16: a memory that makes them angry
A WINDOW TO THE PAST / TW: TORTURE, VIOLENCE
Some tenth birthday. A bloody hand pressed against the open wound on her neck, the other held tight to Falchion, freshly christened in her reign. Hissing in pain, Lucina gathered her rage–staring down at the broken body of a man she thought she could trust. He’d been by her side for these three long years–only to leave her stranded on Carrion Isle, neck deep in enemy territory.
Stranded. With Grimleal no doubt waiting nearby for her delivery, and an entourage ready to receive her in Chong’sin. She stared blankly at the sword in her hand, removing her hand from her neck to tear a large strip from the hem of her tunic, wrapping it gently. Don’t lose hope. She’d follow her father’s legacy–defeat Grima, restore peace to the land….
The blood loss was beginning to make her dizzy, she was far less alert than usual and the Grimleal were nearly on top of her by the time she recognized their arrival. With a strangled yell, she thrust the holy sword through the witch’s solar plexus, yanking it free to use the momentum to sloppily slash at an approaching mage.
A scream of pain tore from her throat as the Falchion clattered against the packed earth, her arm bubbling with the effects of the Mire spell that had hit her. Lunging for her weapon, Lucina had only just wrapped her right hand around the pommel when her body seized with a terrible energy as lightning coursed through her veins.
And so she fell, face-down in the dirt–stained in tears and blood, praying that this wasn’t where hope was lost as the young exalt was roughly carted to the Plegian warship and tossed uncerimoniously in the brig, weighed down by iron chains. Lucina found in the three days it took to reach the Plegian ports just how badly magic could hurt.
Her voice had long since run hoarse, her tears gone dry. For all she knew, her sword was left to rust on the foul soil of Carrion Isle while she was forced to trudge blindfolded behind a horse for what felt like an eternity. Lucina could only count the small miracles–they’d properly wrapped the wound on her neck and forced some foul-tasting concotion down her throat that seemed to make some of the pain recede. They clearly wanted her alive–though Lucina had yet to determine if that was a good thing.
And each night, as they traveled further inland, Lucina would whisper her prayers to Naga–and each day as she stumbled along, struggling not to fall face-first, they would remain unanswered. No one was coming to save her. For all they knew she was still on a ship headed to Valm, a journey that wouldn’t have her reach her destination for another two moon cycles.
How long had it even been? The days began to blur together until the vast plains of enemy territory changed to the stifling heat of the desert, the damp stone of a dungeon. All she knew was she was alive, she was breathing—hope would live on within her. Even as she coughed blood onto the floor from another thoron spell, or the strange liquids they forced down her throat–even as her skin boiled and bubbled from the fire–she refused to bow, to lose hope. They would never break her. Not as they cursed her, stabbed her, shackled her in a room with monsters wearing the faces of the people she loved.
The months wore on, Lucina beginning to wither away with them. Her skin now ghostly pale, her scalp burned and hair shorn, nearly every inch of her seemed to always ache–and the Grimleal were never merciful enough to heal her more than what was needed to keep her alive, painfully scraping away infection from her raw wrists and ankles, dousing her in a weak vulnerary. In her worst moments, she’d pray for death. To see her father again–and not in the hallucinations that plagued her (though she didn’t know if it was insanity creeping in or one of the drugs forced down her throat on the daily).
Hell was never ending. The four walls of her cage felt like all she’d ever known–the only thing she’d ever see again. Her tears had long since dried, there was nothing left to spare on them. Never lose hope. But it was so tempting. To submit to her body, to the ever-growing voice in her head that no one was coming. For all she knew, the war had been lost five times over–and her friends were nothing more than the ghosts she saw in her head.
At least they’d be spared that way, kept from pain and harm–safe in the arms of Naga. That was a kind of hope, wasn’t it? But Lucina could feel her heart stutter. It was merely resignation. And how she wished to join the ranks of the dead, to be free from the endless pain and torture that left her at her breaking point. They were going to win. Her battered body would be paraded down the streets of Ylisstol (long live the exalt!), extinguishing the last of the hope from this world.
Never lose hope. Why? Who had said that? What was the point? Blue eyes were glazed as she stared into the middle distance, leaning into a hand that wasn’t there. Father. That’s right–her father had told her that. Her father had believed the best in her, and she betrayed him by wishing to be by his side again. Her pain….her pain was nothing compared to that of her people, the suffering inflicted upon them all by the forces of sheer evil.
For the first time in ages, a spark of emotion grew bright in Lucina’s chest–sheer rage at what they’d reduced her to, at what she’d been subjected to. Every burning wound fueled her as she found herself again, found the hope she had nearly lost grasp of.
How many moons had passed? Jolted from a daze by shouting–the gut-wrenching sound of metal on metal, screams that reached even her cell buried deep within the earth, hope bubbled up in her throat, a hoarse cry of relief. Lucina wondered when she’d forgotten she was capable of more than screams. But it wasn’t her saviors who came bursting into the molding dungeon, but mages with panic on their faces–and a vial of noxious liquid ready to be forced down her throat.
She fought back. Strength had long since left her, leaving her hardly more than bones wrapped in skin–but Lucina refused to let it end here, not when freedom was so close. Even as the first shock of the poison against her face made her want to scream, to fall and writhe in pain as it dripped down her neck, leaving bright red skin in its track; even as two Grimleal pinned her to the ground, forcing her mouth wide–even as a tear slipped from her eye for the first time in a year.
Lucina was sure she must have died, her insides boiled away from whatever was held within the vial. But surely death wouldn’t be so painful. Her body refused to move as she wanted it to and her eyes snapped open in panic–only to be greeted by the long-forgotten sight of canvas stretching above her. A tent. A medical tent.
Covered in bandages though she was, Lucina laughed–a sound she never thought she’d make again. “Thank you,” she whispered, hoarse and broken. Her prayers had been answered, at long last.
