She was sick. She'd known for a while now, her cracking lips and frail figure spoke words. She'd tried to be strong, But the act of training her face to neutrality felt much more difficult when venturing alone. And holding her head high, would serve as an injustice to her sweat drenched leathers, and her masters brand upon her wrist. Any passing traveler would know what she was. Prancing like a noble, would change nothing.
It was dusk before she reached the village. What they called a village. A creased woman, whom had lended her a sad smile. Made up the better part of the population. It was quite. Nice enough.
But unfortunately pity wouldn't fill her stomach.
Trudging to the outermost skirts of the 'village'. She found herself counting breaths, consciously relaying the rise and fall of her chest. She'd never liked the thought of slowly dying. She didn't like the reality much either. But for once there wasn't much she could do.
So, Leda went hungry.
YOU ARE READING
One last journey.
Short StoryLeda was betrayed. Leda was tortured. Leda was broken. Leda was dying. And there was one thing left to do.
