The Darkened World

The Beginning of the End

After seeing how exhausted Sarah appeared, Hoggle offered her the small cot in the main room of the little hut. Sarah, though larger than the cot, accepted it with sincere gratitude. It was the closest thing to a bed she had seen since she entered the labyrinth and she was not one to turn it down.

How long had it been since she last slept? It felt like ages but could not have been more than a day. It was as if the labyrinth was drawing on her energy and she barely had enough for herself. Sarah wondered if it was something she should ask Hoggle about, but she felt that she had asked her friend more than enough for one day.

While it was still light outside, Sarah found that she could not keep her eyes open, and bent her knees to her chest in order to fit in the cot. It reminded her of when she and Toby would curl up on his bed and read stories late at night. It was one of the other things his mother would, hopefully, never find out about.

All things considered, the cot was surprisingly comfortable and Sarah was glad that it was not as it seemed. Hoggle had offered her some of his rations, though Sarah had found that she was not hungry, and she discovered that she only wanted to sleep.

Sleep came easily, for she was exhausted, but the dreams were, once again, strange ones and Sarah found herself in an unfamiliar place.

She wandered through the empty halls of the castle, all of the subjects had chosen to hide or were fighting. As she looked out one of the large windows, she saw her beloved kingdom burning. The tide had taken a turn for the worse and she doubted that it would get better.

Below she could see the fighting. Their forces had made to move on the enemy, but the enemy was much, much larger than they. She could see her allies be surrounded and she only prayed that some would be able to escape. That not all would be killed. She felt each death as if it was a blow to her body, as if someone was beating her, and she longed to strike back. But her power had been given to her people, to keeping them safe. Yet, even as she protected her subjects, she left herself open for an attack.

It would not be long until the castle was taken.

Most of the servants had hidden and she hoped that they would be able to stay hidden until the fighting was over. She knew that she should try to hide, her guard were all dead, but she found that her pride would not permit her too. She would face her enemy on her terms, not on his, and she would not show fear. She would feel it, but she refused to show it. Her hand tightened on the dagger hidden beneath the folds of her cloak and she turned her face into the soft material of her hood.

She did not fear death, it was an old friend she had been waiting for, but she feared the death of her subjects. They were not a part of the quarrel, they should not be forced into death's embrace, but she knew that she could do little to stop it. She had taken precautions, but she feared that they would fail, that she would fail.

The doors to the great hall shuddered as a force was thrown against them, she turned to face the doors, the wood buckled under the weight, and she swallowed her fear. The faithful oaken wood would not be able to protect her, not forever.

Again and again the door was beaten upon until, on the thirteenth time, it could no longer hold. The wood splintered and she watched as her enemies poured into the great hall and surrounded her, they were terrible creatures, disfigured and cruel. Yet they did not touch her, for they had been ordered not to. She was to be touched by none but their leader.

She waited, showing no emotion, until the man entered the hall and strode toward her. She longed to hide in her hood, to close her eyes and never again open them, but he made it impossible.

His strange gaze never left hers as he approached her, it did not break as he lowered her hood, nor did it waver as a triumphant grin spread over his features and she longed to spit on him.

He had taken her kingdom, he had killed her friends, she did not know the fate of the man she loved, and she had no doubt what future lay for her. But a small hope beat against her chest and she found it impossible to ignore. It was the hope of rescue, of revenge, and she prayed that her beloved had fled, that he would gather forces, and lay siege to his own kingdom.

She prayed that he would come for her, though she knew, in her heart, that he would be too late.

The man took her hand in his and brought it to his sickening lips. Still, his gaze did not waver on hers and her courage did not fail her. As the man concentrated on her, her other hand gripped her dagger, and drove it into her chest, between his rib bones.

Instead of screaming, instead of dying, the man laughed and she had never hated him more than in that moment. Not even as she watched him kill her subjects and loved ones, not even when he allowed him men to violate her goddess' and gods' temples, not even when she watched her beloved fight him.

No, in that moment she knew true hate.

Her dagger slid out of his flesh, he did not bleed, and he watched her to see what she would do next. She considered, for a moment, trying to kill him again, but she knew that it would not work. He had no soul, he had traded it for power that was not his.

Without hesitation, without breaking his sickening gaze, she turned the blade on herself.

But before the dagger could pierce her flesh, his hand stopped her and she found that she had been wrong. Now, now she truly hated him. His grip tightened until she was forced to release the dagger and she nearly cursed herself for not doing the deed when she had the chance, when she was waiting for the fall of the doors.

She had been a coward and now she was a prisoner in her own kingdom.