"I was a deadly thing, was I not?" A pause, the first of many. "But I… I was not whole. I was broken.”
She clears her throat, looking down at her nails chewed down to little more than sensitive nubs. The hem of her dress bunched at her knees had been pulled into frayed nothingness. She continues to pull at loose threads. The healer pauses, reaching out to stop her.
“Autarch Mallossel, if you please… how did you escape?” He presses, kneeling down on the floor to try and get the warrior to look at him. Like a beast cornered, her wild and wide eyes reluctantly meet his.
“Escape is such a fickle word.”
She pants as she runs, feeling her legs slowly giving out further from under her. She had been running for hours, or at least it felt like it. She could no longer tell if it was night or day. She could no longer tell if she was north, or south, east, or west. Her pursuers were relentless; the howls and barks of the wargs are still ringing in her ears. She is panting for breath. Mallossel attempts to hide behind another nearby rock, but she knows it is futile. Her halberd slips out of her hands. She cannot catch her breath. The wolves are closing in. They are closing in. She is running out of time.
“Autarch Mallossel?” The healer repeats, breaking her out of her thoughts. “What does that mean?”
“Pardon?” She echoes, raising her gaze from the mindless act of pulling at strings. “What does what mean?”
The healer clears his throat. “You said escape is a fickle word. What does that mean?” As he asks this, her gaze falls back to meet his. She tilts her head at the question, resting her tongue against the part of her lips.
“Fickle… fickle… am I really gone?”
“What do you mean, Autarch?”
“Physically, yes, I am free. But all of that damage… is that gone?” She asks him in a tone that implies she is not really asking him but only airing her thoughts aloud. She rips a thread loose from the dress entirely. The healer reaches out to stop her, but she stands up suddenly.
“I think this is enough. I have people I need to speak to,” Mallossel said firmly.
“Autarch Mallossel, please! You have been awake for just but a few hours. You need to rest!” He attempts to insist, reaching out to grab her wrist to stop her from leaving. Harshly does she pull herself away and storm out the door.
“Get up, elf-scum! Will you wither on the floor?” came the jeers and the taunts of her jailors as she lay kneeling on the ground of her cell. She has nothing to offer them but her silence, even as another whip lashes through the air and cracks down onto her back; not even a broken cry comes from that bloodied mouth. Another whip, another lash. She bites her lip until it bleeds again. She digs nails into the dirt to stifle another scream. The jeers, the whips, the lashes; the blood, the blood, the blood.
“Escape is such a fickle word.”
