⋆⭒˚.⋆Quand le Directeur n'est pas là ( les acteurs dansent )⋆.˚⭒⋆
> ACT 4
Loop says they try not to look the Fighter's way, and that he's never going to see them anyway, so it doesn't matter. Well... What happens when he does look their way?
(I used this to help me write. Listen while you read if you want some atmosphere :3)
Gnarled branches twist and sway in the wind, creaking limbs an ashen grey in the lightening dawn. Stone in one hand and a blade in the other, Nymira steps lightly over a constellation of broken glass. The pieces crunch beneath her feet, a meager protest from the carcass of a window she has destroyed.
The trees bow to her, daring her closer. A thin stream of blood tickles her hand as she lets the rock tumble from her fingers to find a home in the sodden dirt. Five mornings spent here. Five dreams tainted by his presence. Already more than the last.
But she managed in the end.
Her summoned implement, though heavy enough to serve its purpose, was mercifully mundane, and her wits have not entirely left her. The fog in her mind is far fainter than that which swirls hungrily about her ankles, and her sights remain fixed on a single, importunate goal.
Escape.
Dazed but only just, the godling gathers her skirt into her bloodied fist and treads into the beckoning woods.
She cannot guess how far she needs to go, but she will know when it is far enough. The weight of the knife is comforting in her hand. She allows her fingers to curl tighter around the hilt, Archie’s face floating to the surface of her tense and muddled thoughts. For protection, he had said.
He will come for her.
The trees creak once more, this time accompanied by a distant crowing that plays in her ears like laughter. She has not slept since dreaming up her stone, and she can feel the hours pooling in her limbs, settling heavy in her eyelids.
There is no time to rest. Not while Persep sleeps. Rotten leaves turn to pulp beneath her feet, and the cloying mist seeps into her skin to send a shiver down her spine. She must flee while he sleeps.
He will come for her.
Nymira tries to keep her mind awake. Tries to stay thinking as she plods on, walking where the trees grow sparser and the brush does not rustle as frequently.
Immortality.
A twig snaps. She cannot tell if it is her own doing.
His immortality, he said.
The fog grows thicker. Nymira feels her dread do the same.
She cannot begin to guess what Persep plans to do with her. How he aims to elevate her. The fact that he has left her alone long enough to attempt this is unnerving. She takes a deep breath, trying to dislodge the fist that has constricted around her lungs.
No. This is not an attempt. This is her escape.
A sudden prickle of goosebumps on her neck. The feeling of being watched. Nymira takes a shuddering breath, vision suddenly fractured by tears.
She can hear footsteps. She wants to believe they are her own.
Swallowing a whimper, Nymira treks on. She turns her weary eyes downward, scanning for any grasping roots that may hamper her as she picks up the pace.
The footsteps quicken. She stops abruptly. They stop in turn.
Her tears threaten to spill, face growing hot. She feels as though she is jumping at her own shadow. But is she? It was so easy to leave.
Part of her had been questioning whether this opportunity, the lack of supervision, was a trap from the start. At the time, she had been certain she did not care––she would rather walk into the fire than sit and wait to be consumed.
But now, faced with the prospect of flames, the fear grips her all the same.
A gust of wind whistles past her ears. Nymira keeps walking.
The sun creeps ever higher, but still, she has not gone far enough.
Every sound feels like a threat, every creak and bump and crack. He could have heard the window break. He must have heard the window break! She shifts to look over her shoulder, struck by a moment of clarity she fears has come too late.
Has she left a trail?
Nymira’s eyes drift to her bloodied palm. Sucking in a terse and shaky breath, she clenches her fist tighter around the fabric of her skirt.
Just as she manages to convince herself that she has left no trace, something rustles faintly in the brush behind her. Nymira stiffens, holding her breath.
She is met with only daunting silence.
When seconds pass with no apparent threat, she at last relaxes back into herself. In the same instant, she hears it again.
Choking down her panic, the godling spins, hoping to spot whatever innocent animal she prays is making the noise.
Nothing.
Until it sounds again.
Fear mounting, Nymira whirls again, certain now that there is something at her back. The trees lean and loom, closing in around her to grip her heart with terror. Is she not alone?
Is he lurking just behind her?
She swallows a whimper as she shifts again, looking over her shoulder without moving her feet. The noise is quieter then, and her shoulders sag in both relief and embarrassment as the truth reveals itself.
Her tail.
She has been chasing her own tail.
Air fills her lungs more freely, though she is far from at ease. She is not out of the woods yet. In fact, in all her whipping about, Nymira realizes suddenly that she cannot recall which direction she has come from.
Can she remember which way the wind was blowing? How the branches have waved around her?
There must be a solution.
How many times did she spin? Three? Four? Nymira closes her eyes, brow furrowing as she tries to think. The route back to Persep lies before or behind her. Which means the left and right are still safe.
Resolve steeled, she turns and carries on.
The forest regards her impassively, and the sun drifts higher overhead.
–––
It has been too long. She should have been far enough by now.
Nymira gazes wearily through the woods, her exhaustion catching up to her. She swallows thickly, mouth dry, and imagines stopping. She pictures herself falling still, dropping to her knees to cower and await whatever fate––rescue or capture––is to come for her.
Passive, a voice hisses in her mind.
Inertia carries her forward, keeps her legs moving. Giving up would take more effort.
Too passive to quit.
And too tired to cry.
The early morning mist has cleared now, but Nymira’s surroundings are no less unsettling. Trying to make sense of them is making her head spin.
How much further? Surely she should be out of his bubble by now, shouldn’t she? Nymira rubs her eyes, vision bleary. Though the sounds of the forest still racket around her, she pays them little heed. If there really is something prowling nearby, it is clearly not intent on coming close.
Fear no longer grips her, but fatigue has taken its place.
She doesn’t know how much longer she can walk.
Luckily, she won’t need to wonder for long. Up ahead, the treeline grows sparser, thinning out into a sun-soaked clearing she can only just make out between the branches.
At once, Nymira finds her second wind. This will be something new, at least. Something different from the monotony of the woods. With any luck, she may have even found its edge.
With hope swelling in her heart, Nymira quickens her pace. She raises an arm to push through the grasping trees, squinting in the sudden light as she breaks into the clearing.
Before her sits a hive.
Dark. Daunting.
With a shroud of broken glass upon the ground.
Nymira stumbles back a step, dread twisting like a knife in her gut. She clamps a hand over her mouth lest she cry out in dismay, legs and breath both shaking.
When did she get turned around? How did she not notice?
She grips the front of her dress with one hand, gasping as her mind is flooded with an anguish she is not yet able to process.
She’s gone in a circle.
Twigs snap behind her. Nymira turns just in time to see Persep stepping through the brush, fangs glinting and stitches pulled taut by the relaxed grin that sits upon his face.
Worse. She has been herded in one.
There is one long, tense moment as the two stare at each other, Nymira’s chest heaving and throat tight. Persep withdraws a hand from his pocket, showing off his dampening stone with a taunting wave.
“Don’t feel too bad,” he hums as he returns the object to his pocket. “It was a fine attempt… But I’m afraid I’ve more experience.”
Nymira cannot bring herself to speak.
“I hope you enjoyed your walk,” he continues, eyes gleaming. “Ready to come inside?”
As he steps towards her, she is jarred enough to remember the knife clasped in her hand. She raises it in threat, gaze wild.
“I told you, godling. I only wish to help you. Why pretend you don’t want this?”
“I want nothing you have to offer me,” she shoots back, voice low.
“No? You don’t want to be a god?”
“I do not need you to become who I am. All you can do is hurt me.”
“I am wounded,” he answers lightly, stepping forward once again.
Nymira holds her ground, blade leveled at Persep and eyes trained just below his own. “Stay away from me.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused, and takes a smaller pace in her direction. She steadies the knife with both hands.
“Stay. Away.”
Persep ignores her threat, raising his own hand in supplication as he moves ever closer. “You’ve had a long morning, Dreamer. Let’s put the toys away.”
Nymira rears back and drives her knife into his palm, a shot of adrenaline bursting through her veins as her captor closes in. He sucks in through his teeth, then withdraws his hand, blade still embedded in his flesh.
She watches in dismay as Persep heedlessly tugs the knife free and slips it in his pocket, not even bothering to check his wound.
“If you’re finished now,” he says flatly, shaking some excess blood from his hand. “I’d like to catch up on my sleep.”
