∂αη¢ιηg ση тнє ƒαυℓт-ℓιηє
She could tear the heart from this mortal and lose no sleep over it if he had threatened her with knives or promises of malediction. She would, with a rising of her hands, beckon her crows forth to blot out the light of the sun, for it was unneeded amid the massacre.
And yet, she looked to him now and felt remnants of what she had devoured long ago: the trick of her conscience.
It was but twisted fragments that emerged from the ether, seeking a host, a body to ever-haunt and plunge into the depths of the Hell that she had spilled and lapped at to escape. It was necessary to remove it, to t e a r it from her skin as if the rot would enter her body and poison her very blood.
She could afford no lost time. She could afford no pure-of-heart creature from a world of mortals that killed those who appeared different.
But he could be your son…look at him…does he not look like Rublin?
A sudden clench of her gut led her head to bow, her fists shaking around the basket’s handle as if she was faint towards the matter at hand. It was no more than familiar phantoms battering against her ribs, her shoulders, seeking to make her topple.
And yet it appeared like genuine fear towards the death sentence.
“I appreciate your kindness, good sir. Please, let us away from the stench of death and go into the sun.”
Her eyes closed then, only to flutter open to look into the young man’s eyes.
No. No, she would not destroy. Her darkness would consume him and she would writhe in agony for too many nights after, images of days with playing with her young son dancing across her mind until all she knew were caricatures of that time, masked in a world of red.
This was why opposing worlds never just touched one another. They collided, and the effect was skin-shattering.
A final breath and then her final response. “I trust you.”
But you shouldn’t trust me.
@maleficentia-murderess
THE WRONG PLACE & WRONG TIME can inflict so much misfortune amongst those pawned on the board, but a smile is offered in lieu of what was witnessed mere minutes ago. There was time to move past the terrors that placed both parties in an uncomfortable situation. Percival, for being placed on the side of he who wielded such a punishment, & her
Being of someone, he comes to brood, who could be held on the receiving end, should she be lying right to his face.
NO DON’T SWAMP YOURSELF IN SUCH NIGHTMARES. ( But what worth was in loyalty if there was no cost of treason? )
The age old-tale of what turns a boy into a M A N - thought to be rooted in some sense depth & intelligence, a show of strength and nobility, attained through gritty hardship. & yet, fiction revolved around nothing more than ‘their’ women ; be it rescuing a fair maiden from harm’s way ( her gratitude presented as a soul-bound gift ) or a lover’s betrayal, causing man to spiral into a tragic hero. How many fables compromised the existence of women to endorse a man’s growth?
One might conclude that such conditioning is why h e r confirmation of trust leads Percival to treat it with excessive care but it is more than that. It is a promise. Leading her from danger wasn’t a tale he would think right to apprise, to revel in its self-righteous glory - it is duty, with or without his armour & cloak.
❝ Thank you, My Lady - I give my word you’ll not regret it. ❞
Fingers slip away from the hilt of his sword & instead angle ninety degree at his elbow, imploring her hands to grab ahold of his forearm so he might guide her beyond the atrocity & towards her safety.
