The moons shone above and countless stars shimmered against an abyssal canvas, though young Henry would only see drab stone if he looked towards the night sky. He did gaze towards the sky, and he did see only gloomy stone. Stone above, stone in every direction. His dismal quarters, like the many others in the hall outside, were fashioned to be similar to prison cells. A thin cot lay on one side of the austere room; it was something that couldn't rightly be compared to a bed.
With his eyes still glued to the ceiling, Henry let his hands soak under the water that filled the metal basin that was against the wall adjacent to his cot. Across from the basin was the door. His gaze slowly fell down to his submerged hands which he could clearly see through the clear water. The water itself was cold, but it did not bother Henry. Nothing cold ever did. He raised his hands up from the water, fingers splayed so that the water in his palms trickled between thin, long digits.
He took one hand in the other and thoroughly rubbed his thumb into his palm as if he were trying to wipe a stain from his skin. His skin was clean but Henry could only rub deeper and harder. Eyebrows furrowed and jaw muscles clenched as his teeth ground together. He could feel tears well in his eyes as he feebly rubbed at a nonexistent stain.
Several hours ago he had killed Luther Urahil, one of his only friends. One of the few that, for the last decade, shared suffering and pain with Henry as they were shaped into remorseless killers.
Henry was indeed a killer, but far from feeling no remorse.
After winning the duel, he was quickly taken from the tower to be treated. The wounds he suffered were severe, and although he completely recovered, he would forever carry the scars of that bout. From his left ankle, up his leg and torso, all the way up the left side of his neck was a web of scars. It appeared like a bolt of lightning with countless branches. A burn scar covered the right side of his chest. It trailed somewhat up his neck. Those scars were proof that Luther Urahil had lived.
Unsatisfied, Henry frantically dunked his hands back into the basin. Water splashed over the edge, landing on the stone floor. As his hands soaked, he looked at the small mirror above the metal bowl. He only looked at himself for seconds before flinging the basin and its wooden stand aside in a sudden fit of childish anger. The mirror shattered, the bowl clattered across stone, and water spilled across the floor.
Henry stood for a moment, chest rising and falling as he took heavy breaths. Almost immediately, knuckles lightly rapped against the door behind him. The noise brought him back to his senses, and a wave of guilt and embarrassment washed over him as he looked at the overturned washbasin. With a sigh, he turned and stepped towards the door. He cracked it open. On the other side stood a girl almost his height, auburn hair falling on either side of a fair face with stormy eyes flashing up at his own glacial blues.
"Sierra," Was all he uttered through the narrow crack. When he was taken from the Tower, he did not return. He didn't know the results of the remaining duels.
Happiness and relief should have filled him after seeing her standing there, though no such feelings came.
With his eyes still glued to the ceiling, Henry let his hands soak under the water that filled the metal basin that was against the wall adjacent to his cot. Across from the basin was the door. His gaze slowly fell down to his submerged hands which he could clearly see through the clear water. The water itself was cold, but it did not bother Henry. Nothing cold ever did. He raised his hands up from the water, fingers splayed so that the water in his palms trickled between thin, long digits.
He took one hand in the other and thoroughly rubbed his thumb into his palm as if he were trying to wipe a stain from his skin. His skin was clean but Henry could only rub deeper and harder. Eyebrows furrowed and jaw muscles clenched as his teeth ground together. He could feel tears well in his eyes as he feebly rubbed at a nonexistent stain.
Several hours ago he had killed Luther Urahil, one of his only friends. One of the few that, for the last decade, shared suffering and pain with Henry as they were shaped into remorseless killers.
Henry was indeed a killer, but far from feeling no remorse.
After winning the duel, he was quickly taken from the tower to be treated. The wounds he suffered were severe, and although he completely recovered, he would forever carry the scars of that bout. From his left ankle, up his leg and torso, all the way up the left side of his neck was a web of scars. It appeared like a bolt of lightning with countless branches. A burn scar covered the right side of his chest. It trailed somewhat up his neck. Those scars were proof that Luther Urahil had lived.
Unsatisfied, Henry frantically dunked his hands back into the basin. Water splashed over the edge, landing on the stone floor. As his hands soaked, he looked at the small mirror above the metal bowl. He only looked at himself for seconds before flinging the basin and its wooden stand aside in a sudden fit of childish anger. The mirror shattered, the bowl clattered across stone, and water spilled across the floor.
Henry stood for a moment, chest rising and falling as he took heavy breaths. Almost immediately, knuckles lightly rapped against the door behind him. The noise brought him back to his senses, and a wave of guilt and embarrassment washed over him as he looked at the overturned washbasin. With a sigh, he turned and stepped towards the door. He cracked it open. On the other side stood a girl almost his height, auburn hair falling on either side of a fair face with stormy eyes flashing up at his own glacial blues.
"Sierra," Was all he uttered through the narrow crack. When he was taken from the Tower, he did not return. He didn't know the results of the remaining duels.
Happiness and relief should have filled him after seeing her standing there, though no such feelings came.
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