Short Stories

Ayra's Sentence

"I assume you still think your actions are right, maybe even noble" The Gent said, stalking around the pile of stones in which I was perched upon, shackled. The stones' jagged edges poked and nudged my feet and legs.

I did not say anything. After all, he was right. I dared to glare at the sword he slowly swung. Did he think that a long, shiny blade would terrify me?

You are more than blades long or small, more than the jewels and glints of gold that weigh upon the shoulders of those who smile with malice, and more than an army of men who fight for the taste of death on the edges of their swords. Men who are worthy will see your eyes and what they depict... a queen with power in her blood. You are Ayra, and you will be the one to bring the Titaro to ruins.

The Gent rubbed the golden tip of his word with his glove, setting it into a blazing fire.

I stared at the fire, the fire that would soon pierce my heart, and send me to the unknown.

For a moment, it looked as if I myself were in the fire, gazing back, like some sort of glittering reflection.

The Gent pressed the ignited tip at my breast and purred, "Any last words?"

"Hell will greet you"

The Gent drove the tip to my awaiting heart.

He was a lost fool. I thought as I trembled in the darkness.

The air was cold, oh so cold, as it sent bumps into my skin.

I could not see, but I could feel, and I was alive. I had survived.

I slowly felt around.

Stones. A pool of... blood. Yes, I could smell it, but it was not from me, it was from the Gent.

It sickened me that I knew its scent, that it was all too familiar.

The sword's ignited tip did not kill me.... No, it could not.

My hand moved to my breast. A beat, two, three, four beats. On and on.

You are Arya, and you will bring the Titaro to ruins.

I grabbed the sword, my sword. 

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6/5/18