Her fate was still a mystery. Why was she kept alive? Why did Rejnev take her out of the fight? Why was she not permitted to defend her brothers or at least die trying?
However Onion had the present, not the past, to concern herself with. She had heard stories of the intrigue and plotting of the courts of Eirdred, Lithen and Sandor. The Dance of Thorns it was referred to, yet she never thought her fate was to be ensnared in petty games of the high and mighty. As an easy scapegoat, her fate was sealed. She was an unknown foreigner from a tiny mercenary band of the Outer Crest. There was no one coming for her. No friends or living family on the outside. It was time to make peace with that fact, regardless of how she ended up here.
The short, dark skinned south Outer Crestan contemplated suicide as one might contemplate the purchase of a new tunic or horse. Thoughts of self-destruction were not usually considered, Onion was a girl who valued her own existence higher than anything else, but at the moment it seemed an attractive option. If they did not execute her soon, then it would be a simple, rational preference of no-life over an existence of uninspiring misery and boredom. And if they had plans to kill her yet? Little harm to Onion if her demise came a few days earlier than her captors had intended.
On to the planning stages of self-destruction...
The heavy bolted doors that served as the one exit into the world of the living lumbered open ans with it, a faint sense of color in the relatively fresh air. Her flesh, unaccustomed to breathable air, tingled with pleasure, and Onion felt the strands of her web shake; after 3 days she sensed another soul's presence.
The pale, blond Eirdren seemed to be the most translucent of his race, a concept not easily imagined in the mind of an Outer Crestan. His skin was unnaturally sallow, however, and it took her awhile to recognize the man for who he was.
The Archne chef!
The man quivered with the fear of the unknown. He wore the face of a man not ready to die.
Settled in his cell, he sat on the floor murmuring to himself, "Rel, protect me." To Onion, however, she heard only "leth looth Rel leeth" or at least that is how the Eirdren speech fell upon her ears. It had been only a few weeks since the Clan of the Fir had traveled from Sandor, and she was loathe to learn the jarring native tongue of this land. Besides, most of the time she had spent in the province, and even in other parts of the continent, she remained side by side with her kin.
Only Rejnev,with his fascination of all things Heilthian, had until this point been the sole window and communication line with this foreign world. Now, for the first time, she found herself in need of that intolerable tongue.
She was able to recognize the term "Rel", in the pale man's ramblings. As a child, when her brother, 23 years her senior, would return to Deezhul and relate the tales of his life abroad as a mercenary, he never failed to regale Onion with the tales he had picked up on his travels. Pantheons of gods, mystical beasts that roamed the land and men's hearts were the characters of bedtime stories that rarely ended in an early bedtime.
Rel was a very revered god, in particular to the City of Eirdred, the heart of political intrigue and clandestine activities. Onion and her brothers were not the only victims of noble infighting. The people were often the pawns of schemes crafted by those above, and such pawns had little control over their fates.
To that end, merchants, scholars and beggars alike had Rel, the God of Vengeance and Justice, to whom they could direct their prayers. Placing one's hopes in Rel ultimately was an acknowledgment that suffering was imminent and unavoidable, but Rel offered resolution in another way. One's prayers served to beseech that the thief would soon be robbed, that the murderer would soon be murdered. Rel's protection was the promise of payback, and it was not uncommon for Rel's name to be invoked by those preparing to die.
On to the planning stages of self-destruction...
The heavy bolted doors that served as the one exit into the world of the living lumbered open ans with it, a faint sense of color in the relatively fresh air. Her flesh, unaccustomed to breathable air, tingled with pleasure, and Onion felt the strands of her web shake; after 3 days she sensed another soul's presence.
The pale, blond Eirdren seemed to be the most translucent of his race, a concept not easily imagined in the mind of an Outer Crestan. His skin was unnaturally sallow, however, and it took her awhile to recognize the man for who he was.
The Archne chef!
The man quivered with the fear of the unknown. He wore the face of a man not ready to die.
Settled in his cell, he sat on the floor murmuring to himself, "Rel, protect me." To Onion, however, she heard only "leth looth Rel leeth" or at least that is how the Eirdren speech fell upon her ears. It had been only a few weeks since the Clan of the Fir had traveled from Sandor, and she was loathe to learn the jarring native tongue of this land. Besides, most of the time she had spent in the province, and even in other parts of the continent, she remained side by side with her kin.
Only Rejnev,with his fascination of all things Heilthian, had until this point been the sole window and communication line with this foreign world. Now, for the first time, she found herself in need of that intolerable tongue.
She was able to recognize the term "Rel", in the pale man's ramblings. As a child, when her brother, 23 years her senior, would return to Deezhul and relate the tales of his life abroad as a mercenary, he never failed to regale Onion with the tales he had picked up on his travels. Pantheons of gods, mystical beasts that roamed the land and men's hearts were the characters of bedtime stories that rarely ended in an early bedtime.
Rel was a very revered god, in particular to the City of Eirdred, the heart of political intrigue and clandestine activities. Onion and her brothers were not the only victims of noble infighting. The people were often the pawns of schemes crafted by those above, and such pawns had little control over their fates.
To that end, merchants, scholars and beggars alike had Rel, the God of Vengeance and Justice, to whom they could direct their prayers. Placing one's hopes in Rel ultimately was an acknowledgment that suffering was imminent and unavoidable, but Rel offered resolution in another way. One's prayers served to beseech that the thief would soon be robbed, that the murderer would soon be murdered. Rel's protection was the promise of payback, and it was not uncommon for Rel's name to be invoked by those preparing to die.
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