|Some Things Must Be Done|
|Summary:||Amelia, flustered after days of riding, returns to her home to find something unexpected.|
|Date:||18 July 288|
|Related Logs:||None yet.|
Riding all night, Amelia had nearly rode the poor animal into the ground on the return trip from Stonebridge - her second round trip in nearly forty hours. Leaving just past midnight, the whore was still in no shortage of hurry when she came through the gates in bare feet with her cloak waving in the air behind her under rising morning sun. There was barely a nod of acknowledgement to the sworn at the gate, either. Once inside it was impossible to more than walk the horse through the bustle of an early day. Attempting to ignore the normal jeers, the whore looked scared for once. Flashes of fear and anxiety were dashing across her face while she navigated the horse, wide eyes glancing at a few faces for the first time in years.
The horse, exhausted and the second used, was left at the stables and the owner given a copper star for the trouble. Skirts held up, Amelia was not shy about the speed with which she carried across the town square before getting to the Rockcliff. Inside, the greetings did not have the same feeling. The eyes of men did not look the same. The desperation welled up inside like bile in her throat. The words were nearly screamed in her mind. No! Nonononono… This can't be my life! No, they couldn't… have they? She swallowed hard and skipped through the room while the few who caught her expression looked on with some mild concern.
Arriving in her room the whore closed the door behind her and stared blankly at the window on the other side of the room. The cat mewed but Amelia never heard it. The woman collapsed back against the door and slid to the floorboards as the tears she had fought the whole ride finally could be kept at bay no longer. My room. This is all I have. This can't be! This isn't fair! I could have been more! "Oh Seven, what have I done??" she cried into her tear-drenched hands as she fell to her side. Maybe I can explain this! Maybe everyone will be relieved at this misunderstanding!! Silly mistake!! Something broke in her mind, then. It was like a wrecking ball crashing through a wall. Words she had tried to ignore and denied to herself. There was no fighting them anymore. You're a whore. There is no misunderstanding. You take money to fuck. This is nothing new. Even Lady Isolde knows this and you are the fool. A worthless fool. ..Just like mother. You will die like her, too. Sobbing herself to sleep with her thoughts, the whore didn't move but for shuddering for many hours.
Waking a few hours later, its to the sound of the tavern downstairs starting the afternoon meals and the reflexive shivering as she tries to pull her cloak tighter around like a blanket. Eyes groggily open. It wasn't a dream. Resignation sets in as she pulls herself up, batting away spots of dirt with reflexive grace. I'm used to this because of what I've become. Because of who I am. What I am. "No. I can't think like this," she sighs. New ideas dawn on her and she fights them. New revelations flash across her mind and they are denied. Barely. The war within Amelia's heart rages and her denial eventually wins. Her hands straighten her skirts, flattening them into their normal shape without her even thinking about it. After riding all night near starvation and then collapsing to sleep the rest of the morning on the floor, her blank expression stares into the light of her room while her pursed lips turn nearly white. There is a sharp contrast to the heat and anger of red on her cheeks. She feels ill, but she pushes it to the bottom of her mind.
"No. He wouldn't do that," she says firmly, telling herself with clenched fists held tight to her side and finally moves to her dresser and begins disrobing. She needs to bathe and fetch the basin of water. One is left outside daily. Once done, her hands rub together in the warmer water. Her room is always cold. Eyes trail to the neatly folded bed before coming back to the basin and her washcloth. Practiced movements strip away the dirt and grime. The sweat. The negative thoughts. Its a ritual cleansing. Her mind travels and she thinks over what had transpired and what her role had been. Especially what it has meant to her. She did something extremely dangerous for someone and wanted no pay. Her payment was the task. It was for a friend and whores don't have friends. Just competition. She finds comfort there and her mind begins to settle.
Its about this time that she notices a leather satchel on her dresser at the edge by the bed, most of it under the draped form of her previous worn top. The whore pauses, reaching for it and finding a letter atop it as well when the shirt is removed. She sets the paper aside to her bed and tries to move the satchel. Its heavy, though. She blinks and tugs at it with a furrowed brow, the weight shifting and the contents clanking together like chains or legirons. Her fingers slowly pull at the belted straps and she looks inside. Its dark without a lit candle. She lifts the bag and her eyes go wide - a mix of horror and shock. "Sevens alive!!" Amelia staggers backwards away, bouncing off the opposing wall and stumbling over to her bed backwards to nearly fall onto it. The bag falls to its side and the cargo slowly slides out. One leg tucked underneath, her eyes are locked at the bag and the contents while she sits deathly still. If she moves, something might happen. Good or bad. While her brain tries to rationalize it, the woman only breathes.
Those hazel eyes have locked on the bag and don't move for quite a few minutes. A dead still and silence hangs over her like a funeral dirge. Her stomach growls, protesting in hunger. Amelia finally paws beside her for the note and finds it quickly. Opening it, she blinks a few times at the words there. Sounding it out slowly, it takes her nearly ten minutes to decipher all of it. By the time she finishes the shy smile on her face is gone. If she had any tears left they would have come at the sight of what has caused her to recoil. She has arrived in Hell and she knows it. There is no way out of this one except to travel farther in. But with a little luck — just maybe — she can make it out without being singed.
Someone was going to die for this and it is not going to be me. The letter is burned and tossed into the basin but her thoughts are elsewhere. Resolve hardens. Decisions are made. Courses of action dismissed and considered. Finding a conclusion, her hands stained with the feel of it, the sack's contents are cleaned up and the bag righted. Dressed, its hidden beneath her skirts and she opens the door to leave with a determined look. Story. Evidence. No reason to doubt me. I'll stay in town to make sure I'm not suspect. The door is locked and she marches down the hallway. She'll have to pay for a horse this time. This will work. Maybe.