Shadows Bleed

Lirhael's Account

Lirhael's Account

Lirhael liked to think that three years as a slave made her quite the expert on matters of and pertaining to captivity. Such all-knowingness should have informed her that the likelihood of escape was marginal at best and never-going-to-happen-in-a-million-years at worst.

Irrespective of such mundane rationality, Lirhael commonly spent her mornings, prior to first call, plotting various escape attempts. The bounds of her imagination were limitless, hindered only by the hold of reality. A reality which mother consistently reminded, almost nagged, her about.

"Lirhael, darling," mother started again, turning over on the wooden, dusty floor of the shack, "please go back to sleep. Save your energy for the workday, you won't be young forever."

Pulling her head away from the crack in the wall through which she could observe the movements of the guard, Lirhael groaned under her breath. She respected mother, she truly did, but how could one person be so near-sighted, so oblivious to the potential for freedom? How could she so resignedly accept her fate and be unwilling to effect change, to fashion her own destiny?

She was torn between a sense of duty, of obeying mother, and returning to her post. The patrols were broken today, their pattern unusually spotty. Something was happening and Lirhael wanted to watch what it was.

What would father think?

The question came from the deepest recesses of her mind, the prodding of her conscious maybe. It was not a welcome thought, for it refreshed painful memories. Father fighting the Inquisition's soldiers. A sword slipping past his defences, biting into his calf and down to his ankle. The cry of anguish at failing his family echoing across the Fell-Lands as he collapsed to the ground, unable to stand.

And, finally, the soldiers lifting him up, roughly dragging his weakened form through the mud, ignorant to his pain. Blood staining the cracked earth behind them, a trail for all to see. Then the axe, the unfeeling steel cutting through the air effortlessly. The sound of father's head hitting the ground-

Stop it! she scolded herself amidst tears. You're only making it harder for yourself.

But, try as she might, the memory persisted. Images of the soldiers stringing father's lifeless, decapitated corpse to the shrivelled husk of a tree. The gorcorws fluttering in on vile wings moments later, their beaks pecking away at father's flesh.

That was when Aeriae snapped. Up till that point she stayed beside them, beside mother and Lirhael, as per father's request. Up until then, she kept her word not to fight. But the gross disrespect of the soldiers, accompanied in no small way by the grief of losing father, spurred her into action.

Lirhael had thought father to be a brilliant fighter, his reflexes were impossibly fast, his blade a mere continuation of his arm. But Aeriae, she was something else. Blessed with the blood of mother, blood of the Aer Savarthim, Aeriae fought like nothing Lirhael had ever witnessed.

She dove into the Inquisition ranks headfirst, sword whirling overhead. Heads and arms flew from the fray, crimson trailing from each severed appendage as it did the point of her blade.

It was clear, even to eight-year old Lirhael, what, or, rather, who, Aeriae's target was: the Seeker. Once she reached him, there was no stopping her. She lunged at him, her first strike driving through his torso. She wrenched the blade free and, in a single motion, plunged it between his neck and shoulder, hilt-deep into his body, rupturing every major organ in its path.

After that, Lirhael lost sight of her sister. The soldiers closed in and, moments later, they returned their attention to mother and her, huddled on the ground, holding each other tightly.