The Raven Girl

Chapter 15

She had been left, once more, alone in that hideous room. If she had had the strength, she would've scoffed at the rather temporary relief she had felt upon entering it, lost in a blissful ignorance of the horrors hidden in the shadows, invisible in the dim light.

There was now not one but many things that grated away at her mind, and she could see images flick between these almost as if it could not choose what was worse; as if it could not make up its mind on which would scare her the most. It jumped from one memory to the next, the pain she had felt a burning sensation in her throat that made her want to scream. 

Rest was not feasible, and though she had learnt this what seemed a long time ago, in comparison of what had happened in these past days, she had attempted yet again, and utterly in vain. The only good memory she could think of now was that short moment where everything had stopped: the pain, the anguish, and almost time itself. She had been able to shut her eyes without her imagination leaping into action, ready with another torturous reminder of what they'd done. She had been able to feel the sweet hands of sleep pull her into a dreamless rest.

But Rickard had cut that short, waking her in an instant.

Now, she was left facing the same terrifying prospect. There would again be no sleep, kept awake by the memories that pounced on her and preyed on her weakness, mind turning against her like she had somehow been split in two, the pieces on opposing sides. When, however, she did finally drift off, her dreams would soon wake her, sitting up wide-eyed and breath heavy, grasping at the cold floor in panic, clawing away at the stone like a sculptor would carve with a chisel.

How long would they last for? She shuddered at the answer, of which she knew was likely to be the rest of her life. There was no way that one night she would be able to just forget everything, peacefully sleeping wherever she may, perhaps in a bed or beneath a tree or, more likely, in captivity, slaving away in this castle. It would've been hilarious, if the reality was not such a bitter outcome, in thinking that she could wake one morning with a smile, no longer tired and no longer tormented.

If only that had been the case.

She had no idea how she was still alive- blood loss had been inhibited a little, but there was far too much, and no amount of bandages could stop it, let alone heal it. It was remarkable that she was still breathing, the way she saw it.

She was though, and she supposed that was what mattered, regardless of whether or not she was slowing bleeding out, and, consequently, dying. Rickard had promised to return later, probably just to make sure she hadn't given up, letting death sweep her away into an endless sleep, and, to be fair, the thought had brushed her bedevilled mind- maybe, just maybe, she would have been better off that way, for the path set out for her did not seem to be a very appealing one.

It was like her mind was conspiring against her, constantly trying to manipulate her, as if it thought it was somehow separate from her and would live on long after the death of her body, free at last. The thought made her alert once again, the happy feeling of death shaken away. Silently, she could almost hear her mind curse as she willed herself to live on. It had to get better. She had to make it better.

Perhaps that had been the decision that had spurred her on, an almost stubborn mind set forcing her heart to beat on, her lungs to remain in a rhythmic cycle of inhaling and exhaling, and her mind to stay active, twisting fanatical plots of escape, returning to a beautiful cottage set out on a lonely field with no one to hurt her and no one to snatch away her dreams yet again.

Rickard returned again, changing the already scarlet material, putting pressure upon every wound he could- anything to make sure she didn't die, for she guessed Eirik would not respond well, denied of his fire as well as his chance to make her drawn out life a misery. If she had not been so weak, she would've smiled at his humbled position. After all, for this brief moment in time, it was not her who was serving, but him, tending to her like a sickly heir needed for the throne- everything was done to avoid the worst.

The next time he brought with him ale, becoming more and more attentive with each visit. The laughter he must have received from his brother would have resembled something of Arne, she thought, for the two were very alike in that respect- they were both rash and enjoyed humiliating others. Rickard knew that this was his brother's motive, laughing each time that he had to return to the dungeon, but in all honesty, he could not make himself care.

Indeed, he did not seem to care for many of the things Eirik had done in the past few years. They were very different, he the more reserved of the two. He prided himself in this- he was the one his brother relied on so he did not go astray, losing the crown to uprisings and rebellions. It was he, Rickard, that kept the crown for his brother and that kept the public at bay, and, sure, he would probably never get to feel the weight of the garish, jewel encrusted gold on his head, but for the most part, he was glad of it.

After many days of this, he managed a small smile at the sight of Asta's recovery, handing her some bread and ale. Gratefully, she took it, still very weak, a tired look to her heavy eyes.

"You look much better," he commented, rather indifferently, watching as she nibbled at the crust. Something flashed in the back of her eyes, and he registered it as fear. Whether it was in apprehension or not was another thing- he could not tell. What he did know, though, was that his brother had scarred her for life, that this young girl that sat at his feet had a darkness to her: a haggard gauntness, eyes hollow, the striking grey swallowed by the black shadows that overtook her entire face, and he, in turn, had scarred her too.

There, on her cheeks, were the scars he had left, as if a lion had unleashed his claws upon her face, leaving horrible reminders of what they'd done, and, to some extent, it had. He sat down, somewhat shielding her from the iron chair, still stained with her blood, now dried, giving the iron a rusting look. He watched her stare past him, almost looking through his head, directly at it, stuck in a trance she had never wanted to enter. He had no desire to know what was going through her mind, images and noises and memories flicking through her head like the preliminary sketches of an artist, connected and plentiful.

He called her name after a while, slightly unnerved. He had seen much more than his brother, and he knew how damaged people got after this, nightmares that could never be erased. Eirik never saw what he saw. Suddenly, she was back to reality, her heart race returning to the weak, constant sigh that it was. She looked up at him, seeing him this time.

"And, I suppose," she said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "you will be taking me as your slave soon." she smiled sadly, "This is where it all begins."

"What does?"

"The death of my freedom, and, the death of what little there is left of me. I will be but a living corpse."