Sarah J. Mass One Shots

Unclean

Trigger warning: self harm

Asterin sits on her bed, the soft mattress squishing under her thin body.

The bed was in the room that Dorian and Mannon had let her use in their big stone castle.

And the castle was in Rifthold, the capital of Adralan.

The witch smiles at the facts. Never changing, cold hard facts. She likes facts.

More than nasty grandparents.

More than her wyvren.

More than the wind, whipping her hair.

Facts were eternal.

Yes.

She falls onto the soft bed, her golden hair splaying around her like a crown.

The chandelier hanging high above her glitters with tiny crystals, sparkling in the light.

347 crystals. She had counted.

There were 14 ways to knock it down, killing herself in the proses.

You see, the witch hasn't been happy lately. She can't help but remember her hunter. The simple cottage. And the way he had waited for her.

She had never gone to him.

Her blood sang, praying for her to go, but her stubborn pride had kept her seated in the grey clouds.

Foolish, foolish pride.

A singular tear drops out from her eyes. The first time she felt safe enough to cry.

In a human castle.

How ironic.

The witch glares at the finery so casually strewn about her. The bed, the dresser, the chandelier, the rug, the chairs, the table.

Her room cost a fortune.

And yet some how, Mannon thought she deserved it.

She had woken up in this bed, the first time in nearly a decade. Her brand had been suffocating her, burning on her body.

Unclean.

She had ripped off the shirt with her claws, and scraped at her chest, desperate for air.

It had died down after a second, but she was left with several deep scratches... nearly fatal.

The human healers hadn't quite known what to do with the blue blood dripping from her neck, but they had made do.

Dorian had a soft spot for the healers, and only a select few knew why.

She didn't.

Despite being the queens second, she was still untrustworthy.

Like it was unexpected.

Nobody trusted Asterin anymore. No not ever.

That was a fact.

Simple.

Clean.

Perfectly pristine facts.

She tears the soft dress off, leaving her underthings.

And the brand.

Always the brand.

Asterin pulls a thin knife out of the top drawer of her dresser.

The bite of it cuts into her thin arm, releasing pain into her. She gasps, comparing it to the other scars and scabs lining the inside of her arms.

The pain was always there.

A fact.

A perfectly bloody fact.