[ His expression remains troubled though, despite the proof of Molly's durability. He doesn't get a chance to say anything else though, when something else slips forward.
You wake up, and it's to a hand around your neck and the ominous glint of a blade in the moonlight.
It's the first time you've woken up like this. You're maybe five, or six years old, and you're filled with fear first, and panic second.
But you still know better than to scream.
You slap the arm that's keeping you pinned to your bed, and it doesn't do much, except wherever that knife misses wherever it was meant to cut, slashing deep and bloody over your chest instead, pain slicing through your veins as your legs kick out, earning a grunt of pain when they connect with—something soft and human.
The situation starts to take shape in your head, and something else seeps in around the fear: fury. Indignation. Rage that anyone would do this to you- you're a prince.
You kick again before your attacker manages to shield himself, into that same spot, another more pronounced cry of pain. But the reason your shadow stuck close was because this time, he lodges his blade into your shoulder, and it burns so much that you lose track of everything else. How hard your fists are beating into the arm around your neck. How furiously your legs are kicking at the shape above you until eventually it staggers back.
And against all odds, you get up too. The knife wasn't driven deep enough to stay in place when you move, and suddenly it's very accessible.
Suddenly the knife is in your hand and you're screaming, launching forward and you know that you hurt him, some where, some amount of times because there's blood spraying over your floors different from the droplets dripping from your own clothes. But you're only a child, and when the fog clears from your head you realize that the would-be assassin is gone.
It's just you, covered in blood and left without a scratch.
no subject
[ His expression remains troubled though, despite the proof of Molly's durability. He doesn't get a chance to say anything else though, when something else slips forward.
It's the first time you've woken up like this. You're maybe five, or six years old, and you're filled with fear first, and panic second.
But you still know better than to scream.
You slap the arm that's keeping you pinned to your bed, and it doesn't do much, except wherever that knife misses wherever it was meant to cut, slashing deep and bloody over your chest instead, pain slicing through your veins as your legs kick out, earning a grunt of pain when they connect with—something soft and human.
The situation starts to take shape in your head, and something else seeps in around the fear: fury. Indignation. Rage that anyone would do this to you- you're a prince.
You kick again before your attacker manages to shield himself, into that same spot, another more pronounced cry of pain. But the reason your shadow stuck close was because this time, he lodges his blade into your shoulder, and it burns so much that you lose track of everything else. How hard your fists are beating into the arm around your neck. How furiously your legs are kicking at the shape above you until eventually it staggers back.
And against all odds, you get up too. The knife wasn't driven deep enough to stay in place when you move, and suddenly it's very accessible.
Suddenly the knife is in your hand and you're screaming, launching forward and you know that you hurt him, some where, some amount of times because there's blood spraying over your floors different from the droplets dripping from your own clothes. But you're only a child, and when the fog clears from your head you realize that the would-be assassin is gone.
It's just you, covered in blood and left without a scratch.
... Unpleasant. ]