Nothing is ever as it seems.

brittle twigs clothed

It was maybe the third month of her enforced stay- she called it captivity when she spoke to him, which was rare enough- that he decided on a different approach. He descended the stairs to the cellar where she was being held, harsh white witchlight illuminating the dank surroundings and guiding him to where she was huddled, pressed up against the wall in a dark corner, festering in her own mess. He was as sure about taking her up to the spare bedroom as he was about taking her from her home in the first place, but to him, it felt there was no other alternative. At first he had thrown her in the cellar for a number of reasons. Mainly because she was dangerous, with or without a weapon, but also because he had no idea what to do with her, a fact he was reminded of every time he saw fear in her eyes.

He detested that fact, and he loathed that fear. So she was in the cellar. But now he was bringing her out, not simply out of the kindness of his heart- he didn't have one, after all- but because the compulsion he'd had to bring her here in the first place had returned. It grew stronger, day by day, until sometimes he could not sleep, haunted by dark dreams and flashes of scarlet hair and gloves. He took a step towards her, she shrank back as if she could make herself smaller. It took one fluid movement to kneel beside her and loose her from her bonds. She murmured under her breath as if she was in great pain and so he rubbed her wrists with his hands, gently touching her hair before preparing to pull her up. And again, she surprised him with her strength, physically throwing herself on him and jarring his body painfully. His head hit the floor with an audible crack, and while she hesitated, she did not stop. Though her nails were greatly worn down since the last time they had had a physical encounter- a quarter of a year ago- they were ragged and sharp and sliced at his skin mercilessly.

He did not blame her for this, even as warm blood ran sideways across his face. But he did, however, try to stop her, and for his troubles, he ended up having both his arms- right where the shoulder started- hit very hard so that they went dead. When it was apparent that he could not feel them any more, she smiled, evidently satisfied. Again, she tried the same tactics as she had before, knocking his head back against stone until there was more blood, crashing her knees into his torso over and over, and kneeing him in the manlies. After that, she resorted to pressing her elbow hard against his windpipe, short vicious jabs that hurt more than he had thought they could. At some stage, he was relatively sure that she had been trying to gouge his eyes out. Sense slowly returned to his arms, but when he put them on her shoulders to lift them up, she gave a little scream and began to cry hysterically.

He could feel her heaving for breath between broken off sobs, and eventually she simply rolled away from him and into a tight ball, choking on the hot tears that trailed her face. He gave a brief sigh of resignation, pulled her up- not as hard as he had done before, by the arm, not the hair- and led her, silently, upstairs. She stood dazed for a moment, blinking and rubbing at her face with hands that were slathered in who-knows-what. The action left a streak of grime on her otherwise clean face. He had made a point of cleaning it during one of her many fits of unconsciousness. Sometimes they worried him. Her pupils dilated, and she took in the layout of the room as if she intended to escape. He smiled at her, if only for her determined spirit, but he had not expected the look of terror that crossed her features to happen, not at all.

But at least he knew why, which did not make it any less disturbing to him. She still wore her scarlet gloves, was still clad in the same clothes he had found her in, though they smelt something awful and hung from her frame loosely. She hadn’t eaten much while she’d been in that place. Her hair hung, torn and pasted together with whatever foul substances lurked down there. It had grown significantly, but was so much thinner that it didn’t really count. Parts were plastered to her scalp, or stuck out at randomly. She had patches missing and it was uneven. He would have to cut it off, he resolved, and continued to assess the damage done. She was stained in grime, and, he noticed with some distaste, her own muck. He pulled a face.