The weather worsens, the day grew shorter and shorter. The guards that stand at attention on the dungeon floor shivers from the wind that manage to infiltrate the heavy stones.
Worryingly, he gazes towards Ana, contained in the only filled cell in the dungeon, moved there by the insistence of the crown prince and his aids after she was delivered by Quinn herself.
Quinn, who now walks away from Ana's compartment with an almost sardonic smile to her face if not for the real pain that colors her verdant green eye. The sort of ache that inspires Ana's body to stir by itself, trying to reach out before a cough caught her off guard.
The dungeon was colder and damper than the prison cell was, something Ana didn't imagine being possible until today. Then again, she also doesn't believe herself capable of surviving Quinn a week ago, but today proves her wrong all the same.
Though, if Ana was forced to guess, it was less because of her herself, and more because of Quinn's capriciousness. Does she think me weak enough to spill military secrets? Knowledgeable enough to be useful tortured? Talented enough to be forced to work for their forces? Or did she actually—no!
With great effort, she shakes her head violently, refusing to give Quinn any place in her head and heart any more than necessary, which is none. Unfortunate that the both of them disagree with her judgment.
The moment she closes her eyes, she sees her life flashing before her. She can see the wonder they claim to signify her sanctity, how close she was to her own spiritual core; words she doesn't understand the meaning of then, but knew what they symbolize from the shines of their eyes.
They look at her with reverence as they whisper worship into her ears, winning her from her parents with a handsome bank note, to be taken forever to a hall that is built to listen to the universe.
She can hear herself crying and begging, not for release but for a proof that she was a miracle, for the capability to move it to another soul, one brighter and more deserving. She can feel the vow she took shortly after took a deep root in her psyche.
And at the end of the journey, after the people she cares about having met her again and notices the stiffness in her posture, the formality in her words; they began abandoning her to loneliness.
One by one, their compassionate warmth no longer touches her, leaving an emptiness as bitter and biting as the late winter wind blowing on the wilderness, freezing her spirit in hurt.
Shivers travel her spine down from her brain with that mental image in mind, slowly injecting every cell with memories more familiar and recent.
It starts with the most passionate. In her dimly lit chambers, they kiss and explore each other's body, moaning into their mouth in ecstasy, the bliss and sweat they permeate blocks away even the cruelest of storms.
Then, it turns kinder; softer, more intimate. Ana remembers sitting on her lap, how awkward she begins acting and how attentively she looks after her comfort in the bitter winter, as if she would break at a mere whisper of the wind.
Perhaps she does.
Ana remembers holding her hand, calloused and scarred but welcoming all the same; she remembers her voice, the way it rises and lowers alongside emotions she's so careful to hide; she remembers her eye, a dull verdant green that burns bright when she truly smiles.
A charmingly intoxicating smirk, rough and roguish, yes, but also honest and open; as if she's offering to Ana to be kept forever in a jar to entertain herself in a cold and rainy days.
Maybe she has done so.
For she can't imagine the woman to put on such a childish grin again, not after what Ana has done. The streak of hurt that slashes across her face as she smiles fills Ana with guilt still, the way her voice crack into a pit of disappointment with no surprise.
With a week to think of her action, Ana doesn't even know why she has done such a thing. The woman merely asked if I trust her, and I do, so why do I attack her? Why couldn't I simply be honest and hear her? What if she truly only has nightmares? What if she indeed needs my help that night? Why must we—the rattling of her chain stops her thought.
They're infernal in nature, acid-etched with primordial runes to dampen her magical capabilities into nothingness as long as they bind all of her functional limbs, the identical treatment was placed into her holding cell, with every corner of it painted in another enchantment to ensure her incarceration.
The people that painted it, the guards that put her in chains, all look apologetic enough when they meet her eyes; signaling their unwillingness, the fact that their hand has been forced by duty.
The very same thing that causes Ana to attack.
As the realization sinks into the pit of her stomach and lies there, still; Ana follows. Her body doesn't move, her eyes stare unblinking and hard to restraints they've placed on her.
A new question circles her mind now, was duty worth it?
And with everything she has done for duty, all the activities she has avoided, each thing she has given up for it, there's only one correct answer: it does. Surely, it does. Because if it doesn't, then—she takes a hitched breath, tears slowly trailing down her cheeks as the worst of punishment plays out in her brain.
A reminder of her warmth, the furtive and shy smile she has shown her in the comfort of her own chamber, the earnest eagerness she holds to spent time with Ana, the food she cooks.
Her girlfriend and all of her that was once Ana; the whole that she has given up on and will never again attain. If duty wasn't worth the world, then she has lost hers for nothing.