Memoirs of a Madwoman II
It's raining again. And if it weren't the fact that I knew the roof has been treated recently, I'd swear that there was a definitive drip. A constantly wandering drip that finds my knees wherever they may be. The cold ache sinks into the bone, going far beyond the reach of any healing ointment or magics I can find thus far. Stab stab stabity stab, a poking slicing ache that flirts with the edge of my mind, dancing with scraps of memory. Which is ironic, considering what memories it dances with.
Some memories, I have found, are sometimes best left forgotten.
But curiosity drives the dance, the need to know, so I chase and chase and dash, grabbing the scraps and fashioning them together as best as I can figure. I've gone beyond the desire for exact accuracy. Of course, I've also gone beyond the darkly morbid romanticism that seemed to plague my fashionings at first. It's the ache drove that away, guiding me with its piercing clarity. Or at least I hope so.
But even so ... some memories are best left forgotten.
Run and run and run away, this I'd done since that day, whatever That day may have been. The day of the First Death, I'm supposing. Run away only to be caught, time and time again. Always finding some way around whatever strictures, rules, and policies that were slammed down ... each more binding then those previous. Then, one day, no more running. I suppose the chase became tiring or annoying, or no longer worth any exhiliration they may have felt within the Hunt itself. For whatever reason, it was determined that She Who Runs shall no longer do so. Period. And a method was devised to keep that from happening, all the while still permitting my body the freedom to do ... whatever it was that they had me do. What, exactly, that was, I do not know. Perhaps another day I shall remember ... although some memories are best left forgotten ...
Feysteel, blackened, the rods gleamed with a darkly flickering light. Two of them, a blue witchfire glowing in the red coals of the forge. Smoke rising up, the soft sussurus of feet pacing behind. No gag used, no gag needed, the flesh instead shaped and woven to form a gag on its own. Magics rising, tickling the nose and constricting the throat, allowing breath, no sound. Not a peep, not a peep, nothing to disturb those slumbering above. Eyelids sealed in the same manner as the mouth, not even tears allowed to fall. Muttering voices, deep and high, the sputtering of the coals of the forge. What's happening? Don't know. What are they doing? No clue. What's taking so long? I have no answer ... stop asking questions, be calm be calm. Muttering again, magics rising, needing to sneeze. A clink and a clank and a crackling spatter. I know that sound. The forge. Taking something from the forge. No, not something. Somethings. Realization dawning into a dusk of despair, rising with every hitch of breath. No no, not that, not that. Movement of feet stepping forward, hands on flesh, bracing each leg tight. Cannot wiggle, cannot move, will never run again. No no, not that not that. Witchfire burning, sizzling, passing seamlessly through knees that helplessly locked with pain. Passing through? Just passing through? I can heal that. Yes, I can heal ... no ... no... Wait. It stopped. Staying, settling, cooling, fusing into bone and flesh, the molten feysteel of coldest fire left inside ... never to run, never to jump, never to feel the wind again ...
But of course, that wasn't quite true. As I can certainly attest to right now. How long I lived that way, I couldn't say. At least until That Day. Another That Day. The Day my Shining One, my Golden One came.
But that's another memory I am needing time to piece. And for now, I'm tired, and my knees ache ... and I wish to go to sleep ...
Some memories, I have found, are sometimes best left forgotten.
But curiosity drives the dance, the need to know, so I chase and chase and dash, grabbing the scraps and fashioning them together as best as I can figure. I've gone beyond the desire for exact accuracy. Of course, I've also gone beyond the darkly morbid romanticism that seemed to plague my fashionings at first. It's the ache drove that away, guiding me with its piercing clarity. Or at least I hope so.
But even so ... some memories are best left forgotten.
Run and run and run away, this I'd done since that day, whatever That day may have been. The day of the First Death, I'm supposing. Run away only to be caught, time and time again. Always finding some way around whatever strictures, rules, and policies that were slammed down ... each more binding then those previous. Then, one day, no more running. I suppose the chase became tiring or annoying, or no longer worth any exhiliration they may have felt within the Hunt itself. For whatever reason, it was determined that She Who Runs shall no longer do so. Period. And a method was devised to keep that from happening, all the while still permitting my body the freedom to do ... whatever it was that they had me do. What, exactly, that was, I do not know. Perhaps another day I shall remember ... although some memories are best left forgotten ...
Feysteel, blackened, the rods gleamed with a darkly flickering light. Two of them, a blue witchfire glowing in the red coals of the forge. Smoke rising up, the soft sussurus of feet pacing behind. No gag used, no gag needed, the flesh instead shaped and woven to form a gag on its own. Magics rising, tickling the nose and constricting the throat, allowing breath, no sound. Not a peep, not a peep, nothing to disturb those slumbering above. Eyelids sealed in the same manner as the mouth, not even tears allowed to fall. Muttering voices, deep and high, the sputtering of the coals of the forge. What's happening? Don't know. What are they doing? No clue. What's taking so long? I have no answer ... stop asking questions, be calm be calm. Muttering again, magics rising, needing to sneeze. A clink and a clank and a crackling spatter. I know that sound. The forge. Taking something from the forge. No, not something. Somethings. Realization dawning into a dusk of despair, rising with every hitch of breath. No no, not that, not that. Movement of feet stepping forward, hands on flesh, bracing each leg tight. Cannot wiggle, cannot move, will never run again. No no, not that not that. Witchfire burning, sizzling, passing seamlessly through knees that helplessly locked with pain. Passing through? Just passing through? I can heal that. Yes, I can heal ... no ... no... Wait. It stopped. Staying, settling, cooling, fusing into bone and flesh, the molten feysteel of coldest fire left inside ... never to run, never to jump, never to feel the wind again ...
But of course, that wasn't quite true. As I can certainly attest to right now. How long I lived that way, I couldn't say. At least until That Day. Another That Day. The Day my Shining One, my Golden One came.
But that's another memory I am needing time to piece. And for now, I'm tired, and my knees ache ... and I wish to go to sleep ...