09-24-2015, 11:29 AM
For a long time Cress can do nothing but stare at the dark god’s Mark that he left upon her breast, aching and burning and still glowing red hot. The fire in the chest gradually dulls to an idle burn but does not fade away completely, even as the Mark fades to a deep black. She knows that the Mark will never fade and she is unsure about the fire in her heart. Will that ever go away? Only time will tell, she supposes, and so far, it has hardly died down at all.
After a while she notices the blood still dripping down her face, and only then does she make a conscious effort to knit the stumps of her ears closed. She wills the flesh to close but she does not make any effort to totally heal the wounds—she doesn’t have the energy either way. They will scar like this, she knows, but she almost doesn’t mind. The Mark will never let her forget the torment she was exposed to in this dungeon, but the ruined remains of her ears will tell everyone that she endured a great suffering and she survived. She could have been hurt much worse; she could have really died and been left as dead. Maybe some of them will not make it out at all.
Of the exposed flesh of her skull, she does nothing. Let that remind her every day of the pain she endured. Let it create an ugly, unsightly scar. She does not care, cannot care.
Mother and father are dead. She is a failure.
Eventually her brown eyes open, and they fall upon a frail old mare who is now sharing her cell with her. She is golden-bodied, like Cress, but much, much older. It is almost impossible to see the color of her coat because so much of it is hidden beneath scars and half-healed wounds, but she can see a glimpse of golden hairs on the mare’s cheek, one of the only places she has not been torn apart. The mare is emaciated and old and Cress wonders how she is still standing—and, more importantly, where did she come from? She can tell that this old woman is on her last legs—maybe she has come to warn Cress. Or help her.
It is not until she speaks that Cress recognizes her. “I am Cress,” she says, and her voice is flat and without feeling. With a gasp Cress takes in the jagged stumps for ears and the dragon-Mark—rent apart by multiple wounds, but still barely visible—adorning the old woman. “This is what you become.”
Cress is frozen, unsure of what to say, when her future Self speaks again. “You can escape.” Only then does Cress find her voice again. “What about you?” she cries, stepping forward to brush the unmarked cheek of her older counterpart. “I cannot possibly leave you here.” Cress is crying, she cannot help it; she cannot leave another horse, even a horse that is herself many years in the future, at the dark god’s cruel mercy. She cannot.
“I have endured many years here, Cress,” her future Self says, and brown eyes meet milky ones. “There is only room for one of us to leave. If we both leave, the very fabric of the universe would be destroyed.” Cress does not understand, but she gets the gist of what future Cress is trying to say. They cannot both leave. “How do I escape?” she chokes out, hardly able to see for all the tears blinding her. “I am the key,” future Cress whispers, and Cress can feel an eternity of suffering in those words.
“Use me.”
“How?”
“You have to kill me, Cress.”
Cress is frozen again, but her future Self marches on as if Cress had not reacted at all. “I know it is an agonizing decision, Cress, but it is one that must be done. I have suffered for many years and I will suffer for many more if you do not make this decision. Or, worse, you will be chosen to take my place and He will release me, release back into the Overworld where I am sure to die within the hour anyways. This is not an easy decision and I know that it will change you.” Briefly Cress wonders how she could possibly know that, but of course she can—she is Cress, a Cress who has spent millennia here, only kept alive by the dark god’s magic and her own healing.
“Why haven’t you kept yourself healed?” Cress murmurs, her nose running gently over the other’s wounds. There is a fresh wound near her future Self’s chest, one that crosses over one of the dragon’s wings and still seeps fresh blood. If she can keep the Self talking… she doesn’t want to think about it.
“He took away my powers for a time,” future Cress admits, and she embraces the younger Cress’ touch with a sigh. It has been so long since she has felt a gentle touch. “He wouldn’t let me heal myself; he wanted my pretty coat marked with scars. Any time that he thought me too ugly he would bring back my dragon and burn me away and force me to heal again, force me to be pretty enough to scar all over. He would—”
Her words are cut off suddenly and replaced with a scream as young Cress shoves her head into her future Self’s chest, deepening and widening the cut that was already there. The blood is hot and it gushes into her mouth and nose, threatening to choke her, but she cannot stop now. Perhaps the heart is hotter than it should be, lit by the dragon living within, and when she finally clamps her jaws around it, it feels as though it will burn straight through her gums and lips.
She cannot stop; she has to escape.
She grasps the heart as firmly as she can in her jaws and pulls, feeling the old and tired organ give way and tear from the older Self’s chest. Future Cress is dead before she pulls away, and as she pulls the heart from the dragon-Mark, the older, broken mare falls to the ground. I’m so sorry. She has failed everyone; even her Self.
Trembling, she drops the burning heart on the ground at her hooves, where it lies smoldering. “Here’s your fucking key,” she says, knowing that He is near to hear it. “Let me go home.”
What is home anymore? She isn’t sure.
you’re only happy when you’re making a scene