binding her to the cold, hard floor.
The Moor's hand slid from gripping her hair, peering at the various rings on her fingers. Stolen, from people that she did not even know. How could she have been so ignorant of the pain that was to come? Fingertips twitching, Ciri let her hand fall to her side- blurry images shifting about her mind, as darkness closed in around her vision.
~~~
The feeling of the woman's neck snapping in her hands, the relief mixed with sheer terror that plagued and froze her body. And then the feeling of her warm blood covering her hands, spilling out of her throat. The tears that dripped from the Nakat's eyes. All of these feelings and images flooded the Moor's senses, ending her snipping into an endless pit of terror.
Had she done the right thing? Of course, now, Ciri did not even know if she was dead. Doing bad deeds to save people from being torn limb from limb, their bodies turned inside out- just as hers had been- was that right? Was anything that the Moor had done to try and spare lives right? What did the word 'right' even mean, anymore? Did it really distinguish between good and bad, evil and virtuous? Or was it just a label smacked onto people, a label that they could never break no matter how hard they tried and how much they sought forgiveness? No. Ciri could never be forgiven for her actions. And she accepted that, in her final moments. Accepted that nobody would come to claim her body. That she would likely be dumped in a swamp, never to be discovered again. People would assume that she either starved or died peaceful in a hay pile in some distant land of old age. Even if she mange to get a message- something, anything- to Ced, she accepted that he would likely no longer care to look after her through all of her failures. And this was the worst thing, as the Moor sat on her knees, hands against the cold stone floor.
Five. The cold blade pressed against the back of her neck, the Moor squeezing her eyes shut tightly.
Nobody would care. And she had brought this upon herself.
Four. The cold blade lifted, in preparation for a final blow that would take every bit of life from her body.
Nobody would know. They would make assumptions, as they had always done.
Three. Nothing. She felt nothing, as her bitten down nails pressed into the floor. Waiting.
She would never see the sky again, or feel grass against her bare feet. Never look into another person's eyes, no matter the situation, and say 'hello.' Never run along Tambry's rooftops, or converse with Ced in her room in the hospital. Never say sorry for the things that she had done. Never feel happiness- but then again, what was happiness to her? Stealing people's things, feeling the rush of adrenaline as she escaped?
Two. Nothing, still. Despite her tightly closed eyes, tears squeezed from Ciri's eyes, running down her cheeks.
No more chances. She could not escape from this, like she had done so many times.
One. Anticipation for the blade to strike. The Moor relaxes, strangely, eyes flicking open. Staring defiantly to her hay-bale bed, and past it, to the stone wall.
No more Ciri.
She felt nothing, as the blade struck downwards, cutting her head from her neck. The Moor's head rolling to the floor, eyes remaining open. Still staring defiantly upwards, to where a spot of light leaked in from the corner of the room.
Finally, she found light to focus on in the cramped room, as her vision blurred into nothing but blackness.
She could find no light to focus on in the boundless darkness of the cramped, humid cell. Nor could she concentrate on the thoughts drifting in her mind and bouncing from the walls within her skull; pain pulsing from her fingertips, radiating from her chest. The creaks of the floorboards and clattering of shackles where muted into a dull hum for Ciri, whom spread her fingertips slowly over the canvas covered hay bale that she lay on. It felt nothing like the soft velvet that she had grown accustomed to rubbing her fingers against when she became nervous or hysterical; or both. Then again, she was unused to everything about the space she was crammed into. The smell of decay and waste, the sticky feeling of the air, the salty taste to her dried, cracked lips- left over from the tears that had previously slid from her eyes.
Slowly, the Moor opened her dark charcoal eyes, peering in the feeble light towards the iron door that kept her trapped. Enclosed, in two layers of thick defenses. One in front of her, and one in her mind. Perhaps she had already accepted the fact that she would never leave the dank, humid cell. Or perhaps she had just given up in her fight to live, to battle each day against the beasts outside and those locked up in her mind, waiting to strike when her thoughts strayed too far this way or that. She slowly lifted her bloodied, scarred, calloused hand, peering at the stolen rings that adorned it- dropping her hand against her head, her fingertips running over the bluntly cut strands of shock white hair, now matted and dirty once more from her stay in the filthy cell. Finding but little comfort in this action, her thoughts drifting far away from the cell once more.
~~~
She could feel the scissors that the man held snipping at her long locks at the base of her neck, moving around her head- ridding her of years of pain and lies. Seemingly at ease, the newly bathed Moor shifted her gaze back to the man in the reflection of the window, watching him closely. Watching both his colored and discolored eyes, locked in concentration on cutting her hair. Observing the scars on his face, and the faint furrow of his brow as he snipped the final strand of long hair from her head. Only removing her gaze from him when he lifted his gaze to peer at her reflection, Ciri would smile softly at her new self. Still plain, still herself. But different. Bathed, rid of dirt, an most of her hair gone. Peace, and a bit of excitement swelled in the woman's chest, as she glanced towards the blood red velvet gown that was set out on her bed. Perhaps, finally, she could make things right.
~~~
Things had been right, for the smallest amount of time. Tugging weakly at the now grown out strands of hair, Ciri rolled onto her back on her little hay bale, a hiss of pain escaping from her cracked lips as pain radiated throughout her chest. Of course, nothing had stayed right for long. Not even a full day, if Ciri could recall correctly. But then again, everything in her mind was a jumble- the words that had been spoken, the gestures exchanged, the promises whispered. The only thing that she could recall clearly was the shocking pain of the woman's dagger plunging into her chest. Inching, inching forwards. Breaking her tissues, twisting about- and the cold look that she held throughout it all, clearly anticipating the Moor's painful death. And the feeling of the metal blade sliding out of the wound that it had created, blood pouring from her chest, soaking her tunic.
Her heart still beat, her skin still felt. Her lungs still breathed, and her mind still thought. But Ciri was running out of time, and this was made blatantly obvious in the muted cries of other prisoners, as they where beaten and tortured, prepared for death. Surprisingly, given her profession and daily brush against death itself, the Moor had never really thought about what it would mean to die. But now, as she sat in the musty room, her mind reeled. Perhaps if she hadn't attacked Tzemik; perhaps if she had just kept to herself, and let other people die trying to put her down. Little did anyone that had ever encountered Ciri knew, the Moor still had some bit of heart to her. Deep down, hidden below layers and layers of locked iron doors. Inside of her sat a scared child girl, curled in a dark room, shackles binding her to the cold, hard floor.
The Moor's hand slid from gripping her hair, peering at the various rings on her fingers. Stolen, from people that she did not even know. How could she have been so ignorant of the pain that was to come? Fingertips twitching, Ciri let her hand fall to her side- blurry images shifting about her mind, as darkness closed in around her vision.
~~~
The feeling of the woman's neck snapping in her hands, the relief mixed with sheer terror that plagued and froze her body. And then the feeling of her warm blood covering her hands, spilling out of her throat. The tears that dripped from the Nakat's eyes. All of these feelings and images flooded the Moor's senses, ending her snipping into an endless pit of terror.
Had she done the right thing? Of course, now, Ciri did not even know if she was dead. Doing bad deeds to save people from being torn limb from limb, their bodies turned inside out- just as hers had been- was that right? Was anything that the Moor had done to try and spare lives right? What did the word 'right' even mean, anymore? Did it really distinguish between good and bad, evil and virtuous? Or was it just a label smacked onto people, a label that they could never break no matter how hard they tried and how much they sought forgiveness? No. Ciri could never be forgiven for her actions. And she accepted that, in her final moments. Accepted that nobody would come to claim her body. That she would likely be dumped in a swamp, never to be discovered again. People would assume that she either starved or died peaceful in a hay pile in some distant land of old age. Even if she mange to get a message- something, anything- to Ced, she accepted that he would likely no longer care to look after her through all of her failures. And this was the worst thing, as the Moor sat on her knees, hands against the cold stone floor.
Five. The cold blade pressed against the back of her neck, the Moor squeezing her eyes shut tightly.
Nobody would care. And she had brought this upon herself.
Four. The cold blade lifted, in preparation for a final blow that would take every bit of life from her body.
Nobody would know. They would make assumptions, as they had always done.
Three. Nothing. She felt nothing, as her bitten down nails pressed into the floor. Waiting.
She would never see the sky again, or feel grass against her bare feet. Never look into another person's eyes, no matter the situation, and say 'hello.' Never run along Tambry's rooftops, or converse with Ced in her room in the hospital. Never say sorry for the things that she had done. Never feel happiness- but then again, what was happiness to her? Stealing people's things, feeling the rush of adrenaline as she escaped?
Two. Nothing, still. Despite her tightly closed eyes, tears squeezed from Ciri's eyes, running down her cheeks.
No more chances. She could not escape from this, like she had done so many times.
One. Anticipation for the blade to strike. The Moor relaxes, strangely, eyes flicking open. Staring defiantly to her hay-bale bed, and past it, to the stone wall.
No more Ciri.
She felt nothing, as the blade struck downwards, cutting her head from her neck. The Moor's head rolling to the floor, eyes remaining open. Still staring defiantly upwards, to where a spot of light leaked in from the corner of the room.
Finally, she found light to focus on in the cramped room, as her vision blurred into nothing but blackness.
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