Beneath Shadows and Secrets

♔ 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢 ♔

♔ 𝔑𝔦𝔯𝔞 ♔

It is not like waking from a restful sleep when I come to. The slow opening of eyes, the uncoiling and stretch of muscles – it is quite the opposite. Like waking from a nightmare. Skin sheened in sweat, breathes hurried and shallow, entire body twisted tight with fright. It does not calm me, to wake alone, in a place I do not know, with the memories of...

I shuffle to sit, my arms reaching around me to claw at my stomach, where he stabbed me, but I'm restrained. Around my wrists, two huge silver cuffs, with trails of chain on both of them to connect me to the headboard of the bed. At that, I begin to panic. I cannot cease the trembling, cannot slow my breaths. My legs kick wildly to remove the blankets, to edge myself further up the bed.

I wear the very same clothes as I did... was it yesterday? Was it a dream? My heart drums at the thought. No – not a dream. I would not still be dressed in the tight fitted leather, from shoulders to ankles, if that were the case. My shoes have been removed though, I've been bathed to some extent, and my gloves have been taken and...

It takes more than a few drawn out seconds for me to completely acknowledge what I'm looking at. Skin, my skin, but paler than it once was, when I spent all my days in the woodlands of Cracuria, my home. The time before I was taken by the Fae. It is my skin, on my body, but it is perfect. Unmarred, smooth, revitalised. My jaw falls slack, my brows drawn close with confusion.

It should, at the very least, be bandaged. Blite not only left a gash in my upper left arm with his sword, but broke a bone in two with the strength of his abilities. There was bone protruding, there was no sensation but pain. I could hardly lift it, for the nerves were shot and my muscles were torn. Yet, nothing. At all. The horrid scars gifted to me by the Barguest on my right exist no longer, in their place only supple, unmarked skin.

For a moment, I let myself consider that what I am seeing is a mirage, a cruel method of self-preservation from my delirious mind. Part of me still does not want to believe it, even as the fingertips of my left hand glide across the stretch of new skin. Not a lump, not the twinge of a bruise, not the leathery drag of scar tissue. Even the palm of my hand feels absurd.

With them quivering, it is hard to recognise the way they are void of callouses. These are not the hands of the girl that climbed trees in her youth to hide from the Fae or wait out her prey. They are not hands that have wielded weapons for over a decade, that strung an arrow in the blink of an eye, or slaughtered Unseelie with nothing but a dagger. They are not my hands, and yet, though they connect to arms which are not mine either, it is my thought that moves them, my blood that rushes through them.

I tug against the chain, enough that the bed frame splinters and frees my hand, so I can seek solace in the teeth marks that should remain on my shoulder. The bite from the poisonous Umbra Demon, which left raised spindles of black over each indent of teeth. Even through the fabric, I can tell that it is gone. Just are the claw marks from the same Unseelie, that stretched from my jaw to my throat. Gone, and nothing but untouched skin remains.

Upon the realisation, that is when fear wholly takes root in my heart. I thrash against the chains intended to imprison me, and it is without much effort at all that they both tear away from the bed. Still clasped to my wrists, but now trailing alongside me as I scramble to stand, checking every inch of my untouched body. There is no burn on my leg from the fire that grazed my calf, nor the tear of flesh from Dullahan's whip. There are no blisters on my feet, no scratches on my face from the brambles and twigs that assaulted me that first task of the tournament. Not even the small white scar on the tip of my finger that stayed with me after I cut myself on the glass in the kitchen, all those months ago when I was nothing more than a human slave. It's gone; they're all gone.

The wrangled cry that leaves me is fractured and broken, my throat hoarse as though I have not used my voice for days, weeks, but it is pained. Oh, so pained. This is not me; this is not my body. It does not belong to me. My mouth is dry, parched even, a clear sign of dehydration, but tears still well in my eyes. Enough to blur my vision and set hot saline trails down my cheeks.

My hands are shaking so much now, I hardly have the control to twist them towards my back. I tear at the fabric that hides it from me, my nails slicing the material as though it is nothing at all, and when I feel the bite of cold against my skin, I frantically twist and stretch, searching for the last memory of Darin, my eldest brother.

I do not care for how raw my throat feels, or how much energy it costs me when I scream. The scar is gone, the raised jagged line of the single whip that struck my skin when I launched my small body to protect him. It's gone, every mark that that reminded me of how much I gave to protect my siblings. There is nothing left.

Not even the wound which should sit between my ribs, below my breasts, where Zaire lodged my dagger with that victorious look in his eyes. Now, even though it seems so far from a possibility, I hope this is a dream. I hope it is a horrific nightmare, one I will wake from, as viciously as I woke those long few minutes ago. That my wounds and my scars will return, that none of this will have ever really happened.

But there it sits, reality glaring at me, almost taunting. The Abutilon flower, as perfect as it ever was, sat unmoved on my sternum. The only thing that survived the healing of my entire body. The only mark of imperfection. One that disgusts me to look at it, more than any of my inflictions ever did.

My rage, agony, hurt, is unbridled. I scream, cry, my lungs burning and my throat constricting. A darkness engulfs me, rising from my feet to my shoulders, swirling around me like a cocoon, or a hurricane maybe, to protect me from this moment now. It's cold, but not quite as cold as the horror which settles in my stomach. And not as cold as the blood in my veins turns when I reach to grip the roots of my hair, and I feel the scrape of a soft point, one I have never felt before.

The only thing that grounds me, the only thing that stops me spiralling into absolute insanity, is the click of a door opening.

Whatever Zaire sees, stood on that threshold, it unnerves him enough that he cannot mask the fall of his otherwise blank expression. He cannot refrain from darting his eyes from my head to my feet, cannot lessen the white-knuckle grip he has on the door frame.

But I don't care what it is he sees. I don't care if he is as distraught as I am to see my perfect expanses of skin. Instead, I look at him, with fury in my tear lined eyes, and in a raspy, broken voice, I demand to know, "what have you done to me?"