| abstract
| - She woke to the feeling of arms pressing against her, wrapped tight around her body, hands pressing into the small of her back. Cold air passed slowly into her lungs. The feel of a body against hers was familiar, she thought. Her nose nestled into the hollow of his throat. The smell, though, was all wrong. She sucked air through her teeth and almost choked. Decay lay against his skin. Pressing her cheek against his flesh, she listened. She couldn’t hear a heartbeat. Her skin prickled in the heat. Sweat rolled across her breast as she lay on her side, dripping off her nipple, sending a cool shiver down her back. She loved to watch him, admiring the curve of his back, the shape of his leg, as he knelt by the river, as naked as the day he was born. Through the canopy, the sun played games across his skin. Her breath caught and her pulse quickened as he turned to look at her. “You are beautiful when you’re wearing only sunshine,” blue eyes kissed her skin as his hands traced the dappled sunlight on her hips. The trees moved gently with the wind, sending a cascade of leaves down to them. They never noticed. Something deep inside her chest tightened. She forced herself to pull away, raising a hand, feeling pain and stiffness shoot up her arm. It was as if her whole body had pins and needles. Dull. She wanted to see his face, but it was so dark. His skin was so cold. Running her hand up his chest, something inside her, holding its breath, began to scream. Swallowing it down, it pushed against the back of her tongue. She couldn’t feel herself blink. It was so dark. She raised her hand to her own face, feeling dried holes where eyes should have been. She didn’t stop screaming for a very long time. Hands touched her, pulling her to her feet, forcing her to move. She had screamed until there was nothing left and she was exhausted. They had to keep pulling her hands way from her face, like a child fascinated by a broken doll. She felt them put clothes on her, covering the nakedness she wouldn’t even acknowledge. Bands were placed across her eye sockets; they smelt like leather. Then she was alone. His skin had been so cold. So cold. Even as she shuddered remembering it, she missed the feel of his arms around her. Cold, stiff arms. Voices started talking to her. Whispers. She wasn’t certain she heard them, but they played with the edges of her mind, laughing. Then someone, someone who didn’t whisper, asked her if she wanted to see again. She could still see his face, his smiling blue eyes which kissed her skin. She nodded dumbly. “Your voice wasn’t taken, we know that much. Would you like to see again?” A man’s voice, she thought. Maybe not. All the voices sounded so androgynous. “Y-yes.” So did hers. “If you can kill the Mindless outside, maybe we can help you. Prove you aren’t worthless. Prove you aren’t like them.” A dagger was placed into her hands. She dropped it twice, fumbling on the ground for it, slicing her palm, before she could make her cold, numb fingers tighten their grip on it. Then she was pushed outside, stumbling down onto her hands and knees. She couldn’t live like this. She wouldn’t. She wanted to see again. Nera hugged her knees to her chest, wiggling her toes, feeling the warmth of the campfire bathe them, chasing away the musty, cool air of Brill. She felt eyes trace the back of her neck, but schooled her face where once she would have frowned. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the world could still see you, even when you couldn’t see it. Someone was watching her, she was sure of it. Years spent manoeuvring through the courts and high society of Lordaeron had given her a sixth sense for things like that. She pushed the concern out of her head. They kept telling her it was best to forget your life, to move on and start anew. They were probably right. The voices of her unexpected companions rose and fell, oftentimes sombre and reflective, but occasionally with a soft laugh and a smile. With the exception of a rather eccentric sounding Warlock, they were all newly risen from their graves. A woman’s voice, a former noble of Lordaeron, like Nera herself, broke into guttural barks, cracking through the cold air, causing a few laughs with whatever she had said. Supposedly that was a language. Nera had no desire to learn it. Nera shook her head, swatting out wildly at the imp that trailed her everywhere, not coming anywhere close to hitting it. The demon’s voice plagued her, day and night, telling her what it saw of the world around her—or what it wanted her to see. Spitting demonic under her breath, she growled softly in the back of her throat and the imp’s presence in her mind receded. The damn thing allowed her to walk into doorframes without any warning, but it felt the need to relay information like this. She felt the imp wander away from their campfire, sullenly watching the world. It was fickle, but it was the only sight they had given her. The creatures that had pulled her from her grave, and promised her sight, had delivered on their promise. Almost drowning in the filth of the undead that had clawed at her skin and had tried to snuff whatever life she had left in her, Nera had clawed back, and fought as if she was crazed. She had crawled back to the relative safety of the androgynous voices, flinging the dagger away from her, hoping it would maybe hit one of them in the foot. She carried a tattered cloth, drawn together at the corners, and when she dropped it, a collection of skulls rattled together, spinning apart across the wooden floor. “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed. Is it enough for you?” She’d spat the words out, loathing the feel of her skin stretched across her bones, the cold that hadn’t left her body. “It’s enough.” She heard footsteps, and turned her head to follow them. Her body shivered, waiting for a blow, a word, a touch that she couldn’t see coming. “I can teach you how to bind a servant to your will—or to this world, at the very least,” a woman’s voice, thick with gravel and derision. A hand descended on her shoulder, claw like fingers pushing her to her knees. The woman talked for hours, running her through exercises, teaching her how to “pierce the veil”, she called it. Mistakes were punished severely. “You do not make mistakes around demons,” the woman sneered. “They do not like serving us. They will take advantage of you. Do not make mistakes.” The warmth of the campfire had receded, and Nera shivered, feeling eyes caressing the back of her neck. She half paid attention to the steady stream of information from her imp caressing the back of her mind. Its whispers were a constant droning she had learnt to tune out when necessary—right now, she tried to focus her attention on the people surrounding the campfire with her. They rose and moved away, sometimes to be replaced by new people. It was difficult to keep track of who was whom, so she concentrated on their dead hearts cradling thickened blood, no longer any use to their rotted limbs. Each felt different, relayed to her through the fel of her stubbornly uncooperative imp, and she focused her mind on that and let the conversations wash over her. “May I ask…do you remember anything of your life?” A man’s voice spoke softly in her ear and she gripped the wet grass to keep from jumping in her seat. The imp had stayed strangely silent in her mind. “I…do. I think perhaps they are right when they say it is better to forget our lives and move on.” She had no need to specify who “they” were; both had experienced the harsh teachings of those who had helped them wake up to this new existence. Neither had much choice in the matter. She no longer felt the cold, but she could feel the strength in the wind as it grabbed her hair like the rough hands of a lover. She brought her hand to it, and fingered the tattered ends, remembering being handed the knife, being told to kill. She’d chopped off all her hair, as much as she could, in frustration. Seems once you’ve died your hair stops growing back. She remembered having long hair, down to her waist. She remembered laughing blue eyes and warm fingers telling her how beautiful it was. “But even if it’s better to forget, I doubt I will,” she smirked, letting her hand drop to her side. “Even bitter sweet, the memories are hard to let go.” She felt him move closer, his hand touching her back lightly, as if offering comfort. “Yourself? Do you remember anything?”
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)