Note: This was written before 1x16 - you'll have to ignore that episode in order for this to make sense =)Top of Form
A branch snaps against her arm and leaves crack beneath her, their brittle bodies dried and long dead – spines breaking under the weight of her pounding feet.
The sound hits her ears and thunders in discord against the echo of her rasping breath.
Life.
Death.
Life.
Death.
She teeters on the precipice of both.
She scrambles through the forest like a wounded deer, leaping and limping and ever-evading.
Her once white dress is in pieces behind her – the shredded scraps of fabric a casualty of her flight; a trail of breadcrumbs she can't afford to leave.
She leaves it anyway.
She sleeps as little as possible.
Sleep is a vulnerability, and she hasn't had the luxury of indulging vulnerability in months. Not since the final piece of Darken Rahl's puzzle slid into place, uniting the world in unending darkness of spirit and soul. Not since she watched the eyes of everyone she loved turn cold.
Not since she lost everything.
The world is black but her dreams are sepia - that small tinge of color the only brightness that remains.
Her capture is inevitable.
Inevitable not because of what was written (she long ago stopped believing in prophesy, in destiny - in the wicked, twisted hand of fate), but because she wasn't strong enough, couldn't endure.
She couldn't resist them forever.
No one can resist them forever.
She's jostled awake by a D'Haran soldier, his chain mail rattling as he rattles her.
"Confessor," he hisses - a curse and a threat, the word as sour as his breath, "Lord Rahl is expecting you."
She fights against his hold, the restraints - metal and bone digging into her flesh as she thrashes.
"It does you no good to fight me, Confessor. Defiance only brings more pain."
Defiance is all she has left.
Rahl enters the room, spilling his red cloak behind him like blood from a wound - dark and rich.
When he is close enough to touch her, he brushes the pad of his finger softly across her cheek. "The chase has not been good to you," he observes quietly. "Perhaps a confessor's invulnerability to the Boxes of Orden is less of a boon and more of a burden." The carefully constructed intonation is belied by the mirth that lies deep within in his eyes. He steps behind her and gently trails a hand across the length of chain that binds her to the wall. "I could take care of you, Confessor. Would you like me to take care of you?"
Anger simmers inside her, bubbles tickling against her throat. The sound that escapes her lips is almost feral.
He clucks his tongue as his fingers again ghost across her skin.
"You will," he promises.
The pain spreads from the Agiel until she's drowning in it - gasping and gulping for air.
Her eyes slam closed and she fights to wade through the blackness, desperately searching for something, anything to cling to.
She remembers the last time she smiled, thinks about how it felt when her lips slid across her teeth, the way her eyes crinkled at the edges.
For a moment the blackness shifts and in the corner of her mind a spark ignites.
The Agiel is thrust into her chest, plunging her into darkness and dousing the flame.
The blackness is infinite.
Eventually, she stops screaming.
He hangs her in his trophy room, a testament to his own personal triumph.
She stays chained to the wall because she is broken - she no longer fights, that battle lost.
It is her mind that is the sole survivor of the resistance, and she holds that kernel of power as far as she can from Rahl's reach.
It's only sometimes, when the creaking of the opening door reaches her ears and she hears the footfalls of the Mord-Sith approaching, that she considers giving in.
She watches him through a curtain of tangled hair.
"I've grown tired, Confessor," he says one day, fingers steepled at his chin. "This game no longer entertains me."
Droplets of sweat sting her eyes and she blinks them away as she raises her head.
In his gaze she easily reads his intentions.
She will die today and it will not be merciful.
She expected no less.
She never expected this.
When she speaks her voice is ragged and hollow, barely carrying far enough to reach his ears. "Richard."
Hard, cold eyes meet hers. "Confessor."
Rahl nods to his footman and the chains that hold her are released. Her legs nearly buckle under the unfamiliar weight of her own body and she presses her hand against the firm stone wall to keep upright.
"Now this, this was worth waiting for," Rahl says, pressing a dagger - her dagger - into her palm. "An epic battle. A fitting end."
"No," she breathes. The metal is cold in her hand and her knuckles are white against its hilt.
"Seeker," Rahl orders, "dispose of this, the final confessor. End her life and my peaceful rule shall be untainted."
Grey steel glows orange. "Yes, Lord Rahl."
The Sword of Truth slices her arm and warm blood runs cold.
"Richard," she pleads.
If he hears, if he understands, he makes no indication.
The sound of steel against steel echoes in the room, ringing in her ears.
She parries.
She won't riposte.
Her mouth tastes like salt and copper and her head continues to spin even when her body comes to a halt.
Her muscles quake with strain and she can't catch a breath.
Richard presses his advantage, pushing her farther and farther across the room.
He presses her just far enough.
When the entire world bows to your wishes, you become swollen with power. You make selfish choices, you indulge in every conceivable way; you come to know nothing but your own desires and their fulfillment.
And you forget to consider what could happen if someone resists you.
With every ounce of strength she has left, she strikes back - erupting up and out with a force she just barely contains.
Richard spins, caught up in her gravity, thrust with such power that he loses his footing.
He tumbles and the world slows - breathing stops, hearts cease their beating - as he crashes into the pedestal.
The three Boxes of Orden scatter under his weight.
A pulse of green light erupts and Richard collapses, the transfer of power leaving him momentarily stunned.
Without pause, without thought, she pries the Sword of Truth from his hands.
She's spinning before the light has faded, has plunged the weapon into Rahl's chest before he's blinked away the spell.
He resumes awareness just long enough to realize what has happened.
"But," he breathes, "only the seeker -"
She gives the sword a final thrust.
She long ago stopped believing in prophesy, in destiny - in the wicked, twisted hand of fate.