I sit cross legged upon the cold stone floor, wearing brand spanking new leather pants, and a tailored, well made, and utterly comfortable black shirt. They are mine now, and it was sort of a cleansing process for me, to watch everything that was mine, burned and turned to ash, the smoke carrying with it some sort of redemption. Something that attempts to put an end the event that has my mind is such turmoil.
Before me, the surface of the cool black stone calls to me, and I place the palm of my hand upon it as I close my eyes and begin. "Think back" the voice is in my head, its my own, but does not truly sound like me. It is a masculine, calming voice that snakes through my mind, and digs into the shadowed places, "poison the mind, infiltrate their thoughts". My lips move as these words dance over my mind, but no sound is emitted.
A list of questions stand at the ready in my head, and for a moment I resist the process. "I am sick of questions!" I cry out silently against the black backdrop of my brain, the world around me fallen away, the cool stone beneath me no longer felt, now that I have been delivered into the private world of my mind. "Sick of questions! I don't know!!" I insist to the echoing voice, rising around me and drowning out my disobedient anger. The thing is, I do know, I do and I am too angry, too hurt, too wild to focus on the answers and I feel myself raging at the black mist that surrounds me.
"Why did they come at you like they did?" the first question rises in my mind in spite of my best attempts at blatant rebellion. "Why the Soldier second, why the Noble third?" the questions continue no matter how much I resist them. "Why did they attack at the time they chose? Why did they choose where they did to attack?" Finally I sigh, and allow the questions to push out the instinctual rage, the natural disobedience, the urge to rail against them and slice and cut and hurt and kill and force them all to pay. Finally, I let those spinning balls of chaotic memories to be slowed, contained and shelved for reflection later, so I might concentrate upon the questions.
They came at me like they did, because....because.....think woman think! It was the end of my shift, nearly dawn. The streets were practically deserted. It was dark and there was almost no one around to interfere. They shot me first. Not so difficult to calculate, I was the greatest threat in the area. Why the Rookie second? She was simply the next logical target. Her being there was not likely accounted for. More likely...they expected to catch me alone. The guard, the one posted by the corner. He attacked the group that had ambushed us, and then just as quickly, quite unexpectedly, he fled! I remember it, he fled and called the man 'my Liege!'...yes, I do remember it... 'Spare me my Liege'. The words were directed to the one that shot us, first me, then the Rookie and then the Baron, in that order. At least one of the Militia, already in his control. We have already been infiltrated.
I was the target. Why? That one was easy. I am the highest ranking female officer in the Militia. Close to the Commander, the highest ranking female, with access to almost everything he does. They thought I would crack, they presumed because I -am- female, I am automatically weak. They thought, I would bend and cry, and beg and plead, they presumed I would break and they would get usable information out of me before they made an example out of me for the rest of the women in the city. I would be set out there for all to see, to terrorize those who still seek to be free of the repression placed upon them. After I broke, after they had gleamed all the information they could from me, they would display me as a message to the rest. Unfortunately for them, they presumed far too much.
So, why my own home? Why take me there? Certainly it was a calculated risk, that no one would come look for clues in my house, and their gamble paid off in that respect. But no, there is something more to it. Something else, I am missing. But what? The fog roles around my mind, black, cold, cleansing and I take a deep breath far away and redouble my efforts to find the path through. Not...just..my home. Something else...what...else...???
Then it hits me. Why not my house? Where else? They could not use my neighbours house, it might actually be one of theirs! Or someone close to an enemy, or a friend! That's it! I DO know these men. I do! They are our street sweepers, and our bankers. They bake our bread and keep our horses. They tailor our clothing and deliver our milk to our doors. They protect us while we sleep, and fill our plates with food. They are just common men doing common jobs and every single one of them knows about me. They know about the Rookie, they already know where that girl lives. They already know who their next target is. They are already watching the Women who control too much, who take too many liberties against them. They have already chosen the next one to be made example of. They are simply waiting for the right time to set their plans in motion.
My eyes open and without fail I begin to put my thoughts to parchment, the materials to do so had been left here for me before I even arrived. The quill scratches over the page, flowing and continuous until I had it all down so it made sense. I retrieve the parchments upon the stone and rise, turning and moving down the corridor, my bare feet cold upon the damp floor. The heavy steel door opens before me and a tall, blank faced male looks at me. "prepare my things, and ready my horse, I will be leaving shortly" I announce, and to my surprise, he does as I bid him without question and I head to the familiar heavy wooden door, my thoughts in hand. He likely will not be the least bit surprised when I tell him I am going back.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Hostile Environments
I pace the stone room I have been locked in for the last few days. The woman who tends to me is just as sick of my face as I am of hers, but we both know neither of us can leave and so we try not to offend each other. Still, she is not the one keeping me here, its that damned Templar outside the door. Twice I have managed to get up, and past the bloodhound healer as she snoozed in her chair, only to find myself barred by a large, intense looking, red armor wearing, wall of inflexibility, and soon I am back in my cot bitching under my breath. I went from one prison to another.
Pain has become a familiar companion of late, one that motivates me, prods at me, a handy tool the body provides that reminds me to keep breathing. It plagues me still but I simply do not give a damn. I have to get out of here! The Rookie has been sitting here like a mother hen since my rescue and she is almost as annoying as the dusty old healer. She at least has paperwork to do, I am left with the entertainment of staring at the walls.
The Commander came in yesterday and officially relieved me of duty. I was calm when he told me, I understood perfectly. There was likely to be a full debriefing soon, and once again I would be put to questions. They are going to want to know, what I said. They will want to know everything I do about who it was that took me in the first place. The first part is easy, I didn't tell them shit. The second, part, is a bit trickier.
The fact they took me to my own home, just a few blocks away from where they nabbed me, was a stroke of genius. The fact that I was rescued by the Rookie and the most unlikely of allies is utterly baffling. I have to admit, the Rookie is impressing me, and apparently the Commander as well, because she was made temporary Captain in my absence, over a few men with seniority. I hope the kid realizes how that might affect her, and that its not just the Rebels she needs to watch for, but our own men. Sure, most of the men that serve under me, do so willingly, but I know there is one or two in there, that I would just as soon not turn my back on.
Finally, I was released from the infirmary! The old battleaxe after enough pestering from the Rookie, saw the wisdom of my departure and called off the Templars. I was out of that place like a shot, in each hand, my trusted blades, the Rookie managed not to lose them, and for that I was grateful. I was barefoot and moving down the center of the street, not caring a lick for the stares I got, people parting before me their mouths agape. I must look like death warmed over. My face is still a kaleidoscope of purple and black, the beginnings of faded yellow around the edges of my bruises, the cuts upon my brow and lip, red and angry. I had no pride to worry for, none at all, I was simply too pissed off to give a rats ass about what any one of them thought about me.
I make my destination without incident, and without hesitating, I land a solid kick to my own front door and splinter the wood around the latch, sending it slamming to the wall behind. Stepping into the room, I look around and assess the damage. My house, was a write off. Rebels had come and gone from this room for days, using it as a temporary holding cell and hideout. I could see evidence of their presence everywhere and the longer I looked, the angrier I became.
Finally my feet move, and I go to my bedroom door and stand in the open frame, staring at the empty chair at the foot of my bed. I spent nearly five days in that chair give or take the time I spent silently begging to be back in it again, and the old hunk of junk looks as if it was finished. It lies upon its side, broken, blood staining the old wood. The carpet too, all around shows blood stains, heavily pooled in a few places, somehow those make me smirk, and I revel in the memories of how they got there. "He had it coming." manages to find its way past my teeth and somehow my own voice jars me from my thoughts.
I move quickly, now wishing to be anywhere but here, and I cross to the chest in the corner, sighing with relief when I find my armor intact. I quickly dress, leaving nothing behind but my Captain's pauldron, tucked away safely in the chest, and I lock it again. My sheaths at my belt, feel the familiar presence of my daggers and I turn, pausing again at the door, looking back at the little house that had for years offered me quiet sanctuary, and I stare at the disarray the place, and I can not bear to think of staying another moment. I close the door, lock it, and tuck away the key and lift my hood, cloaking my face and disappearing to the west, moving up into the slums. It's another less than friendly place to lurk, but hell, now that I am relieved of duty, I am free of all sorts of restrictions aren't I? So this, is where I will begin.
Pain has become a familiar companion of late, one that motivates me, prods at me, a handy tool the body provides that reminds me to keep breathing. It plagues me still but I simply do not give a damn. I have to get out of here! The Rookie has been sitting here like a mother hen since my rescue and she is almost as annoying as the dusty old healer. She at least has paperwork to do, I am left with the entertainment of staring at the walls.
The Commander came in yesterday and officially relieved me of duty. I was calm when he told me, I understood perfectly. There was likely to be a full debriefing soon, and once again I would be put to questions. They are going to want to know, what I said. They will want to know everything I do about who it was that took me in the first place. The first part is easy, I didn't tell them shit. The second, part, is a bit trickier.
The fact they took me to my own home, just a few blocks away from where they nabbed me, was a stroke of genius. The fact that I was rescued by the Rookie and the most unlikely of allies is utterly baffling. I have to admit, the Rookie is impressing me, and apparently the Commander as well, because she was made temporary Captain in my absence, over a few men with seniority. I hope the kid realizes how that might affect her, and that its not just the Rebels she needs to watch for, but our own men. Sure, most of the men that serve under me, do so willingly, but I know there is one or two in there, that I would just as soon not turn my back on.
Finally, I was released from the infirmary! The old battleaxe after enough pestering from the Rookie, saw the wisdom of my departure and called off the Templars. I was out of that place like a shot, in each hand, my trusted blades, the Rookie managed not to lose them, and for that I was grateful. I was barefoot and moving down the center of the street, not caring a lick for the stares I got, people parting before me their mouths agape. I must look like death warmed over. My face is still a kaleidoscope of purple and black, the beginnings of faded yellow around the edges of my bruises, the cuts upon my brow and lip, red and angry. I had no pride to worry for, none at all, I was simply too pissed off to give a rats ass about what any one of them thought about me.
I make my destination without incident, and without hesitating, I land a solid kick to my own front door and splinter the wood around the latch, sending it slamming to the wall behind. Stepping into the room, I look around and assess the damage. My house, was a write off. Rebels had come and gone from this room for days, using it as a temporary holding cell and hideout. I could see evidence of their presence everywhere and the longer I looked, the angrier I became.
Finally my feet move, and I go to my bedroom door and stand in the open frame, staring at the empty chair at the foot of my bed. I spent nearly five days in that chair give or take the time I spent silently begging to be back in it again, and the old hunk of junk looks as if it was finished. It lies upon its side, broken, blood staining the old wood. The carpet too, all around shows blood stains, heavily pooled in a few places, somehow those make me smirk, and I revel in the memories of how they got there. "He had it coming." manages to find its way past my teeth and somehow my own voice jars me from my thoughts.
I move quickly, now wishing to be anywhere but here, and I cross to the chest in the corner, sighing with relief when I find my armor intact. I quickly dress, leaving nothing behind but my Captain's pauldron, tucked away safely in the chest, and I lock it again. My sheaths at my belt, feel the familiar presence of my daggers and I turn, pausing again at the door, looking back at the little house that had for years offered me quiet sanctuary, and I stare at the disarray the place, and I can not bear to think of staying another moment. I close the door, lock it, and tuck away the key and lift my hood, cloaking my face and disappearing to the west, moving up into the slums. It's another less than friendly place to lurk, but hell, now that I am relieved of duty, I am free of all sorts of restrictions aren't I? So this, is where I will begin.
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