Taken • cth

fifteen | ichor

Arrow stares up at the ceiling, dried tears plastered to her damp face. Calum only stopped screaming thirty minutes ago, and it took him several more just to tell her he was ok. She knows he isn't ok. She knows he's hurt.

She reaches up to wipe a strand of hair out of her face, and freezes when the chains rattle. She almost forgot they were there. She lifts her right arm up to examine the manacle, but her eyes go to the mark on her forearm.

The once cut and bleeding Operator Symbol is now beginning to turn black at the very tips of the x, healed and risen in the form of black scar tissue. It looks like somebody took a black pen and etched it onto her skin, rather than a blade. The veins spidering out from the mark are darker than normal, a deep torrid red, and when Arrow presses her finger to one her arm prickles violently.

All the good that was in our soul has been burned away by ichor, demon blood, caused by the mark he has branded us with.

She swallows hard. The mark he has branded us with. That has to mean this one.

But wait.. why has it been carved into her skin? What has she done to deserve this, or Calum? Her chest tightens at the thought.

Are all the other monsters marked with this? Is it all black instead of red? Where is the Slenderman, and what does he want with them?

He has saved every single one of us from the horrors of our mortal lives.

The horrors of our mortal lives. What horrors? Arrows life was exactly the way she wanted it before she was taken. Everything was fine, save for the sudden stalking. Her and Calum were happy. What horrors?

So many questions, and no way to get answers. At least not until somebody brings her food again. She wants to cry out of frustration.

Arrow averts her eyes from the nasty wound and stares instead at the manacle on her wrist. It is completely smooth, very thick, and devoid of any ridges or cracks that could possibly help her get them off. The only disturbance in the metal is a single hole set into the bottom, about the size of a dime.

She picks a fingernail at it, and then inside it. Crusty black stuff comes out when she scrapes around the center. Frowning, she holds it up to her face, rubbing it between her fingers, and then flings it away from her with a yelp.

Where the substance was on her fingers is now a small burn mark, the skin red and inflamed. Her entire hand begins to blotch up. The floor begins to sizzle where the little black piece landed, and then it's gone.

Her mind flashes to the blue mask on Jack's face, the painted eyes leaking black substance. The crusty stuff looks like a dried version of that.

All the good that was in our soul has been burned away by ichor, demon blood.

Demon blood.

A shudder rocks through Arrow's body. Her eyes slowly travel down to the mark again, over the dark veins and black scar tissue. The mark. Is it, is it generating the stuff?

She scratches at the end of one of the cuts, biting her lip at the sharp pain it causes. The black tissue won't budge. Holding her breath, she digs her fingernail into the top of the cut and jerks it down, sending a flood of blood down her arm. It takes every ounce of her effort not to scream, because the agony is excruciating. Way worse than it would be for a normal cut.