eruditus
08-21-2003, 12:10 AM
Dawn casts a faint flicker of light through the shivering trees. A few yards from the still sleeping camp, the woman has begun her morning meditation.
With a long stretch toward the sky and a deep breath of the cool northern air, she empties her mind and welcomes the day.
Sometimes in the deep of night, she thinks she can feel it happening again. Spiny barbs pierce the length of her back as a strong pinching maw clamps to her neck. What follows is a rush of fire through her veins. It radiates from her neck to all of her limbs, finally moving up her neck and filling her eyes with blood. A dark red curtain falls, blocking her vision.
Her eyes close and she focuses on the sounds around her tensed body.
Memories return, sometimes in a flood but often only in snippets. Her little sister's face smiling over breakfast blurs into her own strong arms sweeping a small roadside shrine of her order.
Her foot circles from front to behind, kicking up a small puff of dust.
She knows her name is Abbanuu, that she was born a Sherite peasant and trained as a warrior monk. She is free of the Castle and the mask of ignorance they placed upon her. She is free to travel and possibly return home. But another part of her is still Abby from the Village: Abby, who was cast down into the dark underworld: Abby, who was dedicated to protecting her friends.
Her fists strike the air – low, high, low, high.
Even with the truth of her life revealed, she remembers the fantasy world all too vividly. Though she doesn't know the real world repercussions of their hallucinogenic actions – her imagination can fill in far too many gaps. She alone was responsible for the deaths of many people in what she believed to be the dark city. The thought of her killing innocents, innocents very probably incarcerated against their will, sickens her.
With a duck and weave, she glides to a defensive posture. The wind in the trees is a mournful sigh.
The doctor acts as if nothing has changed, that nothing is different. He is always watching and writing, just as he probably watched and wrote while working for the Castle. When he speaks, it is nearly always words of distrust and violence. What if he is only here to lead the little band to battle against the trolls? What if he is still watching for them?
The soft and fluid step turns sharply with a jab.
If she is truly free of the Castle, then they may be looking for her. If this is just another step to their experiments, then they are watching already. To keep her father and sister safe, she cannot return to them. Going home is not an option.
She fumbles a move and sways slightly off balance.
But she is not alone. Sierra, Trill and Glimm have been with her from the beginning, suffering the same hurts and manipulations. The Castle may have trained them to be a team of killers but what they created was a family. And families are to be protected.
Swiftly she strikes with fingers like talons.
Her movements come to an end and the woman stands still in the clearing. The sun is visible low in the trees and the sweat on her skin sparkles in the light.
She walks to the nearby stream, strips, and steps into the icy water. The wounds from the bicentipod have healed, leaving a trail of white scars up her spine – scars that go deeper than her skin.
With a long stretch toward the sky and a deep breath of the cool northern air, she empties her mind and welcomes the day.
Sometimes in the deep of night, she thinks she can feel it happening again. Spiny barbs pierce the length of her back as a strong pinching maw clamps to her neck. What follows is a rush of fire through her veins. It radiates from her neck to all of her limbs, finally moving up her neck and filling her eyes with blood. A dark red curtain falls, blocking her vision.
Her eyes close and she focuses on the sounds around her tensed body.
Memories return, sometimes in a flood but often only in snippets. Her little sister's face smiling over breakfast blurs into her own strong arms sweeping a small roadside shrine of her order.
Her foot circles from front to behind, kicking up a small puff of dust.
She knows her name is Abbanuu, that she was born a Sherite peasant and trained as a warrior monk. She is free of the Castle and the mask of ignorance they placed upon her. She is free to travel and possibly return home. But another part of her is still Abby from the Village: Abby, who was cast down into the dark underworld: Abby, who was dedicated to protecting her friends.
Her fists strike the air – low, high, low, high.
Even with the truth of her life revealed, she remembers the fantasy world all too vividly. Though she doesn't know the real world repercussions of their hallucinogenic actions – her imagination can fill in far too many gaps. She alone was responsible for the deaths of many people in what she believed to be the dark city. The thought of her killing innocents, innocents very probably incarcerated against their will, sickens her.
With a duck and weave, she glides to a defensive posture. The wind in the trees is a mournful sigh.
The doctor acts as if nothing has changed, that nothing is different. He is always watching and writing, just as he probably watched and wrote while working for the Castle. When he speaks, it is nearly always words of distrust and violence. What if he is only here to lead the little band to battle against the trolls? What if he is still watching for them?
The soft and fluid step turns sharply with a jab.
If she is truly free of the Castle, then they may be looking for her. If this is just another step to their experiments, then they are watching already. To keep her father and sister safe, she cannot return to them. Going home is not an option.
She fumbles a move and sways slightly off balance.
But she is not alone. Sierra, Trill and Glimm have been with her from the beginning, suffering the same hurts and manipulations. The Castle may have trained them to be a team of killers but what they created was a family. And families are to be protected.
Swiftly she strikes with fingers like talons.
Her movements come to an end and the woman stands still in the clearing. The sun is visible low in the trees and the sweat on her skin sparkles in the light.
She walks to the nearby stream, strips, and steps into the icy water. The wounds from the bicentipod have healed, leaving a trail of white scars up her spine – scars that go deeper than her skin.