Water and Wind

Nimue

Her feet jangle in their chains. She'd held them all back, and she knew it. Was 17 and a half a child or an adult? Should they chain her as an adult with magical bindings, or as a child with more non-magical restrictions? In the end, she was neither, deemed her too dangerous to be a child or an adult. She was not chained to others, that was true, but she felt no comfort in walking alone. Her neck had been pinned in one place - looking forward - her feet were shackled together and her arms wrangled at an awkward angle behind her. She wasn't even allowed to dart her eyes.

Had she asked for this? No, not really. But then, had anyone asked for this? She glances forward, the only way she can glance because of the magic holding her neck in place. No one had picked this, least of all her.

It was her ancestors' fault, and she blamed them wholeheartedly. One hundred years of grudge, and she was being punished. She, Nimue, the Nimue who had protected them, watched over them. And for that she would suffer.

They lined them up in a row. Not that they weren't already, but at least they were out of the angry mob they called a crowd. Or perhaps that was better? For now they were mounted high on a stage above the rest, a wooden platform splattered with blood from its previous occupants. They all feel it, the bits of soul that lie crushed under their feet.

A person orders for silence. The adult row stands in the back. People jeer at them. The children's row stands in front. They get the worst. Rotten tomatoes, old food, cans, bottles, they are all thrown and launched at them. Or if they were intended for the adults, then they fall short and hit them.

But none complain, none, from the 18 year old Arian to 3 year old Freya whose bound hands have still found their way into her mouth. If they get so much as slammed in the face, no one complains. They all know why they're here. Even Freya, who can't speak true words yet, but can stir up a windstorm powerful enough to knock down a small tree.

There is a loud chatter emitting from the crowd. Nimue hopes that means that they're running out objects to throw. She herself has the most slashes. Of course they'd want to go for her. She is very recognizable, and not necessarily in a good way. Something wet slashes the side of her face, and she can't lift her hand to wipe it away. Nor can she shake her head to twist it off. It slides down her neck, and she can see a trail of slime in its wake. It's a dead fish. She shudders.

Someone nudges her. She knows who it is without turning. Not that she could anyway. It's 18 year old Arian, older than her, but still chained in the children's line, at the very end, right next to her. She knows why.

His eyes aren't frozen, and they dart to her briefly. Either way, she's forced to keep her gaze straight ahead. "So they think you're more dangerous, eh?" She can hear him whisper, and if she could smile, she would have. "Nimue the Dangerous, versus Arian the Great?" She can't laugh either, nor move her mouth enough to snap back in her usual response, so she did it in her mind.

"Arian the Greatest Failure?"

But it seems even their ever present connection has been turned off, snapped like a light switch. She tries again, closing her eyes in her mind and reaching out to him. Nothing. She sighs and gives up.

And then someone is banging, banging a large gavel. Someone is rising up onto a high pedestal on a separate stage nearby. Nimue can't see anything, but she is soon swivelled around by a pair of hands. Ah. Now she can see.

She is standing, shoulders pulled back so much that it hurts. It's like being an exaggerated model of perfect posture. And she is facing a judge, in a large woolen cloak and a wooden gavel in his hand.

"ORDER!"

And a hush washes over the crowd. Objects drop from their owner's hands, hands are clamped over the younger children's cries and talking ceases. Even little Freya's hand comes out of her mouth. She's smart enough to remain silent.