Chatterbox: Inkwell

Cursed Throne Of Tears

The darkness surrounded Merewen, like a thick dark fog. The cold stabbed into her, like shards of glass. But something else hung thick in the air, and stabbed painfully into Merewens young heart. The dread of what she was about to have to do, what she had been forced to do all these years. Cold, dark, lonely, painful years...

 And now, the cold hard stone of the dungeon pathways passed underneath her bare feet, her eyes covered with a red silk cloth. A ring thumped against her breast, hanging from a thin cord of leather. The last thing she had of her mother. The rhythmic thumping helped her to not slip away into a world of pain, it kept her anchored in the endless sea of darkness stretched before her, keeping her from drifting away.

 She felt warmth upon her shoulders as she emerged into sunlight after many twisting turns and sharp tugs on the thin golden chain that glistened around her thin neck. The sun bared down on her pale skin as she emerged into the castles third courtyard, with roses blooming in a terrifying, beautiful splendor. I stone podium rested in the very center, and a crowd gathered around, glancing nervously as the castle guard led Merewen up the warm steps, and into the center of the block of stone. Despite the beauty of the courtyard, there was a chilling silence, and a cloud of dread over the crowd. 

The third courtyard was for exactions.

 As she reached the center of the podium, despite being without sight, due to the blindfold, she knew the crowd took in a terrified breath, and shuffled away from her as fast as the could. Hatred burned through her, like a wildfire through a dry forest. Hatred at the man who had made her, in the eyes of the public, a cold hearted killer,

A monster...

The man whose name she never spoke, and hoped to never hear again. The man whose title now whirled through her head. 

The Lord...

The Lord...

The Lord...

That horrid name, the name of the one person, the one thing she had ever wished harm upon, repeated in her head, in a seemingly endless circle, sparking memory’s, none even remotely happy. 

Her anger and hatred grew until they where as large and bright as a bonfire. The sickly sweet smell of the roses mixed with the smell of fear, a thick perfume that sent shivers down Merewens spine. 

Merewen could feel the cold eyes of the crowd resting upon her, then quickly darting away into the evening sky. 

(So, there would be more of this but over 400 pages up and deleted themselves during nanowrimo and I can’t bring myself to write more. Hopefully that will change. Please leave honest opinions and hard criticism. Thanks, and enjoy the story!  Also, tell me if you’d like to here more!) 

(Also, there might be a lot of typos so prepare!)