Five Years ago
Feet aching, body bruised, blood dripping into my left eye, blurring my vision red, the human rebels march me through their base. Some look my way, with disgust? Confusion? I don't know. While others avoid my searching gaze entirely. I hold my head high, the brand throbbing on the back of my neck, at the top of my spine.
Numbers. 1894. Though I can't see it, they told me the numbers, my prison identification number, before pressing the scalding iron numbers against my skin. I didn't scream. Didn't want to give them the satisfaction even as the iron melted my skin. That was the worst part. The smell of burning, rotting flesh as they pressed each number into my skin separately. It was the smell that made me gag and heave.
They laughed. Thought it was funny. Until in a final attempt at escape, before they could take me wherever, I surged out of their lazy grips, grabbing the glowing rod, and stabbed one of them, aiming for the heart. My guess is I missed a few inches. Pity.
But I understand now, why my screaming would give them joy because when he howled in pain a thrill went through me. Short-lived though it may have been when his friend punched me into near unconsciousness, hence the bloody left side of my face.
Closer and closer we come to the warehouse that I had seen in the distance. Its dullness leeching any life that may be left in the land. Though little life is left by the looks of it. The land scorched, craters left and right. No such thing as colour exists here. No grass, no flowers. Only stumps remain of the trees that once blanketed this province. Not a bird in the sky, or even a worm on the ground.
This is place is lifeless.
A dread pools in my stomach, each step an agony of its own, as we reach the slope leading to the warehouse doors. Is this where they torture me? Wring their sadistic needs out on me before killing me?
A whimper crawls up my throat as the fear threatens to break my courage but a voice stops my cowardice in its tracks. Don't you dare give in Illyeria Ashina Black. My Mothers voice commands me. You are a woman of the Black lineage from the Drakal Clan. We Fight. Always.
I want to cry as her words hit me as we reach the clunky doors. But one of the men dragging me pulls keys out from inside his coat and places them into the lock and with a click one of the doors swings open. I try to hold my head even higher, straightening my back even as my muscles ache and wounds groan in protest. The brush of my hair against the brand like a knife scraping the already bleeding, blistering skin. I can feel the blood running down my back, staining the plain grey jumpsuit they forced me into.
One grabs me, pulling my head back by my hair as he whispers in my ear, the stench of rum spilling into my every pore, coating my skin like slime. "If you feel like staying in better accommodations just say the word sweetheart." He lightly brushes his thin lips over mine and I gag as the sickening smell of his decaying breath hits my face, before he lets me go, shoving me into the dark warehouse.
My knees slam into concrete and if not for the jarring pain echoing in my bones I would be shocked that the ground is concrete and not earth. "Never venol," I spit, my bloody salvia hitting his boot. With a snarl, he steps forward, evil intent in his eyes, when his comrade grabs him pulling him back. "Not now Alistor," he warns him and with a shove, he lets go of the slimy man.
The man, Alistor, stares at me with hate in his eyes. And I smile. Catching them both off guard. "Why are you smiling, you crazy, traitorous seraela." The slimy one growls, sounding more beastly than the Arcane these rebels hate and accuse of been little more than animals. Hel these humans, my own kind, have treated me like no Arcane has ever done. The rebels are the animals. The hate in Alistor's eyes brighter, mixed with confusion now, confirming my jumbled thoughts.
Slowly I stand, wiping the blood from my eye, and praying to myself that my legs don't give out. I am strong. "I smile because I pity you." I laugh, the sound is insane in the dull quiet. "I pity you because you hate me and I do not hate you. And in that, you have lost." My words are confusing and seem to only anger him more causing me to laugh hysterically.
He surges for me but his friend catches him dragging him away, "she's not worth it. She's delirious with the pain of the branding. Let it go." he urges Alistor. His words make sense. Am I delirious? I don't think I am. But then again someone delirious wouldn't realise it would they?
Alistor laughs now, eyes almost smug as he says, "The Butcher is going to tear you apart and I can't wait to watch. He loves pretty things like you," then they shut me in, the clicking of metal confirming that I'm locked in.
Finally, I slowly slump to the floor, my legs finally giving out on holding me up. The pain somehow returns like a vengeance, striking me everywhere and striking deep. I can feel the throbbing of the brand reverberating down my spine and in the darkness, alone, I let a choked sob break free. And another and another, until the tears fall in rivers and I can't stop.
I'm all alone. They are going to kill me, or worse. What do I do?
"Don't cry," a voice startles me, yelping I scramble away from the voice, hitting cold metal. Hissing at the cold, I shuffle from that too until I am sure nothing is near me. "Who is there?" No one answers. "I said who is..." that voice cuts me off, "don't cry. That means they won. Don't cry." Panting, I look around, my eyes only able to see slightly in the darkness.
But I see them.
Boxes, dozens of them. Row by row it looks like from where I am, but sitting down I can't tell how many. Not boxes. Cages. Cages filled with Arcane. "Where am I?" I ask, my eyes looking at the cage the voice came from. But I already know the answer.
Bloody eyes meet mine. "Hel."
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Ikar word
Venol = bastard