Traitor
Wúqíng stared at the forest dismally. The truths that formed the basis of her life had been torn asunder and she had been cast out from comfort and safety and the only home that she knew. She raised a hand to her heart as another wave of spasmodic pain struck. Her eyes stung and she turned to glance back the way that she had come.
In her heart of hearts, she was hoping that he had, indeed, followed her, and would try to console her or try to reason with her.
Her mind protested the obvious lack of companionship. Maybe there was another layer of truth to all of this and he would have stumbled upon it at the last second. He was a detective, after all. It was in his nature to deduce…
A hiccupping sob began the cascade of tears. This was not the same as it had been when she was a child. She was older, wiser, and she now knew better than to trust any would-be saviours.
She ran her hand along her leg until she reached the bracers. Tiě Shǒu had crafted them for her, had given her the ability to walk again, to run again. She hadn't even thought it possible. She closed her streaming eyes and bowed her head as she removed them.
He had always spoiled her. Was it really all out of guilt? She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.
Clank!
She immediately felt the uselessness of her legs. Another spasm struck at her heart. She needed them.
Clank!
She would have to wear them again; but just an instant, a moment, without their burden felt good. A tremor raced through her. She clutched at the fabric above her heart. The ache was burning; an all-consuming blaze without mercy or relief. She hunched over, curling in on herself as the tears splashed loudly against the bracers.
Could she hate him? All the lies of her father being a good man… Could she hate him for this pain? Could she, when she still loved her father, the instigator, after her family's massacre? Were these strangers, of differing blood, of lies, more important?
She screamed into the silence of the forest.
Blinded by tears, by grief, there was no relief to be had; no release.
She brought her quaking hands up to her face. The pain was a chasm; as wide as worlds and abyssal. Closer, it clawed at her. It dragged at her to its darkness and its anguish. And she had not the strength nor will to resist.
Author's Note: Would you call these types of shorts 'character studies'? I'm not entirely sure what to call them. They serve little other purpose than to act as a small scene; a fleeting, irretrievable glimpse into something non-canon. Though, I don't particularly care. As long as I can type, and all that jazz…
It's a worthy note to make, though, that this was mostly typed whilst in China. As Google had been banned (again), I couldn't find the intonations for Iron Fist, and I couldn't post it until my return. It is also a worthy note that I did not recover from jet lag whilst there, and I have not yet since returning. So if there is little sense in it, blame that. I know I will say so.