Eleven Years Ago
She just wanted to do something good.
She’d never been the type to attempt grand displays of heroism, but she was so… lost.
Nymiria looked up at the clouds that blanketed the sky, shivered and whimpered as she helplessly tugged at the ropes that were tied too tight around her wrists.
Her fingers were purple, her skin was mottled and bruised. And she ached. Everywhere. In her legs, in her arms, in her chest, in her heart. Her head pounded and her eyes were so swollen that she could hardly see the snowflakes that were lightly coating her pebbled skin.
She’d only been out there for a few hours, but her body was starting to go numb from the cold. The aching had turned dull, giving way to a stiffness that made her joints hard to move.
Nymiria tugged again, hissing at the burn, recoiling from the needle-prick-warmth from the line of blood now running down her arm. Her skin was too cold and her blood was too hot.They’d strung her up there to deliver their punishments. And she took every ounce of it. Every hit, every smack, every blast of power…
It was better than being tied to the table inside the house. It was better than the branding iron. This was nothing compared to what had happened in the bedroom.
The snow was falling heavily now, tears turning to ice along the corner of her eye and her fingers twitched with the urge to wipe them away.
Nymiria knew that something wasn’t quite right. She’d begged for death. She prayed that she would die out here—that all of these punishments would lead to an end. But they hadn’t killed her. No matter how hard they hit, no matter what they did, her body just wouldn’t give up.
Her gaze shifted to the house in front of her. Through the moth-eaten curtains, she could see their silhouettes. They had been talking for what seemed like hours, voices shifting between yelling and whispers, but aside from that, she couldn’t hear much else. The last thing she could coherently decipher was one of the men shouting about how they needed to decide what to do with her.
Nymiria let out a wet, wheezing breath and looked up to the sky again.
“Ihira innaoch. Caddat, galri, azul. Caddat, galri, azul. Ihira innaoch.” Nymiria whispered her prayer, closing her eyes and opening her heart to her surroundings. It was one final plea.
Hear my heart, she’d said. Mother, life, death. Mother, life, death. Hear my heart.
With the thick overhang of snow clouds having plagued this side of The Divide for the last three months, Nymiria felt her stomach churn with hope when the first ray of moonlight appeared behind a thin, misty cloud. The wind blew, the snowswirled. And though it felt as if her heart had lodged in her throat, she found the strength to let out a soft cry of joy—
And then it stopped.
The world fell quiet.
The wind, blistering, ceased. The last feather-like clump of snow fell.
But the moon still shone.
“Fine,” a loud voice bellowed. “Fine, alright. I’ll do it. I’ll kill the little bitch. That’s what Yaarborough wants, isn’t it? For the Celentas line to be extinguished?”
For a moment, the world was entirely silent. Too silent. And though fear had taken root inside of her small, quivering body, Nymiria could not produce a single tear.
This was because of her. Her shortcomings. Her stupid bravery. Her stupidity, in itself.
Death was coming. At long last, Death had arrived.
Snap.
Nymiria jerked her head towards the treeline, eyes going wide at the hooded and masked man standing there. Her eyes dropped to his knife, silver gleaming in the moonlight, before her gaze shifted to his eyes.
Blue.
Brilliantly beautiful blue eyes that could captivate one’s soul with just one glance. And there in that clearing, with her naked and bloodied body bared to the forces, she was captivated.
She watched as his eyes flickered over her skin, but it seemed as if his whole body trembled with rage the moment he saw the dried smears of blood on the inside of her thighs. Leather squelched around the hilt of his knife and her whole body shook as he stomped across the clearing to approach her.
She didn’t plead for safety or sovereignty. She didn’t pray. She didn’t beg. She just hoped that her death would be swift.
“Who did this to you?” The masked man whispered. Nymiria’s heart stuttered, her dried and cracked lips parting, but not a single sound came out. She’d screamed so much in the last three days that she’d nearly lost the strength of her voice. His eyes moved over her face, his brow furrowed as he lifted his blade. Nymiria flinched and the man went still. He lowered his knife just a fraction, just for a moment, before he lifted it to her wrist.
