Cold. Eyes that were cold. Where had they come from? Questions…that was the only thing that did

Cold. Eyes that were cold. Where had they come from? Questions…that was the only thing that did not matter. Questions. What were they? Just a piece of junk. A piece of rotten junk. Just like she was: a piece of rotten junk best left in the cold to sulk. After all, wasn’t she responsible? At least they were free to go, free to live. At least that fate was better than the one she had almost earned for them. But was it really best?1

Blindness was all she knew. It had become her partner, her companion, in this dark, damp prison. But she could still see in her mind, and the frightening events still played themselves out with stunning clearness.2

Chill and dull and gray. The darkness had swept everywhere, that day. Bloodshed mingled on the ground with fallen goodwill. Goodwill…where had it gone? It had been years since her will had been good…her will was, after all, anything but good. All she cared about was their destruction: they lived, and thus she was destined to die. They did not deserve life, because if they were destined to live, then so should she live. And yet in the future was written her death. She had seen it. Seen it in the silvery waters of Kur.3

Soft ripples, spun of fragile silk, seemed unusual in the chill. The waters were acrid, and yet they seemed so beautiful to her eyes. Everything was perfect. Perfection mirrored in the chill and dull and grayness that was life itself. Restless with energy, she had surveyed the land around her, heavy and weighed with what she had done, and yet in it that darkness  beautiful.4

And Kur had lied to her. Kur had said she would be slain. Slain, and  announced nothing but a slimy coward worthy of death. She lived, though…thanks to nothing, she was no one. This fate seemed bleaker than death. Emotionless eyes were what Kur now seemed as she glanced at it. Emotionless eyes of soft rippling silk, so out of place in the acrid waters of bitter death. The taste of that liquid was still sharp on her tongue. She could taste it, still. It was poisoning her; she had been poisoned, and her mind was fading. Fading to light. Fading from the darkness, and yet it was still dark.5

Dawn would not come. Dawn was not a thing in existence. It was nothing; she was nothing. And their blood lay heavy on her hands, thick. Not even Kur could wash it clean. Forever, now, would she wander, an outcast. An outcast whose stained hands were her own death, in such a way that Kur could not have predicted. In a way, she had died with what she had done. Why had she even killed them?6

Legs dipped into the water, she could not help but feel somehow satisfied in the torture, in the soft whimpers that sprang from lips as the water touched her legs in swirls. At the moment, she had known that she was free. Free from death. And free from life. Now she was nothing. Nothing, no one. Just another meaningless soul wandering up and down the banks of Kur. Freed and yet imprisoned. Nothing and yet something. No one, and yet with such an identity that it seemed her previous one was something worthy of scorn. 7

Her name was whispered on the wind, and yet it was a thing she could not understand.  It seemed to be whispered in a foreign language. Yet she knew it was her name. However much she could not understand it. That much was clear. Guilt. Guilt and yet the burden was not heavy. It seemed that she was justified:8

No murder had she committed. They were to hang her at dawn for a sin she would never think of committing. And yet, in a way, they had hung her. Kur had trapped her. Trapped her and used her for its own wicked, twisted devices. And yet it had set her free, somehow. Shown her the irresistible freedom of knowing how ironic it was to not be able to wash blood from your hands. Shown her how beautiful innocence was, how sweet it was, and how blissful. Opened her mind, and yet closed it. Gave her an identity, and yet thieved her very name.9

Everything was like an oxymoron: everything had a partner to it that was exactly the opposite, and yet both coexisted in such serenity. The sword lay forgotten, dipped into Kur. Tainted by the very thing that had promised her death, and yet given her life. It was ironic. Yet ironic was a thing she knew not, could not give a definition to.10

Chill and dull and gray. The skies were that way, now. They had always been that was, now more so than ever.11