Poisoned

Poisoned Ch. 2 [Redemption]

Chapter Two: Redemption

          The staircase seemed endless, spiralling forever on upwards. In the minutes that we climbed – one guard in front, one behind – my eyes grew accustomed to the light of the lantern.

          But it did nothing to prepare me for the light of day.

As soon as we stepped out into the prison’s courtyard, on the same level as the earth, I gave a cry of agony, squeezing my eyes tight against the pain. The guards chuckled at my pain, smiling at me unpleasantly.

“She tried to make a run for it, and fell down a flight of stairs pretty hard. We overpowered her at the bottom before manacling her, all right?” one guard asked the other.

It took awhile for me to understand that the guards had just made up an excuse for my injuries. For the beating that they gave me.

Fury mounted up inside of me, but I held my calm. I would not attack them like a wild madwoman.

          “Excellent,” smiled the older one, clapping his friend upon the shoulder. I watched them, finally opening my eyes. The large windows held open invitation to the sun streaming in, and I dreaded walking outside. That would hurt worse.

          The guards laughed with each other, and still I stood there, manacled, bleeding, staring at them. I couldn’t look away.

          It wasn’t because they were attractive. They were rough in appearance, manner and language, and simple in their speech and thought. Most likely sons of farmers or peasants, or if otherwise, merely foot soldiers in the King’s army. No, I couldn’t look away because they reminded me so forcibly of the life I had lived, before it had been cruelly ripped away from me.

          Straw-thatched roof huts, golden fields, the snort of horses, the trickle of milk into a pail… Overpowering memories, so vivid now in the light of the sun, assaulted my mind. I had tried so hard in my prison to remember those things – the smell of apple blossoms, the whistle of my father as he fixed a harness, my mother’s smile. And yet I had been able to see nothing but the blackness when I was in prison.

          “Sweet Mother Mary, her eyes!” the older guard finally said, staring at me in a horrified fascination.

          Frowning, the younger one turned to look at me, too, his face looking frightened as they inspected me.

          My eyes?

Yes, they had always been large. Almond-shaped, thick long lashes, probably only made larger by the hunger I had endured. Their colour was unusual, too. Most people in Axilia had either brown or blue eyes. Green were considered witch’s eyes, and black meant a cruel person. But mine were different. They were violet – a mix of blue, with a tinge of purple. I had only seen myself in a mirror just once – in the marketplace, at an old gypsy’s booth. For reflection, we mostly depended on the brook.

          When people first met me, my eyes were always the first thing they exclaimed over. It wasn’t so much their colour, but the expression my eyes had always held – questioning, wondering, thoughtful. I wondered bitterly what expression they held now.

          “Damn, that’s scary,” the younger one commented nervously.

          “Yeah,” the other guard huskily agreed, “Like she’s staring into my soul,” he muttered, averting his gaze and prodding me in the back.