06-02-2018, 05:29 PM
I can see the displeasure on his face despite his dark features and the shadows around us. The knot of fear pulls tighter, and my muscles with it. My attempt at politeness seems to do nothing, for the rage still shimmers behind his eyes as he scoffs at my answer. I try to exhale but the breath feels locked in my throat as his ears pin back.
Leaning away seems safe but I cannot make my body react even when he advances on me. Only his shove moves me, and I stumble to catch my balance, only to be knocked aside again by another blow.
"I...I'm sorry," I manage to get out between rapid breaths. "I...I tried." And I had, really. What was there to do but wait? Any further intrusion might have been construed as aggression, and I had not dared risk it. Only half of Sylva is male; I shudder at the idea of what might become of me in a kingdom filled entirely with men.
That shudder is caught in another blow, and I begin to pull my wings up as a shield just as he rams against me a final time. I had not noticed the beech beside me, too focused on predicting the next blow. My breath is slammed out of me in an explosion of pain. There are a series of too loud cracks. I moan aloud, but make no move to defend myself. This is his right, I think as I struggle to pull in a breath. There is a sharp pain - a broken rib - and when I thoughtlessly pull my wings in, a searing ache shoots through the both. I glance back, to where they hang oddly and clearly broken.
The left metacarpus, just at the end of my wing, flips too easily. The right wing though, the one slammed against the tree, that one will not even fold properly, snapped cleanly through both the radius and ulna. I'd seen a bird with this break before, I remember suddenly. Uncle Castile had snapped its neck painlessly: 'it wouldn't recover from that, Lepis. Better a quick end than a drawn out one.' His words echo in my head, and my too-wide blue eyes look toward the King.
Does he mean to kill me too?
It's never occurred to me that I might not make it out of Sylva alive. I had placed my trust in Arthas to save me come fall, but there are many long months between spring and fall. How could I be saved if I were already dead? (In my panic I do not remember my true purpose here: broodmare, and that killing me would mean the end of my productivity before it had even begun.)
"Please don't hurt me," I plead. "I won't do it again, I promise. I promise. Please." I hadn't mean to let the secret of my gift slip, and it seems Kwartz information had allowed the stallion to put two and two together and realize why he'd been so agreeable about my visit to Ischia. There is no chance of that working again, I realize, and with my broken wings, there is surely no escape.
"Please. I'll do anything." Though the beech tree had broken me I still cower against it despite the pain in my ribs and wing. I want to be as far from Modicum Mortem as I can, but I am trapped between him and the tree with no means of escape.
Leaning away seems safe but I cannot make my body react even when he advances on me. Only his shove moves me, and I stumble to catch my balance, only to be knocked aside again by another blow.
"I...I'm sorry," I manage to get out between rapid breaths. "I...I tried." And I had, really. What was there to do but wait? Any further intrusion might have been construed as aggression, and I had not dared risk it. Only half of Sylva is male; I shudder at the idea of what might become of me in a kingdom filled entirely with men.
That shudder is caught in another blow, and I begin to pull my wings up as a shield just as he rams against me a final time. I had not noticed the beech beside me, too focused on predicting the next blow. My breath is slammed out of me in an explosion of pain. There are a series of too loud cracks. I moan aloud, but make no move to defend myself. This is his right, I think as I struggle to pull in a breath. There is a sharp pain - a broken rib - and when I thoughtlessly pull my wings in, a searing ache shoots through the both. I glance back, to where they hang oddly and clearly broken.
The left metacarpus, just at the end of my wing, flips too easily. The right wing though, the one slammed against the tree, that one will not even fold properly, snapped cleanly through both the radius and ulna. I'd seen a bird with this break before, I remember suddenly. Uncle Castile had snapped its neck painlessly: 'it wouldn't recover from that, Lepis. Better a quick end than a drawn out one.' His words echo in my head, and my too-wide blue eyes look toward the King.
Does he mean to kill me too?
It's never occurred to me that I might not make it out of Sylva alive. I had placed my trust in Arthas to save me come fall, but there are many long months between spring and fall. How could I be saved if I were already dead? (In my panic I do not remember my true purpose here: broodmare, and that killing me would mean the end of my productivity before it had even begun.)
"Please don't hurt me," I plead. "I won't do it again, I promise. I promise. Please." I hadn't mean to let the secret of my gift slip, and it seems Kwartz information had allowed the stallion to put two and two together and realize why he'd been so agreeable about my visit to Ischia. There is no chance of that working again, I realize, and with my broken wings, there is surely no escape.
"Please. I'll do anything." Though the beech tree had broken me I still cower against it despite the pain in my ribs and wing. I want to be as far from Modicum Mortem as I can, but I am trapped between him and the tree with no means of escape.
