seventeen
here in hell
Her head fucking aches when she wakes from the deep clutches of unconsciousness caused by malicious spellwork and what seems to be very mild blunt-force trauma, both of which are a very specific kind of bleak absence of the conscious mind. Nothing at all like falling asleep on cold medicine or taking an unexpected nap or even the satisfactory thrill of sleep from bone-deep exhaustion. It is simple blackness that is there one moment and gone the next, leaving in its place a staccato pounding as the brain rebels against a lingering sense of befuddled, miss-the-next-step sea change.
Even before she opens her eyes, she knows she's screwed. Like, utterly shit out of luck.
For one, her magic is - dampened. Muted. Somehow just out of her reach and weak enough that she feels an acute sense of panic when it does not respond as readily, as instinctively as it usually does. It rises weakly to her summon, as light as a moth on the cheek, and she is breathing heavily by the time she releases her tenuous hold over it. Her magic is, like, snuffed out and just out of reach.
She's never, ever been without her magic - even when she didn't know that it was magic.
(But it's not drained. See, because Ella is magic, a living wellspring that might be more magic than human, like a walking and talking conduit of magic that can't be approximated by any other magic-user. But she knows - unequivocally and innately - that if her magic were drained, she would be dead. And seeing as she's currently building into a frothing rage, she's clearly alive.)
She can feel the heavy weight of chains on her wrists, on her ankles, and beneath the cloying layer of mold and dirt clogging her nose, there is a smoky scent that makes her dizzy. So on top of being kidnapped and chained up in what appears to be a basement - a good guess, considering she can barely see in the grey darkness - she's without direct access to her magic and she's being drugged by a stupidly tall votive candle placed just out of reach. The candle is just about the only thing she can see, but a single flickering flame is by no means adequate lighting.
And if she can't see and she can't use her magic, the outlook on this little situation she's found herself in? Not good.
She sighs, her ribs protesting keenly - she knows the feeling well enough from childhood beatings to identify that particular pain as bruising, not breaks, though how they came to be that way is a mystery - and thumps her head against the rough cinderblock wall behind her. Then she winces, because ow.
In the back of her mind, she can almost hear Carlisle at the start of last spring. "There are three fundamentals of magic that you must master if you want any semblance of control. Usually, mastering these takes years because most magic users have to also learn how to find their magic within themselves and funnel that magic into casting cornerstone. You, however," he said with a wry smile. "You are a magician and have no such obstacle. You've been channeling magic all your life. Now, all you need to do is learn how to concentrate it to make meaningful spells."
"Sounds easy," she'd decided confidently.
"For you it will be."
And it was.
Ella zips through everything that Carlisle has taught her, everything she has read, as she tries to deduce what it is that's keeping her from using her magic to blast her way out of this place. There are really only a few options that would even conceivably be enough to lock any magical cogs, let alone hers.
Wards, the most basic of magical barriers created by runes and intent, able to be tailored in so many ways that it's perfectly plausible that someone had constructed a ward meant to keep her magic locked inside? Possible, but unlikely. Ella was well-versed in wards, knew the ones used in Charmstone and erected her own - like the silencing one in her dorm - all the time, almost second nature. But then, a ward wouldn't be able to separate her from connecting to her magic because that's simply not how they work. Wards are physical in a way that most magic just isn't.
Runes, then? The basic written language of magic, certainly capable of being used in wards and to power incantations, but not necessarily strong under their own power. And they were so basic that they weren't really useful for anything except for communicating very simple ideas in magic - like her cooling runes at Carlisle's house over the summer. And she doesn't know of any rune that would prevent her from grasping at her magic. Runes are too simplistic for a feat so complicated.
A sigil, maybe? Some kind of spell short-hand etched onto the chains that she can't see because it's too damn dark? More likely, though a sigil wouldn't last as long as a ward because they're temporary and have to be charged by magic routinely, or else they burn out, unlike wards, which usually tap into magical currents and behave like a self-sustaining battery. She has the innate sense that the hag had chained her up and hadn't been around in a few hours, which is far longer than any sigil would last.
Unless - unless her blood was used somehow.
Ella draws her hands together, the slack on the chains just loose enough that she can easily cross her arms over her chest. Thinking quickly, she feels along the cuffs of the chain - there is no seam, which meant they had been put on with magic. She tries not to feel too disappointed. She hadn't expected the chains to have a lock on them that could be easily picked and they're tight enough around her wrists that every movement rubs her skin raw.
Ella presses her lips together. No seams and no sigils on the chains. Must be on the skin, then.
And there it is - carved right into her skin, from the back of her hand, around her wrist, and down her forearms. Careless cuts, deep in some places, paper thin in others. Messy. They are sigils, the likes of which Ella has never even glimpsed in one of Carlisle's ancient tomes. She tries to follow the sloping lines with her fingers, dried blood flaking off against her questing touch, her stomach rolling at the idea that such twisted magic had been carved into her body.
The sigils feel hot to the touch, a brilliant contrast to how cold the rest of her skin is. Infection already setting in, then, or because of the active magic working to counter her natural magical response.
They'll scar, she thinks, a bit inanely. Who cares about scaring? Not Ella. If she cared about scaring, she wouldn't have sliced open her own skin as a means of emotional release while she'd been trapped in the foster system. The thing is, though, that there's a huge difference between willingly mutilating her own body and having it done to her while she was helpless and unconscious.
She traces over the sigils sliced into her skin again, bile rising that she swallows back. Her mouth is dry and her eyes feel raw, heavy. Ella tries to think of how long she must have been out, but she can't really quantify the time.
She tucks her hands beneath her thighs, unwilling to touch the vile marks on her body anymore. She doesn't recognize the sigils. And it's no surprise, is it? Because of course Carlisle wouldn't have any magic this dark in his overgrown collection - and she doesn't blame him.
Even without access to her magic and all the instinctual information she receives from it, the roughly traced marks on her skin feel wrong.
Like - like an oil spill in the ocean.
(She'll never be clean of this violation - if she lives, that is.)
Time passes. She doesn't know how long. Trying to stay calm - trying not to feel like a sitting duck, even though that's exactly what she is - trying not to think if anyone is looking for her or if Raven will be able to find her with her magic effectively set to "mute" - trying to not loose her mind, Ella resorts to counting. She'd heard it, somewhere, that prison inmates count when they're in solitary to keep track of the time and not, like, go insane.
She's definitely a prisoner right now. So she counts and stares at that dim stupid candle that is keeping her on just this side of complacent, her limbs heavy and her mind not as sharp as usual. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Four thousand.
Her ass is beyond numb and her back protesting something fierce from the unforgiving cement all around her by the time the candle flickers in a way that's much different than before. It grows brighter for a moment -
And then a creaking door opens overhead, a harsh yellow light illuminating what Ella previously could not see.
She's in a basement, alright, one that is populated by high stacks of moth-eaten cardboard boxes on either side. Above her is the underside of a moldy wooden staircase, which gives her major Harry Potter flashbacks that makes her feel just a bit hysterical. But that's it, that's all there is; just boxes and chains and a druggy candle and Ella.
And the hag, of course, tromping down the stairs and displacing dust on top of Ella's head.
The hag's eyes are gleaming as she crosses in front of the candle to stand before Ella. Cracked lips spread into a sadistic smile as she takes in Ella's weakened state, the heavy chains keeping her tethered, the sigils and their dried tracks of blood all the way down her arms and staining her simple grey shirt.
Ella glares up at the hag, baring her teeth. "What the fuck have you done to me, you psychotic old crone?"
"My dear, do you not like your accommodations?" the hag rasps, her expression hardening meanly. "Tsk, tsk. And to think, you didn't protest at all earlier - well, of course you couldn't, but haven't I been forgiving? You did break one of my stairs, you know. Or rather, the stair broke your fall. I'm offended that you aren't comfortable, dearie."
(And that explained the bruised ribs and the ache in her body that can't be explained by being knocked out by magic. Ella had been pushed down the stairs. She's lucky her neck isn't broken.)
"Fuck you!" she spits out.
The hag ignores her. "You have been terribly inconvenient, haven't you? You see too much, know too much. Nobody else even picked up on my siphoning the ley lines - but I had a feeling that you would notice, powerful little thing that you are." She pauses. "Well, you were powerful. I've fixed that problem right up, I think. Do you like the work I did, hmm?"
The sigils itch and burn on her skin. "Oh, they're fabulous," she retorts. "Really, they'll be a great addition during swimsuit season."
The hag cackles. "Oh, dearie, you won't be around for swimming this summer - but you know that, of course. You've already guessed."
"Well, it's not like you're some great mastermind with a supremely complex plan, is it?"
The hag slaps her, twice. Ella tastes blood in her mouth from where her tooth cut the inside of her cheek. She swallows the iron-coppery taste down, glowering and rattling at the chains, not unlike a wild animal.
Licking her lips, the hag leans forward, papery-rough hand caressing her cheek gently. Her yellow-green eyes are downright greedy as she gazes at Ella. "Oh, dearie, you have no idea, do you? No matter. You've made all of this so terribly easy, haven't you, walking right into my path the way you did. A few days too soon, but that can't be helped."
Ella holds herself stone-still, refusing to give the hag the satisfaction of leaning away from that proprietary touch. "Too soon for what?"
"I suppose I can tell you, can't I? Who are you going to tell?" the hag wonders out loud, finally removing her hand from Ella's face and stepping away, closer to the stairs, thankfully. "My dear, we have great plans on The Cold Moon. Great, great plans. You might not like them, but you're in no position to refuse, hmm?"
Ella doesn't respond - too busy wracking her brain for what the hell The Cold Moon was and why the hag would find it so important.
The hag stares at her for another long moment, seemingly enjoying the silence. "You really are a troublesome child," she says finally. "Do try not to succumb to hypothermia before I've made use for you."
And then the hag leaves without another word, slamming the door above loudly, swiftly followed by a series of locks turning that she hadn't heard before.
She expels another deep sigh, thunking her head on the wall behind her.
"The cold moon," she mutters to the dim flame of the candle. "What the fuck."
A/N: Alright, here we go.
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~cupcakeriot