Meyneth
Dungeons, Drive-Ins & Dives
As time dragged on, loneliness gave way to anger. Anger, then, to grief. And back again.
At this point, Pyrrha could not tell them apart; they were all dark, venomous things that stained sunny afternoons and gnawed at her stomach. She could not fool herself into thinking it was pointless brooding, either; she saw how that Noe girl slunk around. Pyrrha’s days were numbered. Her father was not around to shield her from the schemes of nobles.
She lay on her back, staring at the moonlight on the ceiling. The palace had been silent for a while now, nothing except the chirp of crickets and the crash of waves on the shore. She slipped out of bed.
She was sick of feeling sick, like a disease had infected her mind and made everything hazy and dark. Now, something else cut through - something sharp, clear, crackling. She felt every inch of the cool floor on her feet, every fiber of the cloak she pulled over her shoulders. She fumbled for the bag she had stashed under her covers, slipped it onto her back, and popped the window open.
This is it, she told herself. You are going to run and you are not going to turn around, and if Mikhail tries to stop you, you are going to kill him.
That put a smile on her face. She hoisted herself up and out.
She expected alarm bells or baying hounds when she landed behind the palace, not more quiet. Just crickets and waves. The moon was blessedly bright, casting a glow over the garden in front of her, the woods to her left, and the cliffs to her right. She needed to cut through the garden and into the woods. There was a clearing; she’d be able to prepare there. Carve herself into someone entirely different.
Deep breath. Now she needed to go, or she never would, so she launched herself down the steps and ran like a woman possessed.
Past olive trees and wildflowers, over stone paths, through the garden gate. She might never see it all again - might never sit again in her father’s favorite tree - but clear summer air cut through her lungs and she was free, she was out of the garden, thundering off of stone paths and into sticker bushes and damp leaves. A doe turned and fled; squirrels scurried into burrows.
She stumbled into the clearing, panting and tripping over her feet, all of it stinging and fresh. The burning lungs, that clear, bright adrenaline, she felt it. She felt something. She didn’t care if it hurt.
Once she caught her breath, she settled in the center of the clearing, where she could lean against the thickest tree and watch her reflection in a little pool between stones. A few months ago, she had loved to read here. Now, she dropped her bag on the ground and rifled through it until she felt leather wrapped around a blade.
She drew it out carefully. A kitchen knife - certainly not the sharpest weapon the palace offered, but Mikhail’s men wouldn’t let her touch anything more dignified. Dangerous little girl. Well, he was an idiot; she was enough of a weapon herself. She hadn’t killed her father with a knife.
She bent over the stream and held her hair out at the shoulder. She had to saw at it a bit, but finally - the blade sliced through, leaving her with a handful of hair the length of a horse’s tail. What was still attached to her head didn't even reach her shoulders. She held out what remained, started to raise the knife, then winced and put it down.
It’s the gray streaks that’ll give you away anyway, she thought, tilting her head and watching the ragged edges brush against her face. Should’ve dyed them. Oh well. She’d find dye somewhere else. For now, she stuffed her cut-off hair into the bag, pulled her hood over her head, and stood.
And caught a glimpse of red in the trees.
Pyrrha froze. That wasn’t deer red or squirrel red, it was - human hair red, like -
Power crackled on her arms. Stiffly, like a stalking wolf, she took a step toward it.
Mikhail? Couldn’t be; must have sent his slithering little daughter to do his dirty work. Pyrrha didn’t care. Snakes all the same.
“Don’t be coy,” she snapped. Gods, she was so sick of playing nice with these people, and the words rose up like fire in her throat. “Come kill me face-to-face if you have any respect for yourself.”
At this point, Pyrrha could not tell them apart; they were all dark, venomous things that stained sunny afternoons and gnawed at her stomach. She could not fool herself into thinking it was pointless brooding, either; she saw how that Noe girl slunk around. Pyrrha’s days were numbered. Her father was not around to shield her from the schemes of nobles.
She lay on her back, staring at the moonlight on the ceiling. The palace had been silent for a while now, nothing except the chirp of crickets and the crash of waves on the shore. She slipped out of bed.
She was sick of feeling sick, like a disease had infected her mind and made everything hazy and dark. Now, something else cut through - something sharp, clear, crackling. She felt every inch of the cool floor on her feet, every fiber of the cloak she pulled over her shoulders. She fumbled for the bag she had stashed under her covers, slipped it onto her back, and popped the window open.
This is it, she told herself. You are going to run and you are not going to turn around, and if Mikhail tries to stop you, you are going to kill him.
That put a smile on her face. She hoisted herself up and out.
She expected alarm bells or baying hounds when she landed behind the palace, not more quiet. Just crickets and waves. The moon was blessedly bright, casting a glow over the garden in front of her, the woods to her left, and the cliffs to her right. She needed to cut through the garden and into the woods. There was a clearing; she’d be able to prepare there. Carve herself into someone entirely different.
Deep breath. Now she needed to go, or she never would, so she launched herself down the steps and ran like a woman possessed.
Past olive trees and wildflowers, over stone paths, through the garden gate. She might never see it all again - might never sit again in her father’s favorite tree - but clear summer air cut through her lungs and she was free, she was out of the garden, thundering off of stone paths and into sticker bushes and damp leaves. A doe turned and fled; squirrels scurried into burrows.
She stumbled into the clearing, panting and tripping over her feet, all of it stinging and fresh. The burning lungs, that clear, bright adrenaline, she felt it. She felt something. She didn’t care if it hurt.
Once she caught her breath, she settled in the center of the clearing, where she could lean against the thickest tree and watch her reflection in a little pool between stones. A few months ago, she had loved to read here. Now, she dropped her bag on the ground and rifled through it until she felt leather wrapped around a blade.
She drew it out carefully. A kitchen knife - certainly not the sharpest weapon the palace offered, but Mikhail’s men wouldn’t let her touch anything more dignified. Dangerous little girl. Well, he was an idiot; she was enough of a weapon herself. She hadn’t killed her father with a knife.
She bent over the stream and held her hair out at the shoulder. She had to saw at it a bit, but finally - the blade sliced through, leaving her with a handful of hair the length of a horse’s tail. What was still attached to her head didn't even reach her shoulders. She held out what remained, started to raise the knife, then winced and put it down.
It’s the gray streaks that’ll give you away anyway, she thought, tilting her head and watching the ragged edges brush against her face. Should’ve dyed them. Oh well. She’d find dye somewhere else. For now, she stuffed her cut-off hair into the bag, pulled her hood over her head, and stood.
And caught a glimpse of red in the trees.
Pyrrha froze. That wasn’t deer red or squirrel red, it was - human hair red, like -
Power crackled on her arms. Stiffly, like a stalking wolf, she took a step toward it.
Mikhail? Couldn’t be; must have sent his slithering little daughter to do his dirty work. Pyrrha didn’t care. Snakes all the same.
“Don’t be coy,” she snapped. Gods, she was so sick of playing nice with these people, and the words rose up like fire in her throat. “Come kill me face-to-face if you have any respect for yourself.”
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