10
A Prisoner
Syren
Acrisp bite of freezing snow gnaws against the bare skin of my shins. Gems and red fabric alike gather at the top of my thighs, nearly exposing the scanty pair of undergarments I’m wearing.
Not that it matters. Not when my hands are pressing into the windpipe of the traitorous Aisha. There went my good grace and mercy.
Her blond hair is fanned out over the slush of snow and mud. Brilliant blue eyes, bloodshot and large, stare up at me. Her nails are crusted with dirt as she scrambles to pry my hands away.
The chaplain frantically waves his hands next to us. “She's come to seek forgiveness! She’s come seeking asylum with the church! You can’t hurt her!”
She’s come because her assassin was caught!
Is she out of ways to kill me already and wants to finish it all once and for all?
“I didn’t hear any of those words come from her mouth.”
With a snarl, I press my grip tighter. Aisha’s face deepens a few shades of red as she squeaks, “Seeking... asylum.”
An angry growl bubbles over my lips as I let her go, still straddling her against the ground. Aisha sputters and wheezes. Bruises form across her neck, already fading as they heal. I look up at the chaplain with narrowed eyes.
“I don’t think she qualifies for asylum.”
“By way of the church, she has a right to stay and prove that she does. Though I think she may have gone mad in her time away.” Chaplain frowns down at the two of us.
Spit sits visibly against her lip as she lays motionless beneath me, trying to catch her breath. She does look a bit rabid.
“You make it sound like she took a vacation. She fled. She’s a wanted criminal.” With a grunt, I bring both her hands together and hold her wrists tightly.
Aisha’s shoulders shake with a laugh. A cocky sneer twists her lips as she speaks. “Did you miss me, Syren?”
“Do you miss my hands on your throat?” I dig my nails into her skin, watching the bruises on her neck I would rather press down on. “Doesn’t it hurt to talk, anyway? Shouldn’t you shut up?”
“Worth it,” she rasps.
“Princess, she is the church's guest. By our very right.” The chaplain butts in.
“Fuck the church’s right. And her rights, too. She killed thousands, possibly millions of innocent citizens.” I stand, pulling Aisha up with me. I don’t bother to be gentle, and I smile at the sound of her whimper as I tug her behind me.
There isn’t time for me to adjust the skirt of my dress as it clings to my legs. I don’t bother dusting the material off. Nor do I worry about the flowers and brush that I pull her through. If anything, it would be a convenience if she got stabbed a few hundred times by thorns on the way through.
“Guards!” I yell.
Purposefully, I walk close to the nearest rose bush, dragging Aisha at my side. I look to where I’d last seen a guard only to find Iri waiting with his hands planted against his lean hips.
Rigs pokes his head around the king, his mouth parting in shock.
“Princess, if you would just listen.” The chaplain follows closely behind us, trailing me like I’m dragging around a bone, and he is the dog.
“Rigs, escort the chaplain back to his quarters.”
Aisha stumbles, falling and ripping her hands from my grip at the same time. I screech in frustration, grabbing a fist of her blond hair.
“Well, you got here fast,” I snap at Iri, trying to ignore how still Aisha has become.
“I won’t let anything else happen to you. Remember?” Iri glances from me to Aisha. At the moment his gaze falls on her, Aisha trembles.
