Prompt: Blood.
Rating: T to be safe.
Warnings: Implied torture, I guess? Nothing strong, though.
Length: Drabble.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland—any version of it.
Blood
by Naranne
There was blood on his hands—literal, real, blood, dried and caked on the bandages that were wrapped around his palms. There was blood elsewhere, too; the prisoner had not been allowed to go without humiliation, not when he resisted their attempts to break him so persistently. However, it was the blood on his hands that caught his attention the most.
His trade was not one where his hands totally escaped unharmed; it was common for his friends to see a bandage where he had pricked himself on a wayward needle, or where a careless mishap with a sharpened pair of scissors had landed him with a neat little cut. Even his companions had dealt each other their fair share of injuries—albeit, by complete accident (for the most part; if one angered the feisty mouse, one had best beware her vicious hatpin). After all, broken china was rather sharp.
However, this blood was different.
This blood was because of someone else.
lliilliilliill
There was blood on her hands—metaphorical, to be sure; she had not been harmed… yet. However, she could not shake the thought that no matter what she did, what path she chose, there would be blood spilt on her account. Whether it was to be directly by her hand or not, bloodshed was inevitable. As if of its own accord—since when did the thing do as told, anyway?—her mind conjured for her a long stretch of images from past, present and future. Memory, truth; worry for what was to come.
The lacerations on her arm, and the moment the incident had occurred, those long, foul claws ripping, slicing through her flesh. The insufferable amount of red at court; a deep, unavoidable red, like the life that pulsed through her veins. The angry, red flesh where the cords had been harshly tied around the poor hedgehog's legs, blood brought unnecessarily to the surface, ready to spill over. The thought of how her friends were captive—because of her—and how brutal their captors could be, all because they held hope that she would take up the mantle of champion and slay. His eyes, bloodshot and tired when he was brought before them, and the stab of horrified guilt when she saw dried blood on fresh wounds, peeking out from beneath his jacket as if to taunt her.
lliilliilliill
When he lifted the long, heavy sword to strike at the man who had put him through so much pain and suffering, he was filled with a bloodlust the likes of which he had never before experienced. He wanted nothing more than to make this man—nay, this beast—suffer for what he had put his friends through, for what had been done to his beloved home with that man's aid under the banner of a horrid woman. However, the memory which spurred him on the most was of a time when word reached his ears of how the animal before him had dared attempt to force himself upon her. The very thought of it caused bloodlust and rage to fly into his heart. With a snarl, he pressed forward, dark orange eyes tinged with red.
lliilliilliill
When she lifted the long, heavy sword to strike at the chosen champion of the woman responsible for all the suffering endured by friends and the land she had come to love, she found within the depths of her a driving determination, an unshakable will unlike any she had ever known. The same force drove her onward after her shield lay splintered, drove her to charge up the steep stone stairs, drove her to guide the sword in her hands to seek the beast's head. The weapon's focused desire was akin to a rippling current of energy, coursing down the blade and through her, propelling her onward. Suddenly, inexplicably, she found herself possessed of rage and an unmistakable, unshakable want for blood.
lliilliilliill
As he gazed at the vial of swirling, purple blood in her hands, a gift of gratitude to a true champion, a feeling of trepidation stole over him. He knew the power of that certain magical fluid, knew that it would take her twirling away, back to her home. So long had his thoughts revolved around blood and bloodshed that he found other words beginning with that letter were floating to the surface.
When she flicked open the stopper of that vial, preparing to drink, a word came to him, unbidden.
Bereft.
However, as he reminded her, gently, softly, pleadingly, that she did not have to leave, a different light came into her eyes. Slowly, it drove away the determination that had previously filled those orbs—the expression dancing around her features, one she seemed blithely unaware of, and the smile hovering around her lips, was enough to incite a soft blush in his cheeks.
However, as she firmly recapped the vial, tucking it away, out of sight, he found a wide grin spreading across his face, the blush on his face burning brighter as another word came to his mind. Unthinking, he reached out a hand to her.
Beloved.
A/N: I'M SORRY I MADE YOU KIND OF ANGSTY, ALICE. Forgive me?
What do people think of the whole not-mentioning-their-names-at-all thing? Confusing? Personally, I love writing this way, but then I have to think of what I'm going to refer to everyone else as, because a lot of "he" and "she" gets very confusing.
Much love,
Naranne.
PS: I HATE TO RE-DO THIS CHAPTER IN HERE BECAUSE THE SITE ATE EVERYTHING. AGAIN. THERE WERE NO BREAKS IN IT. –ultra sad-face–
