Emery has always dreamed of running away, escaping the marriage and life she didn't ask for. But that dream all comes tumbling down the moment the rebels attack on her wedding day.
Now on the run with her new husband, she must face the consequences...
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If she were here, Mother would have my head for getting blood on her carpets. But luckily for me, she isn't.
I didn't mean to hit so hard. I only meant to knock them out for a few minutes, and now I stare at the point on his head where I had hit the candlestick against, now seeping blood. I could have killed him. The thought should knock me sick, but strangely doesn't as I turn my eyes toward the darkened staircase looming below me.
Breathing heavily, I drop my makeshift weapon, flinching at the loud clatter it makes against the marble floor, silently praying that no one downstairs heard it and comes up to investigate. I especially pray that my fiancé- husband- didn't hear. Gods knows what would happen to me if he did. Even worse, I pray that Father never finds out. Then my death would certainly be guaranteed.
Pushing the chilling thought to the back of my mind, I focus on the task at hand- the sound of muffled screams, grunts and shouts still echoing from the dungeons. Normally, I would dismiss the noises as easily as Alek does with a wave of a hand, saying how the criminals deserve their punishment for whatever law it is they broke. Of course, I have silently disagreed with the statement, but my position in society has forced me to simply sit tight and nod along with what everyone else things, rather than voice such things.
A woman is never allowed to voice her opinions. No matter the circumstances. Fathers voice drifts into my mind, his firm instructions he had told me from the moment I was born.
A shiver makes its way down my spine, and I block out the harsh rules of society- as Gwen had once put it- standing perfectly still as the shouts get louder, and the sounds of fighting get less frequent. I could hear Alek's voice in the back of my head now, even Gwen saying the same, that I should walk away, leave the guards to their work. But this isn't work. This is torture.
If I ever dared voice those words, Gwen would no doubt give me a look of warning and astonishment, but she would, most likely, later tell me she agreed once in the privacy of one of our rooms. Our soundproofed rooms- essential when sharing our forbidden opinions.
Which is why I stroll slowly down the steps, but not before picking up the candlestick, and holding it up against my shoulder like I had seen Alek do many times in the training grounds. I'm especially careful to avoid places where the stone could crack, thus revealing my location, before I step into the darkness of the castle dungeons.
Only lit by a single torch, the thin corridor consists of 5 cells, 3 of which are full of people my father considers criminals, with the rest empty. My footsteps echo throughout the space, breaking the silence. It's only when I come to the bottom and silence ensues, do I hear the thump of someone falling onto the stone floors, their breathing broken and staggered.
I walk toward the sound, holding my weapon higher, and trying not to be feared by the knocked out- or maybe dead- soldiers lying soundlessly at my feet. I gulp, stepping over someone's leg and looking up to see the source of the brawl.
A man, clothed in what looks like ripped material, is lying face up on the floor. His hand holds the right of his stomach firmly, but that doesn't help his breathing that becomes more and more faint by the second. His blue eyes catch the light emanating from the simple light bulb above us, which also illuminate his long grey hair and wrinkles. Every few seconds, he blinks slowly, closing his eyes for a moment too long before forcing them open again to look upward at the stained ceiling.
If I hadn't already known, I would guess that he's dying, from the sight of blood seeping through his fingers that push down onto his wound.
Rushing to him, I push his hands further down, and his eyes flicker to mine. Mixed with panic and pain, I silently reassure him I'm on his side by ripping off part of his shirt, and pressing it to soak some blood up, now starting to pool onto the floor. I smile softly, and he takes a relieved breath, taking in the guards scattered on the floor and their discarded weapons.
He breathing becomes more struggled, and his coughs begin to sound even more painful. And, at the sound of footsteps being heard overhead, his hand clutches my wrist that puts pressure on his wound. We lock eyes in a panic, and his hand squeezes my wrist tighter as he starts shaking his head frantically.
My breathing gets deeper, more rushed as I hear footsteps overhead, loud, and heavy. There's tears in my eyes as I hear them get faster, as if starting to notice the two guards who are stationed just at the top of the stairs, collapsed.
The pushing at my arms brings me back to the man in front of me, his hands propelling mine away from his still bleeding wound. I furrow my brows in confusion, looking down when his hands start to heat up despite the constantly dropping temperature of the dungeons. I rip my arms from his grip when they get so hot I'm sure they've left a mark. And yet, when I look down, I find my skin its normal colour- maybe paler in the cold. And when I look back to the stranger, I find his eyes lacking life, and staring upward to the ceiling.
Knees almost buckling underneath me, I stand shakily, looking down upon the dead man at my feet. I clutch the knife he had shoved into my hands a few seconds ago, no doubt drawing blood. I don't dare look back to his lifeless face as I turn away to control the tears that threaten to start running down my cheeks. I can picture Gwen's face, her voice telling me not to ruin my makeup which the maids had spent hours on. And she's right. Of course she's right. But I block her out, instead focussing on the steady but somewhat panicked beating of Alek's heart- the only thing constant in a changing world.
My stomach drops, and it's only when heavy feet run down the stairs- my consequence coming closer and closer- do I move from my position and hide in the shadows of one of the empty shelves.
To no avail, I try to control my shaking breath and hands, staring intently as they tremble more violently, the sweat gathering catching on the light bouncing off the armour of the guards. As they examine the body, tears gather in my eyes as I recall his last moments, and how I had practically stared death in the eyes. My heart palpitates, the edges of my vision going black as I attempt to focus on the swift and annoyed instructions that the guards give each other.
One of them- who I assume is the leader of the small group- orders everyone to start clearing up the bodies and asses any injuries. Two others disappear and come back with two more, who pick up the deceased prisoner and practically drag him out of the room. Now all alone, the leader of the guards assesses the area, scanning over the filled cells, eyeing the criminals who also shrink back into the shadows. Finally, his gaze lingers on the cell I hide in, eyes squinting through the blanket of darkness, and I shift my foot closer to me as the tip of my shoe shows in the light. I don't release the breath I hold until I'm certain he's gone. Only then do I collapse, falling to the floor and hugging my knees.
Death is a curious being. He takes lives within the blink of an eye, most of the time not letting his victims say goodbye and leaving grief in his wake, leaving time to slowly heal you. He doesn't look back once his victims are his, and the sorrow that trails behind like a cloak is more like a silent promise that he is coming for you, too.
And every time I close my eyes, I see those determined eyes of Death staring back. Promising that he'll return when I least expect it.
