Xirysa Says: Well, hey there. I haven't popped up here in a while, have I? ...Sorry about that. Hope this makes up for it. Please enjoy!
Vertigo
The kitten nudges the small yellow ball before batting it between his forepaws experimentally, mewling quietly all the while. What are you, he seems to say. What are you, and how can you amuse me?
Priscilla smiles and plucks the ball from between the kitten's paws. The kitten blinks, confused as to where his new toy could have gone. She holds the ball in front of the kitten's nose and laughs when he swats at it and misses. He tumbles over, landing on his back and mewling plaintively. How could you be so mean?
Taking pity on the poor creature, Priscilla places the ball on the ground in front of the kitten's nose. His embarrassment of being bested by the object is forgotten; he snaps up and attacks the ball with a juvenile ferociousness that makes Priscilla cringe. This kitten will one day grow up to be a killer, and he will pass on that future to his own offspring.
Her knees pop and crack as she lifts herself off of the cold stone floor. Priscilla is not a young girl anymore. Her eyes have become pale with age, as if all the color and life has been washed out of them, and her hair is no longer the color of flame; instead, it is the color of the ash that it leaves behind. Her back is weak and pains her daily. Her bones creak and crack in protest with the simplest movements. War and politics and the heart of a child forced to grow up too fast have made her old before her time.
Sometimes, Priscilla wishes that she had never gone on the campaign of the Lycian lordlings. Sometimes, she wishes that she had never seen the things she has seen, done the things she has done. But that is wishful thinking.
The past can never be changed.
Her small, shuffling footsteps echo loudly as she makes her way towards her chambers. Priscilla walks the halls of House Caerleon alone, now. Her adoptive parents had been taken into St. Elimine's bosom long ago. House Cornwall, her dear lord brother and their parents are gone as well. She has servants, yes, but no more family to call her own.
Family... The thought is familiar, sparking memories of roasted meat and laughter around the campfires. The general hubbub of making camp for the night. They had been her family, her comrades. Every one of them was special to her. Silent, studious Erk, ostentatious Sister Serra. Timid Florina and sweet, courageous Guy of Sacae. Brash Lord Hector, polite Lord Eliwood, and the beautiful Lady Lyndis. Even Mark held a special place in her heart, despite his silent and awkward demeanor.
But age has made her cynical, and Priscilla thinks of the fates her old comrades face; all of them are dead or dying, herself included. She feels so old, and she knows that it is almost her time—it is simply a matter of when.
She recalls other memories, far darker and morbid. The sharp, stinging scent of her salves and potions as she set a broken bone in a splint or sewed up a wound as her patient screamed into a dirty rag forced into his mouth because she had no more of the herbs she normally used as painkillers. Flame and destruction everywhere she looked as men and women all around her choked out their last death rattles. Companions lost, to hunger and disease and simply foolish mistakes. And the blood, so much blood... There was always blood.
Even now, so many years later, the scent of it is familiar.
Priscilla stops for a moment, leaning against a wall for support. A maid passing by asks her if she needs assistance, but Priscilla waves her away. No one can help her.
She is pulled out of her thoughts when something bumps against her feet. Priscilla looks down to see the kitten winding his way around her legs. Carry me, he mewls. Please carry me.
Even though her body protests, she bends down and picks the kitten up with one arm; she uses the other to support herself, bracing it against the cold stone wall beside her. Her old bones groan and creak as she stands up and another memory, long forgotten, plays itself in her mind.
A warm spring morning, the smell of rain faint on the air. Priscilla stood at the base of a tree—she couldn't have been more that five years old—pointing up at something in one of the lower branches.
"Look, brother!"
In the tree was a kitten. It clutched at the branch desperately, afraid it may fall. Something about it struck her. It just seemed so... Sad. "Oh, the poor thing..."
Her brother stood beside her and shrugged. "So? It's just a cat." Had he always been that cold?
"But it will fall! We need to get it down."
And her brother looked at her, saw the look on her face. "Do you really want to get it down that bad?"
Priscilla nodded. "Yes!"
"Very well." He stepped up to the tree. One hand curled around a branch as he found a foothold in the bark. "I'll get it, then."
She stopped him, stepping behind him and fisting her small hand in the material of his shirt. "But brother, you're too big! This tree is old—the branch would break if you tried to get on it!"
He stepped down and looked at the tree. Despite her age, Priscilla was right. The tree didn't look like it could hold his weight at all. Then he got an idea. He looked at his sister. "Would you like to get it?"
Priscilla's eyes shone with excitement. "Truly, brother?"
"Yes," he said.
"And if I fall, will you catch me?" She bit her lower lip nervously—she had picked up that trait from their mother.
He smiled at her, then, a true, genuine smile. "Always." He picked her up and placed her on a low branch, holding her waist so she could get her footing. "Just move along this branch until you reach the cat. Then you can hand it down to me, and then I'll get you. Okay?"
She nodded with all the seriousness she could muster. "Yes, sir!"
He chuckled. "All right, go ahead."
Priscilla edged along the branch, her brother's hands on her waist to steady her. When she reached the kitten, she extended her hand and scooped up the kitten. It seemed eager to get out of the tree. Her brother reached up with one hand to take the kitten from her, his other still on her waist. "Now, Priscilla," he told her, "I'm going to let go of you for a moment to put the cat on the ground. Hold on tight, alright?"
"Alright, brother," she said as she felt him move his hand from her waist. She clutched at the branch, before she made the mistake of looking down.
Suddenly, Priscilla was very dizzy; the ground swam below her and everywhere she looked made her head hurt. She wasn't even that far from the ground, yet she felt as if she were leagues away. She closed her eyes as the branch slipped from her fingers and she fell backwards, expecting to feel the hard ground on her back and the pain that was sure to follow.
It never came.
When she opened her eyes, Priscilla found herself looking at the sky, but there was no pain. Thin but strong arms encircled her and helped her get to her feet.
"See?" she hears him say as the memory fades away. "I told you I would catch you."
And now she's falling, falling, falling again. She feels the kitten twist and jump out of her arms as he yowls in surprise and hears the footsteps of the servants as they run to her. Her back hits the stone floor hard, but she cannot feel anything.
Lady Priscilla, Lady Priscilla! they say. Lady Priscilla, are you alright?
For a moment, she smells rain on a spring wind. The voices fade away. She is a girl again, her hair the color of blood and flame and her eyes the bright emerald of fresh young grass. Her joints and bones don't pain her anymore, and she falls forever into oblivion. Somewhere, in the distance, she hears a kitten mewl.
Goodbye, he says. Goodbye.
And after many long years, she smiles. A true, genuine smile.
Xirysa Says: Well, yes. Hope that was alright. You know, I never really liked Priscilla all that much before—she seemed too nice, in my opinion. Ergo, this was super fun to write. And tense changes, while confusing (even for me while writing this) are in fact intentional. Feedback and critique is appreciated!