#justwriteseries

Her eyes opened slowly, with an unknown weight or exhaustion. Now they no longer burned. Shivering, she curled herself further into the dark corner, trying to shake the empty feeling. 

Something was missing.

 No. 

Someone was missing, or was it her? 

It was as if she knew the facts, but not the story.

Across from her, was a mirror that covered the entire wall. Her face was but a faint outline in the darkness, only her eyes burned green. 

She slept in the contacts, right?

 If so why did her eyes not feel worse, why did her eyes feel clearer than before?

 Shaking she reached towards her hollow face, eyes never leaving the mirror, as she reached her eye, finding no contacts in place.

A cold, slender hand clasped around her throat.

She gazed curiously back, it was her hand, after all, she thinks.

 It was a graceful gesture indeed. 

Grace.

 What a pretty name that would be, but terribly familiar.

She sat there, gazing, not sure if time passed at all when light from above entered the room, a voice easily echoing, “My liege, it is time.”

Feet landed beside her, a light glow around them, and a hand reaching down painted in grossest of colors. 

Her legs were twigs but stood strong and she took the hand in a daze. In an instant, they were in the air, the gentleman’s arm hooked around her waist, wings fluttering furiously as they reached the small entrance.

Stepping through, she realized she’d never seen their face, but within seconds they were gone, leaving her in the hall. 

She wandered down it, the ceiling above her extending on forever. The hall itself was sparsely decorated, any objects being either broken or covered in a thick layer of dust, eventually leading to an open room.

Only in the center sat two thrones.

Connected to one of the thrones was a thick rope, spiraling down, wrapped around a woman, clutching the bottom of the throne, like a lifeline.

 Gaping, she approached, bare feet walking towards the figure as if they were a wounded animal. However, the woman did not stir with her presence, her face was caked with mud, snot, and tears, but still, her features were strong with her dreadlocks, dipped with gold and muscular torso seen through the ripped and tattered clothes. 

She reached towards them, familiarity at the tip of her tongue, but paused as someone cleared their throat.

Vacantly, her eyes drifted towards the other throne, noting the other person. 

This time they sat upon the throne, better clothed then the woman, and certainly not bounded.

 His pastel green hair, perfectly curled and styled across his silver frocks of lace and silk that caused his rich, dark skin to stand out even more in such a bland room.

“Hn,” his lip curled indignantly, “I presume you are better trained than the last faker.”

Her lips pursed, that word was familiar in all the wrong ways as well, “Faker?”

He rolled his eyes, a pretty green, “Yes, a faker.” His eyes flickered to the woman, who now stirred, her  moans of pain growing louder, “ All bitches brought in start like that.”

She much liked the other man. 

At least he didn’t talk as much, then she could at least understand.

 Still, she had what she had, “So is this my fate?” her arm raised, pointing at the other woman, eyes still trained on his.

“Ha!” he erupted, mirth spreading cruelly on his delicate lips, “Already give in? I have not even let you name yourself.”

“No, no of course not,” she trailed off in a murmur, not knowing what to say. Her eyes darted aimlessly around the room, longing for the woman’s now-familiar face.

Of course, she dared not think of this, nor the woman herself. 

She dare not look or think of the woman again, especially now that she could firmly place the familiarity. 

She didn’t know how well he knew.

“So? You are dumb enough to be useful.” he mused.

He relaxed against the chair, lips still curled, but eyes dancing with something more frightening, “Pick a name.”

She paused, knowing better, but she couldn’t resist. 

She landed her gaze on his careless form again, lips pursed and doe-like, 

“Grace.” 

She could hear him choke, eyes narrowing in question.

She vaguely noted the growing restlessness of the woman as she continued, the air crackling with the challenge, “My name will be Grace.”