Eight of Swords

Eight of Swords

They left her alone. She wasn't a threat to them, bound up as she was and lacking a voice to even protest. She was no longer a concern, and so they turned their backs and conveniently ignored her now that that they were done playing.

The blades bristled when she moved and ached mercilessly, making the bloodstain expand above the line of her corset. Her satin prison had its bars on the inside, compressing, restricting every breath. Her hands were just as neatly and precisely bound with shiny cord. All dolled up, all trussed up. She was prettier that way, and safer in their opinion. She disagreed.

Tears had burned tracks down her face for... how long now? She couldn't remember, but it had been far too long, surely. Her mind was sore from screaming at them, at anyone, at no one. How long did they intend to act as if she didn't exist? That they hadn't done this to her? The very pressure of the fury mounting in her made the corset feel tighter, cutting into her sides. She longed to weep daggers at them.

"They gave you weapons. Use them." He whispered softly.
She stared down at the eight knives lodged in her chest.
Deep holes oozed blood around the hilts. It made her eyes blur with pain just to look at them.
"Those are their sins, not yours. Don't let them do this to you." his voice came from behind.
A sob was trapped in her chest. She lifted up her hands, still tied together, and dropped them again, feeling hopeless.
"That shouldn't stop you. You can still grasp them, bound or not."

She hesitated.
"It will hurt, yes. But you can do this." he coaxed.
Blinking back tears, she slowly raised her hands and fumbled to fit them over the hilt of one of the daggers. She knocked two of them together and winced, but succeeded in closing her grip firmly on a handle.
"Go on. One at a time."

A sharp ripping sensation as she pulled. She kept pulling and to her horror she had exposed a large sword, still buried in her, instead. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"It's ok. Finish." 

She grasped the blade carefully and continued to extract it despite the searing pain. It clattered to the floor.
"One." 
She looked up, expecting to be discovered, but no one had even noticed. Blood oozed easily from the wound.
"You're going to be fine. Keep going." his voice continued calmly.
Again the painful wrenching sensation, and a clattering.
"Two." "Three." "Four."
She was so tired; the energy it took to complete each action was draining, but he gently urged her on.
"Five." "Six." "Seven."

She was sobbing silently and shaking as the seventh sword fell from her slippery hands.
Shaking her head, she raised them to her face as if to hide it.
"No, you're going to be fine. You're not dying. One more. You've come this far, just one more. You can do this."
She shook her head again.
"I'm here. Go on."

Her eyes rimmed with red, tears and blood staining her front, she blinked.
Lowering her hands to the last hilt, she grasped it without even looking.
With this it would end, regardless. A pause.
She began to pull.

"Allow me."
He pulled the sword free easily and held it aloft for a moment, before turning it over in his hand.
Pushing his long black hair out of his face, he took note of the floor, where there lay seven small daggers. An idea danced at the edge of his mind, and he pocketed all of them. He left the blood soaked corset on the floor where it had fallen. Quite useless. But not nearly as useless as some.

His blue eyes narrowed, seeming dark for a moment, when he caught site of them but they did not yet see him.
The sword still firmly in his hand, he strode forward smoothly and said in his calmest, most congenial voice
"Forgive me for barging in. Let me introduce myself. My name is Arthur."
Slowly he raised to sword until it was parallel to the floor, pointed directly at them.
"And I very much think that you are going to listen to what I have to say."