"And if you wanna know where I've been, just look at my hands."
-Lynyrd Skynyrd, Red White & Blue
It was a minor character flaw of hers that she was obsessed with hands. They were perfect to her- in death, in life. Whole and complete, they were just mesmerizing as the bones alone. The intricate lines made as the blood ran into the crevices of the fingernails, down the sides of the fingers, between the knuckles, following the bones, filling the lines and crevices of the palm majestically. The soft, flexible sharpness of the fingernails. The mechanics of these tools intrigued her. And hers were perfect. The nails were rough and jagged, the tips boxed and blunt, the fingers thick and short with knotty joints, with well muscled palms, the lines etching deep into the skin. The firm grip was pockmarked by various cut and burn scars in various stages of healing. They were not beautiful, nor elegant, but they were perfect.
She brought a rough halt to her reflection when she splashed the cold water on her face, letting it run down in rivers. Like blood, like wine, like water. Cold and caressing, two things that she had not felt in a long while. She had spent so many years battling up the hierarchy of hell that she had forgotten. Clouds, water, loneliness, peace. The silence had made her scream. And in the first mirror she'd seen in two millennia, she smiled, however maliciously. An eternity of hellfire had yet to thaw her icy eyes, or her broken heart. And in the gargantuan sword at her side, she'd brought a little of it back to seek revenge on those who'd imprisoned her.
But first things first. It was time to meet he who called himself the devil.
[A/N: Thank you, Jen, for forcing me to continue. This is short, all these chapters will be short, but I don't know how long this will be. It just seems wrong to switch viewpoints within a single chapter. And she's not verbose.]