( I think it is neccisary to briefly point out a few things OOCly, that this is writen by Rhandon himself, and not Juhryhu. It is his thoughts and his writings about her and the way it has effected him, I came up with this to better describe my character, and help describe her past. Rhandon is not Rped, nor do I ever have the intention of RPing him. Though if after reading the storries you wish to do so, I would be hapilly help you with it. I paln to make this a long, several part serries, thank'sfor reading and hope you enjoy!! )
Black, black as night. Or was it brown? Brown, brown as mud. No, no it was green! Green like a leaf during a fresh springs day, after all of the accursed snow had melted and the ghastly cold that ached into my bones had disappeared. Actually now that I think about it, it was definitely black. Not like night either, it was darker. Yes, much darker than that. I have never been into a cave or some tunnel or equally unremarkable place. But I imagine that it was as dark as death, the same sight you have when in the deepest tunnels under the crust of life and dirt, of tree, swallow and brook. That is a nice word for it, death dark. The same feeling played about it as death has, as well. You always knew when it was starring a hole into your head or your soul in my experience; you never knew why it was looking at you, what its purpose was. Admittedly I didn’t in fact want to know why it was I was always in its lock, not able to move without feeling my hair stand pricked at the feeling that she was there, she knew what I was doing, what I was thinking.
I know what you are thinking now, like she knew what I was thinking then. You think I am insane. If there is indeed actually a you, as it is very possible that the you are actually me. That I am the only one that will ever read this, or will ever care to read this. It helps, you know? The writing helps. It helps take my mind off that eye, off that horrid and shockingly unremarkable eye. It was one of those things that is so, just very different that it sticks with you. It haunts your bleeding dreams until all you see is black, but not the black when you close your eyes. There is white behind it, there is always white behind it. The black is unremarkable, glazed over with no expression and no remote care for its surroundings. I swear that I couldn’t even see my reflection in it. To this day I don’t remember a blue eye starring back at me through all the black, standing out over top of the white. Like a black rose in the center of a blanket covered field, a blanket of snow. As black as death, as sharp as steel I would always tell myself. Indeed it was as sharp as steel, cutting through me like I was a piece of creamy butter on top of one of those frail little plates. Dark as death, sharp as steel. The words repeated in my mind, an echo through the cave that I have never been in. Bouncing off the walls of my head and reflecting in the mirrors of my eyes.
Or maybe it was grey, not black at all. Grey like the fog in the morning. No, no it was definitely black. Black as death, sharp as steel. Did I happen to mention what the black was? I do not think I did, I could always check by reading but I find that always ruins the purpose, of writing. It makes you want to rewrite things, change happenings around, ruin the dream that you are writing on paper. So just in case I did not tell what the black was, and you, as in not me, are reading this I will indeed tell you what the black was. It was an eye, a single eye. The other was milky, creamy, and white as the clouds in the sky. White, white as snow. They were comprised of the two things I hated most in the world, snow and hopeless darkness. No hint or whisper that your imagination will stop running through the night. That is the reason I hate the dark, it is filled with endless possibilities. Wargs, trolls, wolves, killers and death himself. All surrounding you in that bleak darkness, only whispering to you right before they clamp you in their jaws. Believe it or not I started to find a threshold in those two eyes, somewhere to escape into, to hide myself from all of my troubles. Not that I was really having any trouble at the time, other than trouble with myself.
You see, I was in the local militia, in some town I forget the name of, south some place. In Gondor, that’s it! Gondor. Months upon months passed without a single thing happening, no thieves, no deaths, no call to some battle that has no effect on the town I was guarding, nothing. It makes a man grow tired, not tired in the physical sense, but tired in the mental sense. You start seeing things popping out of shadows, you start seeing rats running across the ground, the ground that is as clean as a bar-counter. Well, a good bar counter. In some nice bar I’ve never been to, without a single smudge on its hickory wood top with a finished off gloss. With deep metal tankards that never seem to empty, sliding across that top and right into your greedy hands. Well, my greedy hands. It is my fantasy, not yours. Oh, cannot forget the beautiful little blonde at the fire, starring into it like it was her purpose in life. We would both know that I would never go over to talk to her, and even if I did I wouldn’t be successful in getting anything more than an uplifted chin. We both would know that, I would, and she would. Anyway, where was I? I get so distracted in the bubbling thoughts that wander around in my mind. It is a curse, some nights I cannot sleep because of the countless ideas and possibilities that present themselves. I didn’t used to be liked this; I was a quiet and respectable man. I still am quiet actually, just a different sort of quiet. It was those eyes, those eyes that gave me the sense of fear, yet the sense of belonging. As if no matter how long I stared into them, no matter whatever I said to them there would be no judgmental state. There would be no harsh change in the dramatic time of a second. Just glazed over inventiveness, a sense of something or someone to talk to.
Oh yes, so I was a militiaman in a small little village, with a name I don’t remember. Down south some place. In Gondor, that’s it! Gondor. Months upon months passed without a single thing happening, no thieves, no deaths, no call to some battle that has no effect on the town I was guarding, nothing. It makes a man grow tired, not tired in the physical sense, but tired in the mental sense. You start seeing things popping out of shadows, you start seeing rats running across the ground, the ground that is as clean as a bar-counter. I remember the day she came like it was yesterday. Or was it actually yesterday that she did come? No, I don’t think it was. I feel like more than just one day has passed, too much has happened for it to have been one day. Life just seems to pass faster than it used to, I can’t slip my fingers about it, and it just disappears. The morning had been very brisk and potent in the way that fog was filling my lungs with every breath. Almost like I was smoking a nice pipe stuffed to the brim with my favorite weed. I had to squint to see the small dirt path in front of myself, to make sure I did not trip over some rock or some little stone bent on cracking my skull open. What a pathetic way to die, tripping on a pebble. But how very real it makes life seem, that you can be walking about on your daily routine, then boom! Dead on the ground with a puddle of blood flowing through the cracks, from a measly little pebble that was bent on ending your life.
The grass growing at the town square was bleeding little drips of dew, giving it an enchanting effect. As if the whole world around me was sparkling in some enchanting light, making me the only dull and contrasting part of it. The leaves on the trees, the windows of the houses about the path, even the ground seemed covered in moisture than brightened it more than it should be. Once I finally reached the stocks that positioned themselves as ever vigilant watchmen, threatening souls by their very existence, I gazed up upon the grey stone that made of the jail for our town. It was a pathetic excuse for anything; the whole village was a pathetic excuse for anything. Other than the fact that it had a nice, quaint feeling to it. It always smelled like fresh raindrops or crops, taken the fact that the square was used as a market for the farmers. Peddling their stock like a king before battle. Giving these big ole’ speeches that would last the whole day, or at least until someone shut them up by buying more than half their goods. Farmers and bakers set up their small, mostly white carts around the grass at the center of the town, in a circle about the large tree that stood as the heart of the place. Every small, grey stoned home casting a shadow down upon the farmers and their carts. The voices always annoyed me, they didn’t used to but they did after the darkness came. The darkness opened my own eyes; it helped me see more clearly, it helped me be what I am now. Not just some pathetic militiaman in a town no one cares about. The only one I could tolerate was this small woman who wore a flannel red dress behind her orange painted cart. Over its top was at least twenty green-glass jars of sweet peaches. Even a nice piping hot peach cobbler on the days I was luckier. Goodness those peaches were to die for, literally. If a man stole one of my peaches I would have cut his hands off, they were my peaches after all. Not to mention I hadn’t seen any action in months and months. Every bite of one of those peaches made my mouth fill up with saliva more than it would water if I dunked my head, open mouthed in a lake.
Oh, I forgot myself again. Where was I? Oh yes, I had just reached that pathetic little jail with the little grey stones and the little grey roof overtop the little grey square of that little grey town. After fiddling with my jingling keys I made my way inside to the rocking chair at the far opposite corner of the door. That old rocker had probably been there the second the jail was finished, creaking and carrying on like it had been beaten in its younger years, and sure as heck was going to make a point about complaining about it. I settled comfortably down into it, rocking back and forth and counting the slabs of stone on the floor. One, two, three, four. I had taken a habit of counting everything inside that blasted place, after all there was not much more to do. I could not read, I couldn’t very well leave the job to go out and hunt or talk with that lady with the peaches. Five, six, seven, eight. There was a total of one-hundred sixty five stone slabs on the bottom of that floor. That may seem like a lot, or it may not. But those slabs were pretty small, hardly as big as one of my feet. At the opposite end of me in my rocking chair was a single little cell with casted old iron bars. They were covered in water marks, bumps and grooves from not being crafted in the best way. There was a little wooden bench for whatever sorry soul was locked up into it, a bucket in the corner to do your business, a bunch of mushy hay to lie on and sleep. The whole place would have been entirely black, not death black, but night black, easy to see if you were used to it or squinted hard enough. A small little window laid higher up from the bottom of the cell, high enough so a man couldn’t reach it unless he was some eight foot monster.
I had gotten to seventy-three stone slabs before I heard some rustling and struggle outside. I figured it was just the wet stone out front, someone had tripped on it. I was far too comfortable in my ole’ rocking chair to really care or want to see what it was. But then that door swung open as if some unfathomable force willed it that way. Two other militiamen came stumbling in with flushed cheeks and scratched faces, holding a woman between them. I cannot describe her perfectly, as words cannot do her the injustice her looks deserve. Though I should not say that, as now I think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Though back then my eyes had not been opened, I was still blind, I was still a fool. I think I nearly cried when I saw her, with pity at her sorry state. She looked like a piece of meat that had been beaten so much with stone and blade that it was no longer delectable, just filled with bleeding, bruised holes or bumps. She had one eye, the black eye. The ceaseless pit of careless emotion and strife. Her mouth had been gaged with at least four layers of cloth, before I could manage to ask why I could see the bleeding holes on my fellow’s neck from where the woman had bitten him. But he was sporting more than that, he was limping at least an inch each time he took a step and his fellow was unrecognizable through all the blood and bruises on his face. She was snarling almost, like a dog would when you get too close to his nice meaty bone or food. After they lugged her into the cell and pulled off her gags they both spat on her once, hurriedly making their way out of the place, like the floor was fire. Like the bastards they were, they didn’t say a word to me, simply left her there with the curiosity of who she was and her story.
I remember my respect growing from every scar I starred at, gapping at her like an object from some faraway place with magical qualities. Of course she wasn’t magical at all, I don’t think at least. I don’t believe in all that magic and wives tales nonsense. It’s not real, there’s no way it’s real. Right? I mean, it can’t be. I awkwardly looked at her and cleared my throat as she seemed to be licking her wrists and wounds, like a mother wolf would her pup. She rolled onto her back after a moment, simply starring up to the ceiling with no expression known to this world, a pitiless and never ending spiral. I could not help but look at her, her long, milky-tan legs. Covered by old furs and rags used to stop bleeding from wounds. Her stitched and nearly festering stomach, to her bleeding lips and puffed up left eye. Even through all the purple puff and puss I could see that white field of milky snow. With the black rose next to it. For a while there was no sound, not the creak of my chair, no the sound of my breathe, not the sound of hers. Just an uneasy silence.
It happened in an instance, a mere second that gave me no time to react other than gasp when it happened. She tilted her head swiftly, her eye not wandering for a moment before it starred into one of mine, cutting me from the very inside. I could feel my heart jolt, my stomach churl. In a mixture of disgust and pity for the woman, disgust in that she somehow allowed herself to end up so broken, And pit, that she was actually so broken. Though that eye did not seem broken at all, quite the contrary. That eye seemed resilient, it seemed un-breaking, and it seemed silent. Almost like it was as blind as her other one. She did not speak, she simply starred. That is the first time I felt that almost serene feeling, looking into that eye. That feeling that I could not do or say anything to the woman who held it that would make me be judged or laughed at. Because of all of the things she had done. Everything she had probably gone through. It had sucked the last laugh out of her; it had drained every little pitter patter of hope that used to taunt her ears. She was gone, it was not the woman anymore, it was just a corpse. A corpse with breathe, and a working body. I finally mustered up the courage to speak to her after a while, simply stating
“ H-hello…I am sorry for whatever it was you have gone through, even though you are here, I am sure there is an unfair reason for it. I am sure you do not belong here. “
She did not speak; she did not make a sound. She simply continued starring without recognition, without a care in the world. It was as if under all of that broken wear and tear that she was relaxed, happy to finally be some place where she did not have to worry or toil. She just starred, her black eye stared, her white eye stared. Into my eyes, and into my soul. Implanting themselves into the form of memory, forever in my brain. Burning in my vision when I close my eyes, burning when I look towards any wall or any other unremarkable place. I do not know what it was that did not allow me to look away, I wanted to with all my will. I wanted to with all my heart, but I couldn’t. I just starred, silently. In turn she starred back.
Black as death, sharp as steel.
