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chapter seven. worms in the brain
A murky street beneath sleet grey sky. The curve of an archway leading to a dark tunnel, the dirt between cobbled stone. Beneath sits a girl, a child, yet the grit already sits ancient in her skin.
The rain from the heavens is not a threat, it's a promise, and the air around has chilled to the bone. Rags stick to the girls skin, so worn that a dip in the wash tub would threaten to dissolve them to sediment. Dark hair matted to the scalp, bruised and scraped when a night of begging ended in robbery, the girl watches the figures of passing Baldurians with a mask made of stone.
Much rests in the body of the tiny statue as she cups her hands for the cold touch of gold. The throb of a stomach oft hollow, the knowing that whatever coin thrown will pale to what is needed. Something is forming in the girl, something cold and hard as a diamond, for the girl has only ever known pressure and it has squeezed since birth.
In the distance, the Mossdreamer estate sits high in the glimmer of the Upper City. The girl doesn't see it, but she feels it as though she were sitting in its shadow at that very moment, omnipresent as the gods themselves. In her ear, the curl of her mother's wheezing breath and the death rattle that keeps her awake at night. She shifts against the pavements, skin taut to her bones. The scab on her knee opens, red parting the crust. Blood's warmth is all too familiar, pain a gentle reminder that she is indeed still alive.
The heavens above sigh. Rainfall descends upon the city and a fierce wind blows sheets of frosty water. Stragglers take shelter beneath the tunnel. A woman hugs her coat close, notices the girl, reaches into a pocket and counts out four pieces. She drops them into the girl's hands.
The girl says nothing. It's evident the woman expects thanks, she's frowning now, her lip curling to a scowl. There are words but the girl cannot hear them. She's too busy wishing for warmth. Gold cannot buy warmth. Perhaps ...
She blinks and there it is. The woman's stomach cut clean across, the dagger's pommel in her hand. How cruel, the girl thinks to herself as she stares through apathetic eyes. For what spills forth is not blood but only shadow.
Fallon awoke the next morning with a jolt. She jerked upwards, groaning with pain. Her back was stiff with cold, the ache of sleeping on the hard ground pulsing through her muscles. Marth crouched beside her, his brows knitted heavy above his dark brown eyes.
"Did you fall asleep out here?"
She swallowed, nodding as she glanced around her. Beside her was her lyre, unbroken, the branch at her feet not quite as lucky. Had she simply fallen from the tree and dreamt the whole thing up? Her gut curled, no of course she hadn't. Her meeting with Raphael had been far too visceral, the smell of the banquet still lingering in her nostrils. Of course it hadn't been a dream. That had come after and she felt a shiver through her core as proof.
