#ariadne is incapable of identifying emotions

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys ( @khalwrites​ ) Timeline: Ariadne alone

Caution for: death, war, massacre, mercy killing, cold-blooded murder

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Looting 1, 2, 3

It’s the smoke that catches her eye. She’s drawn to fire these days, like a suicidal moth. Where there’s fire on this scale, there’s chaos. And where there’s chaos, there is the opportunity for theft and destruction.

She lives by theft, but she lives for destruction.

She heads for the growing column of smoke at a jog.

Whatever defences the village managed to mount, the soldiers have overrun them by the time Ariadne arrives on the scene. Now they hunt through the streets, and the screams of their prey split the chill air. The bodies of the fallen lie here and there across the winter fields.

A fierce glee rises in Ariadne’s throat. It hammers in her ribcage and shivers across her skin. She welcomes it back. It’s the only thing worth feeling any more.

The body of a soldier is her first target. Half a foot of arrow protrudes from his back, the arrowhead soaked in gore. The archer was very close, to punch through maille front and back. 

The dead man groans as Ariadne rolls him over, so she cuts his throat. She takes his sword and its scabbard. Getting him out of his maille would take too long -- she is terribly exposed here crouched over his body. But she takes his colours and his helmet, to pass herself off as one of them.

Maybe it will get her shot. But the King’s soldiers outnumber any surviving locals, so she’ll take her chances. 

She sprints for the cover of the buildings.

Noise closes around her, entirely different to the bustle of a living town. Soldiers shout to one another constantly. Wood breaks, fists bang on doors and shutters, boots ring out on cobbles. Now and then a scream sounds and is cut short. And under it all the roar and crackle of the fires that fill the air with smoke.

The haze makes the narrow streets claustrophobic. Ariadne spots soldiers at the end of the street, and hurries round a corner. Her stolen colours will only protect her at a distance. She’s not looking for a fight, she’s looking for stragglers she can surprise. They’ll peel off to loot the houses or to entertain themselves with the survivors.

She’s not so different herself. Just hunting different prey.

Doors stand open, or kicked fully off their hinges. Bodies litter the street -- mostly elves and human sympathisers. Ariadne ducks in and out of the houses, filling her bags and pockets. She grabs mostly food. Spices where she sees them. The odd trinket that might sell for enough to justify the space in a bag. There isn’t time to search beneath floorboards and behind furnishings for rainy-day caches. 

There’s an irony to it really.  Entire lives’ worth of possessions free for the taking, and Ariadne’s priority is eating tonight. She can only have what she can carry, and carry easily at that. The fire will consume so much. But better the fire than the soldiers.

There are bodies inside the houses too, sprawled where they fell defending their doorways, or curled against walls where they cowered when cornered. Ariadne searches them roughly, shoving her hands into pockets and checking bloodied throats for jewelry. 

Not everything has already been taken. She finds the odd purse, a handful of rings. The soldiers must have been too busy chasing the living to search all of the dead.

Some of them are not quite done dying. Some still draw breath, a few make incoherent sounds as she rolls them over. She puts them out of their misery. She could leave them and it’d probably make little difference. But there’s a chance they’d live long enough to feel the fire. To spare them that, Ariadne opens their throats.

Then one catches weakly at her arm. “Sorry,” Ariadne murmurs as she cuts the purse off their belt. “Don’t kill me,” they breathe. “Shit-!” Ariadne startles. She wasn’t expecting enough consciousness to talk. But the elf’s eyes are clear, staring up at her with stark terror. One hand clutches at the wound in their gut. Dark blood wells continuously between their fingers. The other hand paws pitifully at Ariadne’s sleeve. “Don’t - kill me, please …”

“How deep is that?” Ariadne asks. She tries to prise their hand off their abdomen to look, but more blood spills up and she has all the answer she needs. “That’s going to kill you. If I were you I’d rather someone slit my throat than lie here ‘til the building catches light. That’s a bad way to go.” “I don’t want to die,” they whisper, voice a teary thread. “No one does,” Ariadne scoffs.

She sits back on her heels. If she dressed the wound, they might live long enough to die of blood poisoning instead of blood loss. If the fire didn’t get them first. She’d have to carry them out of the town. There’s no way they can walk with that much of their blood already coating the floorboards. If the soldiers don’t catch them -- which seems unlikely -- the strain of being carried overland probably will. If they somehow survive until nightfall, exposure will kill them. If they survived that… they still have an open gut wound, and no access to a healer.

Ariadne draws her knife and leans forward, resting a hand gently on their throat. “Please,” they beg weakly, “I don’t want to die!” “You’re already dead,” Ariadne shakes her head. “This won’t hurt much.” She pushes the blade in beside her hand, avoiding the windpipe. Blood sprays as she cuts the deep artery. She opens it wide. It takes only a second for the elf’s face to go slack.

The cleanest death she could give them. She pockets their purse, adding it to her growing collection.

As she leaves the house behind, another scream sounds somewhere amongst the houses. Not a human scream, something wilder, but wracked with agony. Ariadne’s skin crawls as it goes on, and on, and on.

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#my writing #my ocs #ariadne #kethrys!ariadne #verse: kethrys #death tw #murder tw #war tw #massacre tw #civilian death tw #mercy killing tw #blood tw #ariadne is incapable of identifying emotions