A Plague of Legends

Chapter 12: Precious Things

Or, The Chariot, Reversed

These precious things

Let them bleed, let them wash away

These precious things

Let them break their hold over me

- Tori Amos, Precious Things

***

The cold December air bit into Blaise's lungs, nipped playfully at her cheeks as she sat propped against a bare maple and watched the lake freeze over. Chunks of ice floated iceberg-like in the water, every so often shunted aside in the wake of the Giant Squid. Blaise loved the lake in the winter, its danger starkly emphasized by the emptiness surrounding it. No leafy trees or soft green fields to detract from the cold black; just hard packed dirt covered in frost and ice bobbing like drowning men, against a grey sky.

Blaise pressed her back to the tree and splayed her toes in the dirt, enjoying the feel of rough and knobby bark digging into her shoulder blades, of slumbering earth beneath her feet. She wondered how she must look at the moment, if she seemed strange or insane to be outside with a thin cloak lightly wrapped around her, shoes, socks and scarf flung up into her tree's branches. They hung there like banners, her silver and green scarf blazing spring-like against empty boughs. Here I am, it cried, here I am.

And there she was, wild in her sudden freedom, her realization that yes, finally she could be free of him, that she need not love him, hate him, even think of him. That, despite no return letter from his father, she had taken her revenge and could move on; burn that journal; forget his eyes; forgive the emerald thief. Thank the thief. It was over, finally. She had ended it with the first dip of her pen, the press of her seal into hot wax. That night, after she'd finished writing she had stared at the letter for an endless heartbeat, caught up in the implications of her act. She had watched Morrigan fly into the night, her owl silhouetted against the moon like déjà vu. And she had known that it was over, and that she was happy for it.

Blaise felt like she was four again, like she had finally found herself after years spent chasing a phantom. Illusory silver fires that had led her over bog, lost her her friends, lost her herself. She felt like she had on her fifth birthday, remembered how she'd puffed her cheeks out before she huffed at flaming wax. She felt like she'd felt until that day, ten years ago now, when the world has stopped in its rotation to gawk at shining silver eyes. Blaise puffed out her cheeks and huffed cloudy breaths into the air, delighted by the way they curled in and out of existence.

It was cold. Blaise's fingers tingled and burned from the freeze, and for a moment she almost regretted flinging her mittens into the lake, sodden offerings to the tentacled guardian. She rubbed her hands together, then stopped, inspected them. Long and graceful fingers, neatly clipped nails (her right pinky had a hangnail, she'd fix that when she returned to her dormitory room), the pads of her hand unblemished but for a slight glorious chapping. Some dirt on her knuckles from that tumble she'd taken earlier. Her hands were like the rest of her; refined by generations of selective breeding, so close to perfection that they were all but lacking in personality, self. But see the dirt on her knuckles and between her toes, rough color in her cheeks and vivid lips.

See how she smiles, eyes snapping and knees wide open as she contemplates the bare new truth of her world. See her transformation beyond aristocratic nose and sculpted lip, deep blueberry eyes and black curling hair. See how her hair has escaped its coiffure, how it sprawls against her shoulders as she takes deep painful breaths, her chest heaving against the cold, wonderful air. See how she loves winter, loves life.

Loves herself.

And she was seen, marked as a telltale branch crunched under plodding feet. Heavy breath hung in the air, begging audience as it waited for Blaise's attention.

Blaise shook her head, freeing a twig from her hair, and looked up. She smiled at their looks, at Vincent's sudden inhalation, and rubbed unselfconsciously at her numb nose. "Yes?"

Gregory stepped forward, his mouth trembling from some emotion or another (Was he amused? Worried? Stunned?) as he mumbled out, "You have dirt on the side of your nose." Then he knelt down to wipe her face clean, the colors of his scarf shining against her flushed skin.

Blaise smiled at him, "Why, thank you."

Gregory pulled back at her smile, like it was a cobra ready to strike, and beat a fast retreat to Vincent's side. They then proceeded to stand and stare at her, obviously at a loss for words or thought. Which became tiresome after the first fifteen, no, make that ten seconds. Blaise let out a sigh, more to see clouds form than anything else, and asked the obvious, "Was there something you wanted of me?"

Gregory shuffled his feet and glanced over at Vincent. Vincent glanced back, then sighed (Blaise's mist dragons were better) and stepped forward and into the fray.

"We wanted to know what's going on with you and Draco."

Blaise felt a momentary bitterness- of course there would be no other reason for them to seek her out. Draco. Blaise rubbed herself closer to the tree, clenching her toes around dirt and stone, and bit out, "It's over."

Vincent came closer, knelt down beside her, his hand a sudden iron presence on her shoulder, "It'll never be over between you two."

Blaise laughed at that, smiling at the complete and utter wrongness of Vincent's statement, taking joy in how perfectly untrue it was. She laughed again, this time at Vince's confusion, "That is where you are wrong. It's over."

Because it was. It was over. Blaise knew this, knew it like she knew the scent of rosewater clinging to Draco's palms and shoulders, knew it like she knew there was a tree behind her and earth under her. It was over.

Vincent and Greg stared at her, put off by her seeming madness, how she took joy in things that Blaise would never take joy in. Blaise would never roll around in the dirt, never throw away her clothing, and certainly never say that whatever she had with Draco Malfoy was over. But she had. She did, and so Blaise watched amusedly as her audience struggled to regroup.

"Drake's not going home for break," Gregory offered.

"Oh?" Blaise murmured, her curiosity peaked.

"No, his father told him to stay here," Vincent said, his eyes avidly watching her face for the slightest change in expression or hint.

So he thought that she had something to do with that? Well, after their last real conversation it was only logical. It was also most likely correct. Blaise let surprise ripple over her face. "Oh?"

"Yes, but we're going home."

Blaise nodded at Vincent's overemphasis. So that was it. She wasn't really surprised; although if that was truly the case then it was even more suspicious that Draco wasn't being allowed to return home. Her missive must have had the desired impact.

Blaise cleared her throat, "Well, I am going home as well, but I believe that my parents have made vacation plans; I probably won't be around for much of break." She smiled evilly, "And you shouldn't worry about Draco- he can take care of himself."

"Yes, he can," Vincent glared threateningly.

Blaise just continued smiling and let the look bounce off of her skin, imagining that it ricocheted from her face and was even now soaring Snitch-like over trees and lake and waving tentacles. She was smiling as they left, their feet crashing over fallen branch and underbrush as they cleared the copse of trees and made their way back to Hogwarts.

Then she, too, stood and summoned her socks and scarf to her, shuddering slightly as the scarf settled, chainlike, around her neck. Her toes were gritty and uncomfortable within her socks, but Blaise was still smiling as she waved a goodbye to the Giant Squid.

Perhaps Pansy would help her with some last-minute packing.

***

Blaise's boots clacked against the marble floor, the sounds echoing welcomingly throughout the Estate's main foyer. Blaise smiled at the new fountain in the middle of the foyer; Papa probably went through six fountains every year, always in search of the 'perfect' ornament that would 'perfectly' set off the entryway. The current selection was carved out of green marble and had mermaids cavorting with flying fish in tropically blue water. Blaise was about to walk over and inspect Papa's new atrocity when someone politely coughed behind her, "If Milady would approve, I would like to send her things up to her room.

Ah, Sextus. Blaise turned and regarded the Zabini butler, pursing her lips as she took in the state of his eyes, "Sextus, are you feeling unwell? You are looking too. . . peaked. . . for this time of the month." Indeed, his eyes were much too red; tonight was a sickle moon.

Sextus bowed at her concern and smiled wanly. "Do not worry, Milady. Your parents are well apprised of the situation. Now, shall I send your things up?"

Blaise nodded and Sextus snapped his fingers, sending Blaise's luggage floating up the Grand Staircase and then out of sight. He bowed one more time, stopping mid-motion at Blaise's touch on his shoulder.

"Be careful of yourself," Blaise said, and then followed her luggage upstairs.

Sextus' red eyes darkened to almost-black. "May you do the same, Milady."

***

Blaise stopped on the threshold of her room, the tips of her boots sinking slightly into the thick carpet beneath them. The carpet matched her scarf, just like everything else in this room; Blaise determined that if she accomplished nothing else over winter vacation she would at least redecorate her rooms. Blaise was sick of easy definitions, and performed a small pirouette to celebrate the thought. As she spun to a stop, her toes pressed up against the tip of her shoes and she realized that she missed the feeling of dirt under her skin. Of wind slapping at her face.

She sat down on her bed, pulling loose her boot laces before slipping out of the shoes and tossing them somewhere in the vicinity of her closet. Blaise smirked at the sound they made as they thumped to the floor; the House Elves would no doubt be horrified beyond belief by her sudden messiness.

Blaise was propped up by pillows and busily making neat notations, cataloguing the many changes to make to her room (a deep rust color would be nice, complimented perhaps by an Oriental flying carpet) when sleep overcame her, muffling sight and sound. A sharp knock on the door abruptly called Blaise back to reality.

"Blaise, darling. It's almost time for dinner. You have a half an hour to prepare; may I come in?"

Mother. For one brief moment all Blaise could remember were her mother's soft moonlit words, juxtaposed over Draco's eyes as he said, "Because he's mine." In that one moment Blaise was almost overcome by the memory of her pain and rage. And then it was over and none of it mattered anymore. Blaise remembered her freedom, the sting was removed from her mother's betrayal (however well-meaning), and the taste of wind filled Blaise's mouth.

"Yes," Blaise called out.

The door opened, slowly and silently, with a grace that doors do not usually possess. Perfect face and perfect hair, complimented by perfect jewelry, peeked out from behind the door, crimping slightly (oh, the elegance that can be found in nuances) as the state of Blaise's person became apparent.

Blaise's mother made a moue, "Sextus said that you were looking a bit. . . wild. I see that was an understatement. And to think that I didn't believe him; I will have to apologize immediately."

Blaise's mother made no move to leave.

"Yes, Mother?" Blaise fought to keep any hint of exasperation from her voice. She simply stared limpidly at her mother, noting the exquisite coiffure, the seed pearls that had been hand-sewn into a Silk-of-Twilight shawl, the dress that hundreds of fairies must have given their lives for. She stared at the utter perfection that was her mother and vowed to never again give up her dirt and wind and fanciful mist-serpents. But she did hide the hand with a hangnail under a nearby pillow.

Blaise's mother drew closer, sat down on the bed beside her. Even her posture was perfect- perfect and sterile, the hollowness in her smiles and eyes simply a reflection of a greater emptiness. And Blaise wondered: had she not been the only one to love unwisely?

Mother leaned forward, her forehead almost touching Blaise's, her plum perfume putrid in Blaise's nostrils. Blaise drew back as a stray strawberry curl brushed against her cheek. Mother smiled, her skin-deep concern evident on the play of her trembling lips, the slight tilt of her chin, and she chided, "Your hair is in an utter state, you do realize? You cannot possible expect to go to dinner with your dear Papa looking like some common Mudblood, can you?"

Mother smiled, her canines peeking out over too-red lips, "Come over to the vanity. I'll brush your hair for you, like I used to before you went away."

Blaise restrained a shudder at the thought.

Mother stood up and grasped Blaise's hand, pulling and tugging at her until Blaise followed her to the vanity seat and she had Blaise positioned exactly as of old: Blaise sitting facing the vanity mirror with Mother hovering behind her, the palms of her hands resting on Blaise's shoulders, their connection reflected in the mirror before them. The mirror was an old piece that had been carved by dwarves; there were winking cherubs carved into the wood. One exclaimed, "Why Mistress Blaise, welcome home! Oh, but just look at the condition of your hair!"

Mother winked back and smoothly replied, "Isn't it awful? I don't know if I have ever seen it worse." Blaise winced at the pull of the brush against her hair; Mother's hand was overly heavy as it dragged the brush down the wavy length of her hair.

Another cherub looked thoughtful for a moment and then shook his head, "No, there was that one time when she was three and got into a tussle with-"

"I think that is enough out of all of you," Mother said, and the cherubs subsided.

The brush tugged painfully at Blaise's scalp and she bit her lip, eyes fixed on her mother's reflected face. Mother's eyes narrowed briefly and the stroking movements halted. "You used to love this when you were a child."

Blaise dug her nails into her palms. "I am no longer a child, Mother."

Mother resumed her brushing, but now the brush more glided over hair than actually touched it. Blaise worried about the look in her mother's eyes.

"No, you are not," Mother paused, "You love him, is that not so?"

Why this sudden question? And why did the room suddenly smell of roses?

Blaise longed to fidget, scared by the look in Mother's eyes. Scared because they were no longer empty; they were angry, enraged, so full of bile and injury that Blaise felt she could not breathe for the hate in them. What had she done? Blaise inhaled, felt it all flooding her lungs like liquid, and choked out, "I did."

The words bubbled in the air, bursting open as they made contact with Mother's ears. And there it was. Not, 'I do,' but 'I did'. Misery confined by the past- an imperfect past, but past nonetheless. But the past was not staring out from her mother's eyes. Did Papa know? Did he even care?

Mother tugged, pulled, and the brush's ivory tines collided against Blaise's head, scraping at her skin. Blaise felt it tear, felt the blood that must be staining her scalp, the red hidden by lucky clouds of black. She felt, more than heard, Mother snarl, "You did?"

Blaise opened her mouth, prompted by the feel of wetness dribbling over her neck and the threatening spikes now grazing her throat. "I. . ."

Mother pressed the brush in harder and snarled, "You lie." It was a demand.

"I lied," Blaise said hollowly. She could feel the blood on her shoulder, now.

"And he does not love you," came another demand.

"He will never love me," Blaise licked her dry lips, mouth helplessly open as she looked into the mirror, into her mother's eyes.

Her head went ricocheting forward at the sudden release of her hair. Blaise stopped her forward hurdle just in time, her nose almost touching the smirking mirror. Mother stood, again graceful and perfect as she placed the brush on the mirror-stand, its tines' tips stained a dark red. Blaise felt at the side of her neck, fingers flinching away as she encountered wetness. She slowly turned away from the mirror and looked into her mother's seething eyes.

Mother nodded once, curtly, "Remember that," and turned to exit the room.

Too early to breathe out her relief, Blaise let a little of the tension leave her frame and watched as slight tremors began to wrack her hands. She buried them in the folds of her dress, glad that her mother was facing the door. Glad, but still nervous, jittery at the feel of blood slipping between her breasts and down her stomach, over her back. Her head pulsed. Blaise swallowed as Mother turned in the doorway.

"Oh! I forgot!" Mother's eyes seemed empty again, almost perfectly so unless one spotted the lie.

Blaise managed to get her mouth open, to say, "Oh?"

Mother came forward, her feet so graceful they almost floated over the carpet, careful not to touch the dark spots now dotting the area around Blaise. Mother smiled brilliantly, said, "Yes. This came for you," and tossed something into Blaise's lap. Then she left, her departure announced by the sound of seed pearls clacking against each other and the quiet smack of wood on wood.

Blaise blinked, her vision swimming just a bit, too shocked to register the shudders wracking her body. Her hands twisted the thing on her lap, pulling at it until she realized what they were doing. She took a few deep breaths and almost retched; the room stank of plum and blood. So she remembered dirt, recalled the way it felt beneath her, the way it stirred as winds rippled over it. She remembered the clean scent of it, comforted herself with the knowledge that tonight, if she was sly enough, she could go for a midnight romp over the grounds.

But for now she would clean herself up and prepare for dinner. She had only a few minutes left, but a couple of quick spells would fix her appearance. Papa could not see her like this. First she should examine the thing Mother left her, the thing that had hurt Mother so. That had hurt her.

Blaise looked down at her lap and its light burden: a small letter with her name 'Miss Blaise Zabini' scrawled in a fine cursive across the front. Nothing more. An anonymous letter? How could that possibly anger Mother so? Blaise grasped the envelope, her fingers still unsteady and rattling against the smooth vellum, and flipped. And there it was, waves of Chaos magically encased within wax, crashing against each other, silently proclaiming the identity of the letter's sender.

Lucius Malfoy.

***

Blaise was ushered into a dark study, and for a moment she wished that she had waited more than twenty-four hours to answer Lucius Malfoy's summons. Denying it had never been an option, not in their circle. Perhaps if given more time, she might have been able to sculpt a better mask, to recall the feelings of rage and bitterness that might have given her the edge in this confrontation. As it was, Blaise had only her painstakingly selected clothes and practiced mask as protection. Scant protection against one such as Lucius Malfoy.

Blaise decided to catalogue the contents of the room; hopefully such a familiar, mundane task would settle her nerves. She practically vibrated with tension, but the only outward sign of this she would allow was a faint layer of perspiration that could be attributed to the musty air inside. Today there could be no balled hands, no bitten lips, no flushed cheeks. From now until the time she left Malfoy Manor she was stone, and would not be chipped by any man. Not even Lucius Malfoy.

Blaise wandered over to the fireplace, proud of her steady steps, and looked up at the family portrait hanging above the mantle. Lucius, Narcissa, and an eight year old Draco- a picture perfect family, but for the sudden rude movement Draco made in her direction. Portrait-Narcissa immediately began screeching at portrait Draco, demanding that he apologize to the nice young lady.

"But she's not a Lady, Mother, she looks like Blaise, and you know what Blaise did to my broom!" portrait-Draco whined.

Blaise coughed back a laugh. She remembered that incident, and she also remembered that Draco's destroyed broom had not been entirely her fault. Although her bottom had stung for days after Papa had been done with her. As she recalled, Draco had received a healthy tongue-lashing for daring her in the first place.

"This young lady is too big for your broom, Draco. You should also remember who caused Blaise to try to ride your broom in the first place," portrait-Lucius pinned portrait-Draco with a stern look. "Now apologize."

"Oh, fine. I'm sorry," portrait-Draco pouted, and glared at Blaise.

Blaise murmured out a quick acceptance of Draco's 'apology' and wandered away, not wishing to be the subject of any more family feuds, even if they were just portrait people.

The rest of the room was dark, disturbingly so. The only sources of light in the room were the fireplace at the very front, and a small stained-glass lamp perched on a book-table over in the far corner of the room. However, the lamp's light was obscured by a big armchair that was turned away from the rest of the room for privacy. Blaise briefly wondered if there was anyone in that chair, perhaps someone reading an obscure treatise on magic or history- Lucius, maybe- only to be distracted when the room's door opened to reveal Lucius Malfoy, illuminated in the light of the outer corridor like a fallen angel. Lucius' hair haloed his head, the strands for once not slicked back in that manner reminiscent of Draco. Or was it the opposite? But Draco had completely stopped gelling his hair in early November; Potter's influence, most likely.

Blaise walked towards the door, to meet Lucius and greet him, but her host held up a hand, asking her to stop. They would be using this room. Blaise noted that Lucius did not offer her a chair, just stalked over to the fireplace and leaned against it, his shoulder making casual contact with stone. He waved at her to approach, which Blaise did unwillingly, mindful of the strange energy surrounding Lucius, not to mention the malicious faces portrait-Draco was even now making at her.

"Have you been made comfortable?" Lucius drawled out, obviously unconcerned with any answer she might give.

Blaise did not bite her lip. "Yes, of course. Although the Draco in your portrait and I," Blaise lifted her chin in the direction of the painting, "had a slight altercation."

Lucius lifted one eyebrow in surprise and turned to look up at portrait-Draco, who had the presence of mind to remove his fingers from his mouth. "Is this true?"

Portrait-Lucius gave a tight nod, his fingers tight on the shoulder of a spluttering Draco.

Real-Lucius performed a long sigh, then removed his wand from under his robes and waved it at the portrait. Blaise stared at the painting's sudden change of subject; it had become a rather eerie landscape. Wilted roses lay scattered over mossy graves against the backdrop of a purple and red sky. Blaise wondered whose grave she was looking at. An impatient cough brought her attention back to her host.

"Now Miss Zabini, as I am sure you have guessed, I asked you here to discuss the matter of this letter with you," Lucius withdrew Blaise's letter from a hidden pocket and waved it once in her face. "What exactly were you dancing around in this. . . thing?" he hissed.

Blaise stifled a smile (this might be easier than she had thought) and murmured, "I would think, sir, that my letter's content was rather obvious. I did not speak bluntly in it for fear of interception, and-"

"Yes, yes." Lucius waved the letter irritably at her, "Let us dispense with the games, shall we? For the moment, why don't you assume that I'm as dumb as a Gryffindor and tell me exactly what you meant."

Blaise noted the speed of her heartbeats and knew that she could never make the mistake of thinking Lucius Malfoy an idiot. But she did know him well enough to be confident that the moment his suspicions were confirmed he would be out of the Manor and at Hogwarts faster than a Grim with an appointment to keep. If she was lucky he would find Draco tangled up with Potter. Blaise almost pitied Potter for a moment, pitied him his involvement in these serpent's games. Pitied him because it no longer even mattered, really; it was just too late to stop. She stifled the urge to ask if she could just go home- she hadn't meant anything by the letter, really- took a shallow breath and began:

"I am not sure if you are aware, sir, but your son has been having sexual relations with men for several years, now," Blaise said, her voice thankfully steady.

Lucius tightened his lips and asked, "Do you know exactly when he began behaving in this manner?"

Blaise shook her head, happy that this, at least, was something she was ignorant of. "No sir, I do not. However, I do know that Draco has been involved with various boys, mainly one Ravenclaw, since at least his fifth year at Hogwarts."

"What is this boy's name?" Lucius smiled, snake-like.

Oh, no. While Blaise was not fond of that slut, she would not have his blood on her hands. Blaise shook her head again and ignored the narrowing of Lucius' eyes as she indicated ignorance. If she couldn't stop this, she was at least going to minimize the damage. She continued, "But that, sir, is unimportant when compared to Draco's current liaison." Blaise let a hint of distaste invade her voice. Pity for Potter or Draco would do them no good, and most certainly not help her.

"Oh?" Lucius lifted an eyebrow, his ire betrayed by the twin pink spots hovering over his cheekbones.

Blaise lowered her voice, well aware of the slithering impact that her hushed tones would have. "Draco's current lover is none other than Harry Potter."

And it was done. Blaise waited for the eruption, for the lava to start flowing and Lucius to begin screaming, the chance to slip out in the confusion, to escape in the carnage that Lucius would leave behind him on his path to Hogwarts. Maybe even the chance to send an anonymous message, sweet and short, to the Lions' Den. Just. . . maybe.

But the explosion never came, or if it did it was hidden in the scarlet flush on Lucius' cheeks. Was this it? This quiet smoldering in front of her, this choking acceptance: this obvious acceptance of the unacceptable? How could he? How could he?! How could he possibly approve of his son and Harry Potter together? Blaise was about to ask, about to cut her tongue off with words when a low voice hissed out from the corner of the room.

"It iss as you said, my dear Lucius."

The armchair.

"I am ssorry to have doubted you."

Oh sweet Merlin, the armchair.

Blaise stood paralyzed, her feet grafted to the ground as a hooded shape rose, graced by the limelight of that stained-glass lamp. The figure moved forward, light footsteps making hushed sounds over the carpeting, the stench of decomposing flesh and power, such power, coming off of the figure that Blaise thought she might scream or faint. She did not quite scream, but a soft, keening wail escaped her throat, as the firelight met the figure's blood-red eyes. How could she not have known? How could she not have sensed this?

Voldemort turned at the sound and regarded her for a moment. It was one of those moments when time rushes by so quickly that there is nothing to do but hope and hold on, pray that you'll still be there when time slows down again. And then time did slow down, and Blaise came back to herself in time to hear the Dark Lord whisper, "You do well to be scared of me, little girl."

Still looking at her, the Dark Lord addressed Lucius, his unreadable eyes bright on Blaise's face as he murmured, "I should, however, have guessed that this might happen. How delightfully perfect."

Lucius dipped his head, submissive and bitter as he ground out, "It is as you say, My Lord."

Voldemort smiled, a horrific thing that turned Blaise's stomach inside out. "You have my gratitude in this, as in everything else, my dear dear Lucius." Blaise shuddered at the cruel fondness that dripped from every word, like blood from a dagger. She shuddered again as Voldemort returned his attention to her, all motor control lost. Her fear had become a second skin, sheathing her in its lover-like attentions. Blaise trembled under its touch.

"Now, what shall we do with you, Miss Zabini?"

What indeed?

Voldemort's breath was fetid on her face.

"Let me go," Blaise whispered, pleaded.

If only she had never come.

"Let you go?" Voldemort mocked, his face so close to hers she could feel the heat rising from his skin. "Now why does that not seem to be the best of ideas?"

"Please," Blaise begged, only now aware of the tears leaving tracks down her cheeks. She looked at Lucius, felt all hope split and burn at the slight shake of his head.

"Do not look to Lucius, child. He cannot help you," Voldemort said, his red, red eyes now all that Blaise could see. "Indeed, why-ever would he want to?"

Blaise flinched, because suddenly she did see something in his eyes, and it was the reflection of a wand; and the sound of the Dark Lord's whispered, "Crucio," filled her ears, driving away all memory of dirt between her toes and cloudy dragons that glared with pewter eyes.

And then there was nothing but the pain and the pain and the god-awful pain and the screams that were bloodying her throat.

**tbc**