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The knife in my ribcage

Summary: The paranoia might be starting to pay off. There are people here, new ones. People mean danger. Her nightmares are worsening. She's found herself in dangerous sleepwalking situations.

This is an unintended sequel to my previous fic, The sword in the medicine cabinet. You could read it if you wanted, but this can be read as a standalone fic.

Tws: aw man, here we go. Explicit descriptions of violence, blood, gore, non-consented drug use, memory loss

Word count (because I figured out how to do these): 1452

ao3

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There is a knife in her ribcage.

Well, a metaphorical one. There's been a stabbing pain in her side, ever since that tower appeared. It zapped her, and the bridge of her nose started building pressure and there's a pain in her head and her heart, and oh dear, that wasn't a door, ouch it's bleeding now, oh dear oh dear oh dear-

And. Ok. Maybe the paranoia is starting to pay off. The swords stashed around False's base are sharp and well cared for, and she does regular maintenance on her wings, for quick escape. There are always rockets on her belt, and a stranger at every turn. Potentially dangerous strangers, she might add. Ones that are probably out to get her.

It turns out her definitely-temporary-empire might be sort-of-maybe-permanent. She's started building taverns for people that won't come, and houses that will remain empty. No one really lives here. The only people in Cogsmeade are the Poet, the Grand Architect, and the Intruder. The one who built that tower.

The Poet says she's got her face. Metaphorically, again. But also literally? She looks exactly like her when she arrived. Blue jacket, striped shirt, leather gloves. He says they have the same eyes. Same golden hair that flows in the sunlight.

False doesn't really know what to do. She considers confronting this doppelganger, one night when sleep just won't come. The whetstone spins as she presses her blade against it. Sparks fly against the cold dark of midnight, a warm beacon for anyone looking in. She likes her chances in a fight, although she'd rather prefer to avoid it. The morning runs and daily workouts help keep her in good shape, ready to fight (or run) should the need come. It's only a matter of time before she comes. Her clock is ticking.

The nightmares aren't helping either. Caged, trapped. Tortured. She wakes up in a cold sweat, sometimes, in the loft above her storage area. Not in her bedroom in the attic. False always wakes up alone, these days. The chicken has disappeared, and her cat refuses to come inside the house. Perhaps it can smell the blood.

Sleep walking has become a problem. She wakes up in strange places she then has difficulty getting out of. Because she no longer dreams of flying on eagle wings that aren't hers. She doesn't dream of slowly freezing in place, while another woman walks away. False dreams of running, panting through the darkness, and the pain. They're hunting her, so she can't stop. The clock is ticking slowly.

And then she wakes up on the roof. Her back aches, and she's so cold. Sometimes, rain will be pouring down, and others, it will just be the wind. Either way, it becomes very dangerous situation when she wakes up. She wishes it would stop. She wants it to go back to the way it was before, before the Hermits, before the murders. Before the amnesia. False just wants to go home.

Although, she's not quite sure the next step. Her ship still isn't working, and her dreams are more torturous than prophetic. It's no longer a matter of getting home, because before she was so sure it would make everything right. No, she's not sure it's the correct thing to do.

Still, she dreams and dreams and dreams, and hopes something will come out different. And when she can't dream, she works in the forge. False has become an expert, by now, the number of swords and pieces of armor slowly increasing. She's started moving on to other things, like clocks. Her hands move like they've done it before, sliding each handmade gear into place. They've become intricately beautiful, cogs delicately carved into each piece. It's comforting, how each gear slides into the correct place, fitting in perfectly. She wishes her head was like that.

One night, she spots someone outside her door. False hides herself in the loft. She's not quite ready for a fight. They step in, and make their way to her storage system, slowly, quietly, like they expect to be attacked. Sword resting over a raised arm, crouched low, soft footsteps. Exactly how she would treat breaking and entering. False realizes it's her. The Intruder. The one with her face. She swallows, and reaches slowly for the knife hidden in her boot. Her hand is shaking, from nerves or the lack of sleep she doesn't know. Kill her, kill her, kill her, screams her head. She's dangerous, she's dangerous, she's dangerous, she whispers. (You love her, murmurs her heart. You fit together like cogs in a clock.)

The other her hasn't spotted her yet. She's still creeping quietly, eyes flicking around. Her boots tap quietly on the carpet, and her hair is up in a tight ponytail. False jumps silently behind her, and she turns in time to block the knife. The sword hisses through the air as it moves towards her face. She ducks under it, and slams the hilt of her knife into the others stomach. A grunt sounds, but it follows with an immediate retaliation to the face, in the form of a fist. False winces, and steps back, arms up, knife blade extended away. They circle around each other, unsure of the next step in this dance. False tries to decide her next action.

This is what she thinks. No point reaching for another weapon: her stockpiles are too far away. Same with armor. The other doesn't seem to be in armor either, favoring stealth instead. Her breathing is uneven, coming in fast and short: still feeling the effects of the earlier blow. Sword is raised, angled in a way that makes it easier to stab. No other weapons visible.

So, options.

Option one - run away.

Her wings are by the door. It would take her three seconds to turn, five to get up the stairs. Eight more to strap the wings on, then open the door, six if she does it at the same time. Doing that increases the likelihood of falling from the sky, therefore rendering escape useless.

All in all, fourteen to sixteen seconds to get out the door, even more to evade her. In that time, the other her could catch up, slam her to the floor, and slit her throat. She could throw her sword, and catch her in the back. Turning leaves her back vulnerable to unseen attacks. Not an option.

Option two - fight.

The other her has the definite advantage here. Longer weapon equals longer reach, which equals less time required to take down your opponent. So, a distraction is in order.

False can feel the weight of her pebbles in her pocket, stashed away for emergencies. Throw the pebbles, (two seconds) rush in (four seconds). Outer forearm blow to the right wrist (because that's her dominant hand. How did she know that?) knock the sword out of her hand. Quick kick to the shins (two seconds), make her lose balance, then knife to the throat (three seconds). Eleven seconds. Enough to disable her opponent and run.

So she tries it. But there are three things False did not account for.

First, the pebbles in her pocket turn out to be a wad of paper which just flops helplessly to the ground. It's rather embarrassing.

Second, the reaction time of the other woman seems to be faster, probably due to the fact she sleeps better. She drops the sword when False hits her wrist, but manages to twist the knife and slam it into her gut when False tries to stab her. Ouch.

Third, she failed to notice the gray potion hanging from her hip, which she now takes off her belt.

False is writhing on the floor, blood pooling from the wound in her gut. She pours it into a hanky (she loved them. The biggest collection.) and covers False's mouth with it. False struggles, but it hurts to moves, and there's blood spilling everywhere. Dang. That's going to be hard to get out of the carpet. The cloth smells weird. She coughs weakly. A slow fog makes its way over her thoughts. No, not again, she wants to scream. I don't want to forget. "Sorry," says the other her. "But you can't remember me." The last thing she feels before succumbing to the drug, is a small kiss on her forehead.

There is a knife in her ribcage.

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Wow. This is. Long. It has, in fact, taken first place for longest (theoretically) standalone fic I've ever written, by about two hundred words, second place going to "The Saint and her Angel." I am sitting here in a deep need for sleep. Wow.

*slams hand down on table* wow I do that a lot huh ANYWAY with all the lore False has been releasing I've been inspired to write this unintentional sequel to my previous fic, The sword in the medicine cabinet. And, man, it's really interesting to write a character like e!False. For the first half of the season, her main characteristics (which I focus on when writing characters) were being timid, afraid and paranoid. And THEN upon regaining some semblance of memory, she immediately turns into FalsesymmeSLAY (I know, I cringed as soon as I wrote that) and murders so. Many. People.

And! Hc!False is also an interesting character to write, given I didn't know she was a character until she hopped onto Empires and started being ultra paranoid about e!False losing her memories. Mate. Why. It turns out they are siblings (?) Which is very fair. I, too, feel like throwing hands with my sister everytime she annoys. I, too, would throw my sister into a glowing inter-dimensional portal if it would get her to stop annoying me. Cain instinct.

I have also discovered it is difficult for me to write fight scenes. DESPITE being an experienced martial artist and Official Empires Recap Bodyguard™️. It is difficult. I didn't even know how I would approach a situation like that. It is something I will improve on in the future.

You might notice a slight emphasis on time here, with all the ticking clocks, and gears and such. Maybe. I hoped you noticed. Time is limited. It shouldn't be spent hurting the ones you love, even if it is to save others. Your time is the grains of sand, trickling into the bottom of an hourglass. What you spend those grains on is up to you.

And I think, even if my memory were erased, I'd still remember things about my sister. Things that didn't really matter in the big scale of things. But they do matter. Everything matters.

And that's a wrap! Thanks for reading. Reblogs and feedback are always appreciated.

I'll see you next time, folks

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