disclaimer: not mine, never will be. *frowny face*
rating/warnings: Teen and Up (though subject to change) / referenced torture, mild violence
notes: I know I should be working on Solis Febris. I know the chapter is short. I know. But I started writing this last night in a fit of depression and anxiety, and actually ended up rather proud of it. I didn't want it to get lost to the depths of my fic folder, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it. I'm looking at it being about 10k? But we'll see what happens.
In any case, I hope you enjoy.
a benediction and a prayer
Pain.
That is the first thing she notices when she drips awake: pain. It radiates through her chest, a sunburst of needles and pins that stab her lungs with each breath. It is agony, and for a second darkness clouds the shadows that lay imprinted on her vision, stealing away sound, taste, touch. She flounders, stretching out a hand before her as if to part the darkness like a curtain, as if she can pull back the shadows from her eyes and see the world arrayed before her, silver and gold and turquoise.
She blinks.
The shadows fade from black to grey to silver and then, at last, to white. She blinks again, and blurry shapes begin to form before her, large squares and smaller circles, ovals and triangles and behind it all, light.
She takes a breath, and groans. The sound is frail and thin, a spider's silk of sound against the sudden roaring in her ears. She blinks again, risks a second breath, and tries to sit up. The floor is hard and cold beneath her-it is tile or cement, she is not sure which, but the cold leeches through the thin, cotton shirt she wears to steal the warmth of her flesh-and her spine pops. That, at least, does not hurt.
The shapes dissolve into patterns, the patterns back into shapes, and very suddenly she can see.
She is in a small, bare room. The floor is hard, grey cement, the walls and ceiling the same. A single, yellow-white bulb hangs from the ceiling, filling the small room with harsh light.
The grinding of a door sliding open sounds behind her. She turns, and immediately regrets the action as her ribs, which she knows instinctively-though she does not know how she knows-are broken, protest sharply.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stands in the doorway, the light framing his body. She squints, confused and wary. She does not know him.
She realizes, with a jolt, that she does not know herself, either.
The man barges into the room. "Spirits," he breathes, and kneels beside her. She can see now that he has a strong jaw and dark eyes, framed by closely cropped dark hair. His eyes are kind, and warm, and inviting of trust.
She does not trust him.
"Kathryn."
She frowns. Kathryn. The name is like a benediction, a prayer on this man's tongue.
Is that her name? Kathryn?
She blinks, and the man's face swims. It takes her a second before she realizes it is tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes that are to blame. She is relieved-immensely, hugely relieved-to see this man, though she cannot say why.
She still does not trust him.
He offers a hand. She takes it warily, and he helps her to her feet.
"Come on," he says. "I'm getting you out of here."
end notes: What did you think? Let me know!