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I actually got a few of these done today...shocking, I know.
Title: The Pieces
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy (honestly, still have to ask?)
Characters: Wilhelmina Benedict, a bit of Jaenelle, Robert Benedict
Prompt: 085. Indifference
Word Count: 1,311
Rating: PG to be safe
Warnings: implied pedophilia, angst, things get broken, adorably pathetic Wilhelmina
Summary: Wilhelmina didn't want to cry. Crying made other people upset, and she didn't want to make anyone upset.
Wilhelmina always tried.
Even when she knew she couldn’t do it, she always tried her hardest, did her best, at everything. It just never seemed to be good enough. When she was very small and people held her and talked to her, she tried very hard to understand, but they always put her down and walked away, leaving her alone. She was cold, and alone, and hungry, but oh, she didn’t want to cry! Didn’t want to cause trouble.
When she was larger, the other children were always falling and crying and dropping things and making a mess. She made a mess once, playing with toys, and Alexandra had been terribly angry…she didn’t make messes again. Once she fell, exploring the garden. Her hair had been matted with blood in moments, but she’d stumbled to the bathroom and gotten bandages, washed her own hair as well as she could, wrapped her head in a bandage.
She grew, and when she was four Jaenelle came. She remembered her first glimpse of her sister’s eyes, touching her soft, reaching hand and looking into her bright eyes, and thought that she saw something there that frightened her. She shied back and stepped away. It seemed as though Jaenelle was always watching her, but at least Jaenelle was never angry. Wilhelmina didn’t have to worry about upsetting Jaenelle like she did about upsetting Philip or Robert or, worst of all, Alexandra.
She couldn’t please Philip because he was always angry. She brought him flowers and he gave her a tight smile and thanked her, but she could see in his eyes that he didn’t mean it. When Philip was angry, he walked straight and tall with tense shoulders and cold steel in his eyes.
At her Birthright Ceremony, Wilhelmina watched Alexandra as she was gifted with her Jewel. Wilhelmina’s mouth was tight as she applauded, her hands stiff and straight and white as they came together once or twice. Wilhelmina was crushed, but she did not cry. Not there. It would have bothered people, and she hated to bother people. That night, however, alone, she cried into her pillow, muffling the sound so she would not wake anyone. Jaenelle knew, though. Jaenelle was awake when Wilhelmina sat up to blow her nose, her wide blue eyes watching Wilhelmina with more understanding than was right.
She hurried back to bed.
After her ceremony, Robert started to pay more attention to her. He was hard to please as well. He smiled at her and asked to play, but then when she wanted to go in the gardens, or out with a pony, he would shake his head sternly and say that ‘no, no, young Ladies do not do that, young Ladies do not plant flowers, don’t you want to be a young Lady?’
And of course she did, because Bobby wanted her to be a young lady. So she stayed inside and played with the dolls he got her, the pretty houses made by landens far away, the fancy dresses Bobby found to dress her dolls in. He kneeled beside her, and she wanted to tell him that she didn’t like the way he sat so close, but he always smiled at her and seemed so happy that she could not. But then he would yell at her for some little thing, slap her lightly or give her a spanking and storm out, sometimes breaking little bits of doll furniture along the way, and Wilhelmina had to struggle not to cry because crying would make everyone unhappy, and she didn’t want to make anyone unhappy.
One of the days, Bobby brought her a present. Delighted, she opened it as Bobby sat cross-legged, leaning forward, watching her face. She pulled out a beautiful doll, lovely and porcelain with a pretty smile and lifelike blue eyes that matched her own, black hair that was as soft as satin. It was not a thing to be played with, but rather a thing to be looked at. It wasn’t Wilhelmina’s at all, but she smiled, glad that Bobby was so happy when she opened the gift, and thanked him before setting the doll on the dresser.
She looked at it for a long while before she felt Uncle Bobby’s hand on her shoulder. “Wilhelmina, Darling, can I ask you for one little gift in return for this lovely doll?”
Wilhelmina smiled. At last, a chance to please him, to truly make him happy! That was all she wanted. For everyone to be happy. “What is it?”
He knelt down so he was on her level, both hands on her shoulders. She could feel them weighing her down. “Give me a kiss, dear.”
She felt sudden disgust and a sudden certainty that she did not want to kiss Uncle Bobby. She shook her head. “No, you can ask me anything other than that and I’ll-“
“What did you say?” She heard the strange note in his voice but rushed on.
“I could make you a crown or a wreath or I made Cook a really nice painting it’s in the kitchen…”
“Wilhelmina,” he says with an air of exasperated patience. “I don’t want a painting. I want a kiss.”
She wrung her hands in utter distress. “I could make something out of clay or I could buy you something with my pocket money – I’ve been saving it…”
He cut her off. “Wilhelmina! I asked for a kiss. Are you going to give me one? I’ll be very unhappy if you don’t.” He frowned. It tore at her heart.
She cringed, curling into herself, and burst out, “I don’t want to give you a kiss!”
Uncle Bobby looked at her, and he looked unhappy. No, he looked angry. Wilhelmina swallowed the lump in her throat and tried very very hard not to cry, because crying would upset him and she didn’t want to upset him. But she had! All because she didn’t want to give him a kiss.
“Fine,” he said coldly. “If that’s your choice.” He stood, reached, picked up the doll and looked at her lovely face.
“Wait!” Wilhelmina cried, in anguish. “No, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I’m sorry…”
Bobby gave her a look that had nothing of compassion in it, only cold fury. “I gave you your chance. I don’t think you understand.” His hand grasped a handful of the silky black hair and pulled. The clumps came out easily, drifts of black satin floating to the ground. Wilhelmina screamed and begged for another chance, but he seemed not to hear her. When she was bald, her lovely head stripped of all it’s hair, Bobby looked back at Wilhelmina, tears streaming down her face silently. She didn’t want to cry. Crying upset people. But the doll had been so lovely…
Looking in her uncle’s eyes, she couldn’t see the anger anymore. There was nothing, nothing, nothing. He didn’t even care. He turned and left, dropping the doll carelessly to the hard tiled floor.
She made a horrible sound when she shattered. Wilhelmina kept her sobs silent.
Wilhelmina spent the rest of the night gathering up the shards of porcelain until her hands bled, trying to put them back together into the lovely face of the porcelain doll. The hair wouldn’t stick, the pieces wouldn’t hold together, and the face was hopelessly ruined by a multitude of cracks. Finally she swept up all the fragments and threw them away, leaving no trace of the little doll. She didn’t want to make a mess.
Jaenelle was awake, sitting up and watching Wilhelmina. “Go to sleep, Jaenelle,” Wilhelmina said, rather harshly, and crawled into bed, bone weary, her face still streaked with tears. She put her face in her pillow and swallowed, hard. She couldn’t cry, not now. Crying would make people unhappy, and she didn’t want to make anyone unhappy.
Title: Twelve
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Surreal
Prompt: 028. Innocence
Word Count: 1,528
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: rape of a child.
Summary: Surreal was only twelve years old.
Surreal was twelve.
Huddled in an alley, grubby and unkempt, hair stuck back behind her pointed ears without the benefit of a clip, greasy and tangled, she looked more ten or nine, but she was twelve. She clutched a dirty crust of bread she’d stolen from somewhere, tore into it with her teeth, bit a chunk of an apple a lady had given her before hurrying away. It was mealy and half-rotten, but it tasted delicious.
She’d been running for nearly a week now, but hasn’t left the city, unable to leave behind Titian’s body, Titian’s memory. Her mother is dead. Dead with her own dagger in her heart, screaming at her daughter to Run! As they’d been running since Surreal could remember, always fleeing some unnamable danger that was too close behind to escape and too far away to see.
Hungry most of the time and coated in a layer of dirt so thick she could scrape a finger through it, Surreal was exhausted, bone-deep weary and absolutely sick of running. She wanted a real life. She wanted her mother back. She wanted a meal that was better than grubby half-rotten leftovers and stolen bits of pastry.
Her head was nodding forward onto her chest, her eyelids unbearably heavy, dragging down. She needed to sleep, wanted to sleep, but Titian had told her – had told her –
A drumbeat pounded in her head, or a heartbeat. She was walking – or was she running? It was hard to tell; the world reeled wildly around her, and she couldn’t find the way through the trees because the path was tangled and winding…
She jerked upright, suddenly awake. It was much darker, the red skin of the apple gleaming dully in the dusky light, the bread long gone, carried off by scavengers, either of the two legged or four legged variety. Her head felt fuzzy, achy, and her legs were cramped as she tried to gather them under her.
“Miss?”
A soft voice, unassuming, in the mouth of the alleyway. She scrambled to her feet, her knees wobbling precariously, and spoke harshly, calling in Titian’s knife. “Who are you?” She snapped.
The voice was immediately apologetic, and she could vaguely make out a silhouette that cleared as her eyes got used to the dim light. “I’m sorry. I just saw you back here and I thought you were injured…”
Run run run run run, Titian’s command screamed, but Surreal was exhausted and hungry and alone. She took a few steps forward, trying to see the owner of the voice better. He looked to be a boy, perhaps only a year or two older than she, not wearing his Jewels but well dressed. That made her nervous and she almost fled, but then he spoke again.
“You look hungry. Here…” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a packet, offering it at arm’s length. She darted forward, snatched it, and darted back, unwrapping it quickly and wolfing down the bit of still hot meat, licking juice off her fingers. It took her a moment to remember her manners.
“…thank you.”
The boy paused. “Whoa. When was the last time you ate?”
“Long time,” Surreal said noncommittally.
“Where’s your family?”
Surreal fell silent, her face settling into a sullen frown. There was a long silence.
“Hey, if you wanna come with me, I can get you some more food.”
Surreal hangs, poised between mistrust, Titian’s warning, hunger and loneliness. Hunger wins out. “All right.” Vanishing the knife, she crept out of the shadows and dodged out of the alley, looking both ways nervously.
The boy caught her shoulder and she jerked away, shying. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry,” he apologized. “But you’re being suspicious. Just act normally, okay?”
Surreal opened her mouth to say something and gave up. He knew more than she did, here, and it wasn’t worth an argument. “What am I supposed to do?” She asked, meekly.
“Just put your arm like this –“ He showed her how to link arms – “And pretend like you know what you’re doing. No one will say anything.”
She didn’t really like standing so close to a male, but he was going to get her food, and he didn’t have to.
It was only a brief flash that gave her the warning, and that wasn’t nearly enough time. “Gotta go,” she said, and fled – but her arm was held fast by the boy, looking over his shoulder and holding her trapped. She tugged helplessly.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Can’t,” he said. She tricked to kick him, punch him, anything, but he had her effectively tethered. Panic welled and throbbed in her head as her struggles grew wilder and wilder until she realized that she had stopped moving. She stood frozen, only able to move her eyes and hear the clink of coins.
“Good job, lad. Sure she’s the right one?”
“Only one I’ve seen with those ears.”
“All right, get. I can handle things from here.”
Terror flooded over her and thought blanked out. Dammit dammit dammit TITIAAAAAN!
His grip was too hard on her arm as he pulled her, stumbling to the side, up the stairs. Trying feebly to struggle, disoriented and terrified, one moment she was on her feet, trying to run, the next she was on her back on the ground, ears ringing, trying to focus as heavy, oppressive darkness closed in raggedly on her vision. Her clothes were ripped away. Half conscious and barely aware, she screamed once in pain that felt as though it would divide her in two, a wash of red over her vision, before she drifted.
He raped me. Surreal found herself thinking, blankly, distantly. The pain of being violated echoed even here. Her heart pounded too loud, too fast, reminding her of a hunted rabbit, in counterpoint to the rhythmic, stabbing thrusts invading her body, far away. The abyss was wide and black and empty, but it wasn’t peaceful, not now. She was tumbling, falling head over heels through pitch that had no up or down. Far, far below, there was a glimmer of green, but it was deep, though coming too fast…
Titian. Surreal remembered. Tersa. Fear filled her and she tried to claw at the air, pull herself up. If she fell too far, she would be broken, a shadow of what she was.
The fall slowed, but she could feel the pounding thrusts in her body pushing her closer. She held on, clinging to the walls, anything, holding to herself despite the pain and horror, determined not to break but sure that if she lived, she would be broken, a shadow – like Tersa, like Titian, like other hopeless, destitute witches she had seen, reduced to a terrified nothing of themselves. Closer, and now the web was far too close, just beneath her, and she was sobbing with terror and desperation. Why hadn’t she run? Why had she trusted anyone?
She would never trust a male if she survived this. Never never never.
It was an eternity until it was over. She stayed, trembling, in the abyss, shaking with disbelief. The web was just beneath her. One more thrust and she would have been broken, never to be repaired. Would have returned a shadow, if she had returned at all.
She surfaced at last, naked, alone, aching where he’d held her too tightly and between her long, skinny legs, blood soaking the sheets and the stench of the male in the air. Her face was wet and she could feel blood trickling weakly from her nose. He’d hit her to make her stay still. She had been smaller than him, weaker, and he had hit her and held her down. He had been scared of her.
She couldn’t feel amused.
Surreal pulled her legs together, turned on her side and curled up with a soft whimper. Fearfully, she tried to descend again, found her way to the level of the Green and tried calling in her mother’s dagger. She felt its heavy weight in her hand and smiled, weakly.
She was broken, but she was whole. She was still a witch.
“Titian,” she whispered. “Titian, I’m sorry…”
She had already cried, but she began to cry again. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t run fast enough, far enough, to escape. It was a miracle that she was alive and still able to use Craft. She curled up tighter, vulnerable and naked but unable to summon the energy to do more than fear. If he comes back, if someone comes here, if if if…but Surreal was too exhausted, too damn bone-weary to move. She closed her eyes and cried herself to sleep.
She would never trust a male. She’d kill all of them! The ones who’d hurt her mother, the one who had hurt her – all of them would die. She swore to herself, to Titian, that she would not rest until she hunted down and killed the man responsible for this, killed him so that he could never come back to chase her again. And then she slept, unable to do but else, far too exhausted to run today.
Surreal was twelve.
Title: Slipping Away
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Karla, Morton
Prompt: 064. Ghost
Word Count: 442
Rating: PG just to be safe
Warnings: angst, a lot of it.
Summary: Karla drifts, completely alone, in the darkness.
Karla drifted.
She was alone in the wide emptiness, floating on air, eyes closed. It was so dark that there was no difference, though, and her eyes were so tired that she kept them closed. There was pain somewhere far away, but she pushed away from it, swimming aimlessly in the currentless, cool darkness that blanketed her, feeling safe, secure, at home.
Somewhere far away, Karla’s body was curled under an Ebony shield, trying to fight the poison she had so willingly taken into her body. She was alone, terribly, completely, alone. The awareness that Morton was not here hurt, terribly – always, she had had him. Always, at least, she had had him, everywhere, even when Jaenelle had been gone for such a terribly long time…
She sluggishly gathered herself, trying to fight, but part of her didn’t want to. Not without Morton there, not by herself to prop up a Territory that despised her, mistrusted her, didn’t want a Queen.
*Don’t you dare.*
Hardly a whisper from the Darkness, pushing her back, but she felt that psychic scent, recognized that smell, and her eyes tried to open. *Morton?*
There were no more words, but he was there, he was there, he was there…
Someone touched the shield and passed through, she tried to open her eyes again as someone laid his hand on her chest. “Get your hand – off my tit,” she said in a strangled voice. Someone said something back, but the voice was all that mattered. Daemon. He’d take her to Jaenelle, and Jaenelle would make sure she lived and then Jaenelle could take care of Morton, and she would bring him back, she would bring him back to life.
*Morton?* She tried again, but this time she was no answer, and she was alone again, psychic scents washing over and around her until her head spun and she fell away into darkness.
Karla drifted.
She floated weakly through the darkness, spotted with bits of light, barely aware but not unconscious. But she could see him, not so far away, and she swam over and wrapped her arms around him with a joyous cry, but a soft whisper of *No* he slipped away, as elusive as a beam of moonlight. She cried out and tried to chase, but something held her back, and he was gone where she could not follow, and then he vanished, and she was alone, well and truly and completely alone. Somewhere distant where her body was, she could feel the tears coursing down her face, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was alone, and Morton was well and truly gone…gone…gone.
Title: The Pieces
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy (honestly, still have to ask?)
Characters: Wilhelmina Benedict, a bit of Jaenelle, Robert Benedict
Prompt: 085. Indifference
Word Count: 1,311
Rating: PG to be safe
Warnings: implied pedophilia, angst, things get broken, adorably pathetic Wilhelmina
Summary: Wilhelmina didn't want to cry. Crying made other people upset, and she didn't want to make anyone upset.
Wilhelmina always tried.
Even when she knew she couldn’t do it, she always tried her hardest, did her best, at everything. It just never seemed to be good enough. When she was very small and people held her and talked to her, she tried very hard to understand, but they always put her down and walked away, leaving her alone. She was cold, and alone, and hungry, but oh, she didn’t want to cry! Didn’t want to cause trouble.
When she was larger, the other children were always falling and crying and dropping things and making a mess. She made a mess once, playing with toys, and Alexandra had been terribly angry…she didn’t make messes again. Once she fell, exploring the garden. Her hair had been matted with blood in moments, but she’d stumbled to the bathroom and gotten bandages, washed her own hair as well as she could, wrapped her head in a bandage.
She grew, and when she was four Jaenelle came. She remembered her first glimpse of her sister’s eyes, touching her soft, reaching hand and looking into her bright eyes, and thought that she saw something there that frightened her. She shied back and stepped away. It seemed as though Jaenelle was always watching her, but at least Jaenelle was never angry. Wilhelmina didn’t have to worry about upsetting Jaenelle like she did about upsetting Philip or Robert or, worst of all, Alexandra.
She couldn’t please Philip because he was always angry. She brought him flowers and he gave her a tight smile and thanked her, but she could see in his eyes that he didn’t mean it. When Philip was angry, he walked straight and tall with tense shoulders and cold steel in his eyes.
At her Birthright Ceremony, Wilhelmina watched Alexandra as she was gifted with her Jewel. Wilhelmina’s mouth was tight as she applauded, her hands stiff and straight and white as they came together once or twice. Wilhelmina was crushed, but she did not cry. Not there. It would have bothered people, and she hated to bother people. That night, however, alone, she cried into her pillow, muffling the sound so she would not wake anyone. Jaenelle knew, though. Jaenelle was awake when Wilhelmina sat up to blow her nose, her wide blue eyes watching Wilhelmina with more understanding than was right.
She hurried back to bed.
After her ceremony, Robert started to pay more attention to her. He was hard to please as well. He smiled at her and asked to play, but then when she wanted to go in the gardens, or out with a pony, he would shake his head sternly and say that ‘no, no, young Ladies do not do that, young Ladies do not plant flowers, don’t you want to be a young Lady?’
And of course she did, because Bobby wanted her to be a young lady. So she stayed inside and played with the dolls he got her, the pretty houses made by landens far away, the fancy dresses Bobby found to dress her dolls in. He kneeled beside her, and she wanted to tell him that she didn’t like the way he sat so close, but he always smiled at her and seemed so happy that she could not. But then he would yell at her for some little thing, slap her lightly or give her a spanking and storm out, sometimes breaking little bits of doll furniture along the way, and Wilhelmina had to struggle not to cry because crying would make everyone unhappy, and she didn’t want to make anyone unhappy.
One of the days, Bobby brought her a present. Delighted, she opened it as Bobby sat cross-legged, leaning forward, watching her face. She pulled out a beautiful doll, lovely and porcelain with a pretty smile and lifelike blue eyes that matched her own, black hair that was as soft as satin. It was not a thing to be played with, but rather a thing to be looked at. It wasn’t Wilhelmina’s at all, but she smiled, glad that Bobby was so happy when she opened the gift, and thanked him before setting the doll on the dresser.
She looked at it for a long while before she felt Uncle Bobby’s hand on her shoulder. “Wilhelmina, Darling, can I ask you for one little gift in return for this lovely doll?”
Wilhelmina smiled. At last, a chance to please him, to truly make him happy! That was all she wanted. For everyone to be happy. “What is it?”
He knelt down so he was on her level, both hands on her shoulders. She could feel them weighing her down. “Give me a kiss, dear.”
She felt sudden disgust and a sudden certainty that she did not want to kiss Uncle Bobby. She shook her head. “No, you can ask me anything other than that and I’ll-“
“What did you say?” She heard the strange note in his voice but rushed on.
“I could make you a crown or a wreath or I made Cook a really nice painting it’s in the kitchen…”
“Wilhelmina,” he says with an air of exasperated patience. “I don’t want a painting. I want a kiss.”
She wrung her hands in utter distress. “I could make something out of clay or I could buy you something with my pocket money – I’ve been saving it…”
He cut her off. “Wilhelmina! I asked for a kiss. Are you going to give me one? I’ll be very unhappy if you don’t.” He frowned. It tore at her heart.
She cringed, curling into herself, and burst out, “I don’t want to give you a kiss!”
Uncle Bobby looked at her, and he looked unhappy. No, he looked angry. Wilhelmina swallowed the lump in her throat and tried very very hard not to cry, because crying would upset him and she didn’t want to upset him. But she had! All because she didn’t want to give him a kiss.
“Fine,” he said coldly. “If that’s your choice.” He stood, reached, picked up the doll and looked at her lovely face.
“Wait!” Wilhelmina cried, in anguish. “No, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I’m sorry…”
Bobby gave her a look that had nothing of compassion in it, only cold fury. “I gave you your chance. I don’t think you understand.” His hand grasped a handful of the silky black hair and pulled. The clumps came out easily, drifts of black satin floating to the ground. Wilhelmina screamed and begged for another chance, but he seemed not to hear her. When she was bald, her lovely head stripped of all it’s hair, Bobby looked back at Wilhelmina, tears streaming down her face silently. She didn’t want to cry. Crying upset people. But the doll had been so lovely…
Looking in her uncle’s eyes, she couldn’t see the anger anymore. There was nothing, nothing, nothing. He didn’t even care. He turned and left, dropping the doll carelessly to the hard tiled floor.
She made a horrible sound when she shattered. Wilhelmina kept her sobs silent.
Wilhelmina spent the rest of the night gathering up the shards of porcelain until her hands bled, trying to put them back together into the lovely face of the porcelain doll. The hair wouldn’t stick, the pieces wouldn’t hold together, and the face was hopelessly ruined by a multitude of cracks. Finally she swept up all the fragments and threw them away, leaving no trace of the little doll. She didn’t want to make a mess.
Jaenelle was awake, sitting up and watching Wilhelmina. “Go to sleep, Jaenelle,” Wilhelmina said, rather harshly, and crawled into bed, bone weary, her face still streaked with tears. She put her face in her pillow and swallowed, hard. She couldn’t cry, not now. Crying would make people unhappy, and she didn’t want to make anyone unhappy.
Title: Twelve
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Surreal
Prompt: 028. Innocence
Word Count: 1,528
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: rape of a child.
Summary: Surreal was only twelve years old.
Surreal was twelve.
Huddled in an alley, grubby and unkempt, hair stuck back behind her pointed ears without the benefit of a clip, greasy and tangled, she looked more ten or nine, but she was twelve. She clutched a dirty crust of bread she’d stolen from somewhere, tore into it with her teeth, bit a chunk of an apple a lady had given her before hurrying away. It was mealy and half-rotten, but it tasted delicious.
She’d been running for nearly a week now, but hasn’t left the city, unable to leave behind Titian’s body, Titian’s memory. Her mother is dead. Dead with her own dagger in her heart, screaming at her daughter to Run! As they’d been running since Surreal could remember, always fleeing some unnamable danger that was too close behind to escape and too far away to see.
Hungry most of the time and coated in a layer of dirt so thick she could scrape a finger through it, Surreal was exhausted, bone-deep weary and absolutely sick of running. She wanted a real life. She wanted her mother back. She wanted a meal that was better than grubby half-rotten leftovers and stolen bits of pastry.
Her head was nodding forward onto her chest, her eyelids unbearably heavy, dragging down. She needed to sleep, wanted to sleep, but Titian had told her – had told her –
A drumbeat pounded in her head, or a heartbeat. She was walking – or was she running? It was hard to tell; the world reeled wildly around her, and she couldn’t find the way through the trees because the path was tangled and winding…
She jerked upright, suddenly awake. It was much darker, the red skin of the apple gleaming dully in the dusky light, the bread long gone, carried off by scavengers, either of the two legged or four legged variety. Her head felt fuzzy, achy, and her legs were cramped as she tried to gather them under her.
“Miss?”
A soft voice, unassuming, in the mouth of the alleyway. She scrambled to her feet, her knees wobbling precariously, and spoke harshly, calling in Titian’s knife. “Who are you?” She snapped.
The voice was immediately apologetic, and she could vaguely make out a silhouette that cleared as her eyes got used to the dim light. “I’m sorry. I just saw you back here and I thought you were injured…”
Run run run run run, Titian’s command screamed, but Surreal was exhausted and hungry and alone. She took a few steps forward, trying to see the owner of the voice better. He looked to be a boy, perhaps only a year or two older than she, not wearing his Jewels but well dressed. That made her nervous and she almost fled, but then he spoke again.
“You look hungry. Here…” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a packet, offering it at arm’s length. She darted forward, snatched it, and darted back, unwrapping it quickly and wolfing down the bit of still hot meat, licking juice off her fingers. It took her a moment to remember her manners.
“…thank you.”
The boy paused. “Whoa. When was the last time you ate?”
“Long time,” Surreal said noncommittally.
“Where’s your family?”
Surreal fell silent, her face settling into a sullen frown. There was a long silence.
“Hey, if you wanna come with me, I can get you some more food.”
Surreal hangs, poised between mistrust, Titian’s warning, hunger and loneliness. Hunger wins out. “All right.” Vanishing the knife, she crept out of the shadows and dodged out of the alley, looking both ways nervously.
The boy caught her shoulder and she jerked away, shying. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry,” he apologized. “But you’re being suspicious. Just act normally, okay?”
Surreal opened her mouth to say something and gave up. He knew more than she did, here, and it wasn’t worth an argument. “What am I supposed to do?” She asked, meekly.
“Just put your arm like this –“ He showed her how to link arms – “And pretend like you know what you’re doing. No one will say anything.”
She didn’t really like standing so close to a male, but he was going to get her food, and he didn’t have to.
It was only a brief flash that gave her the warning, and that wasn’t nearly enough time. “Gotta go,” she said, and fled – but her arm was held fast by the boy, looking over his shoulder and holding her trapped. She tugged helplessly.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
“Can’t,” he said. She tricked to kick him, punch him, anything, but he had her effectively tethered. Panic welled and throbbed in her head as her struggles grew wilder and wilder until she realized that she had stopped moving. She stood frozen, only able to move her eyes and hear the clink of coins.
“Good job, lad. Sure she’s the right one?”
“Only one I’ve seen with those ears.”
“All right, get. I can handle things from here.”
Terror flooded over her and thought blanked out. Dammit dammit dammit TITIAAAAAN!
His grip was too hard on her arm as he pulled her, stumbling to the side, up the stairs. Trying feebly to struggle, disoriented and terrified, one moment she was on her feet, trying to run, the next she was on her back on the ground, ears ringing, trying to focus as heavy, oppressive darkness closed in raggedly on her vision. Her clothes were ripped away. Half conscious and barely aware, she screamed once in pain that felt as though it would divide her in two, a wash of red over her vision, before she drifted.
He raped me. Surreal found herself thinking, blankly, distantly. The pain of being violated echoed even here. Her heart pounded too loud, too fast, reminding her of a hunted rabbit, in counterpoint to the rhythmic, stabbing thrusts invading her body, far away. The abyss was wide and black and empty, but it wasn’t peaceful, not now. She was tumbling, falling head over heels through pitch that had no up or down. Far, far below, there was a glimmer of green, but it was deep, though coming too fast…
Titian. Surreal remembered. Tersa. Fear filled her and she tried to claw at the air, pull herself up. If she fell too far, she would be broken, a shadow of what she was.
The fall slowed, but she could feel the pounding thrusts in her body pushing her closer. She held on, clinging to the walls, anything, holding to herself despite the pain and horror, determined not to break but sure that if she lived, she would be broken, a shadow – like Tersa, like Titian, like other hopeless, destitute witches she had seen, reduced to a terrified nothing of themselves. Closer, and now the web was far too close, just beneath her, and she was sobbing with terror and desperation. Why hadn’t she run? Why had she trusted anyone?
She would never trust a male if she survived this. Never never never.
It was an eternity until it was over. She stayed, trembling, in the abyss, shaking with disbelief. The web was just beneath her. One more thrust and she would have been broken, never to be repaired. Would have returned a shadow, if she had returned at all.
She surfaced at last, naked, alone, aching where he’d held her too tightly and between her long, skinny legs, blood soaking the sheets and the stench of the male in the air. Her face was wet and she could feel blood trickling weakly from her nose. He’d hit her to make her stay still. She had been smaller than him, weaker, and he had hit her and held her down. He had been scared of her.
She couldn’t feel amused.
Surreal pulled her legs together, turned on her side and curled up with a soft whimper. Fearfully, she tried to descend again, found her way to the level of the Green and tried calling in her mother’s dagger. She felt its heavy weight in her hand and smiled, weakly.
She was broken, but she was whole. She was still a witch.
“Titian,” she whispered. “Titian, I’m sorry…”
She had already cried, but she began to cry again. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t run fast enough, far enough, to escape. It was a miracle that she was alive and still able to use Craft. She curled up tighter, vulnerable and naked but unable to summon the energy to do more than fear. If he comes back, if someone comes here, if if if…but Surreal was too exhausted, too damn bone-weary to move. She closed her eyes and cried herself to sleep.
She would never trust a male. She’d kill all of them! The ones who’d hurt her mother, the one who had hurt her – all of them would die. She swore to herself, to Titian, that she would not rest until she hunted down and killed the man responsible for this, killed him so that he could never come back to chase her again. And then she slept, unable to do but else, far too exhausted to run today.
Surreal was twelve.
Title: Slipping Away
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Karla, Morton
Prompt: 064. Ghost
Word Count: 442
Rating: PG just to be safe
Warnings: angst, a lot of it.
Summary: Karla drifts, completely alone, in the darkness.
Karla drifted.
She was alone in the wide emptiness, floating on air, eyes closed. It was so dark that there was no difference, though, and her eyes were so tired that she kept them closed. There was pain somewhere far away, but she pushed away from it, swimming aimlessly in the currentless, cool darkness that blanketed her, feeling safe, secure, at home.
Somewhere far away, Karla’s body was curled under an Ebony shield, trying to fight the poison she had so willingly taken into her body. She was alone, terribly, completely, alone. The awareness that Morton was not here hurt, terribly – always, she had had him. Always, at least, she had had him, everywhere, even when Jaenelle had been gone for such a terribly long time…
She sluggishly gathered herself, trying to fight, but part of her didn’t want to. Not without Morton there, not by herself to prop up a Territory that despised her, mistrusted her, didn’t want a Queen.
*Don’t you dare.*
Hardly a whisper from the Darkness, pushing her back, but she felt that psychic scent, recognized that smell, and her eyes tried to open. *Morton?*
There were no more words, but he was there, he was there, he was there…
Someone touched the shield and passed through, she tried to open her eyes again as someone laid his hand on her chest. “Get your hand – off my tit,” she said in a strangled voice. Someone said something back, but the voice was all that mattered. Daemon. He’d take her to Jaenelle, and Jaenelle would make sure she lived and then Jaenelle could take care of Morton, and she would bring him back, she would bring him back to life.
*Morton?* She tried again, but this time she was no answer, and she was alone again, psychic scents washing over and around her until her head spun and she fell away into darkness.
Karla drifted.
She floated weakly through the darkness, spotted with bits of light, barely aware but not unconscious. But she could see him, not so far away, and she swam over and wrapped her arms around him with a joyous cry, but a soft whisper of *No* he slipped away, as elusive as a beam of moonlight. She cried out and tried to chase, but something held her back, and he was gone where she could not follow, and then he vanished, and she was alone, well and truly and completely alone. Somewhere distant where her body was, she could feel the tears coursing down her face, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was alone, and Morton was well and truly gone…gone…gone.
