Knife Handle
Gagged
Under the table
(Original characters/story)
@themerrywhumpofmay
They awoke to pain. And drowning.
Omen opened their eyes, gasping, choking. Their eyes stung with water and their head throbbed. Skull felt split open. Can’t. Move. Can’t. Breathe.
Within a moment, Omen realized that their hands were bound behind them. Their ankles were bound together. And there was a gag in their mouth.
They were wet but they weren’t drowning. Small mercies.
Omen squinted up at the man holding a dripping bucket over them.
“Good.” He said and set down the bucket. “I was beginning to think that I’d bludgeoned you a little too hard.”
The man was dressed in a fine, dark doublet and hose that were stained lightly with travel. He moved to sit down at a nearby table.
Omen flexed their calf. He had missed the knife in their boot. Interesting.
Omen eyed the room.
This was some sort of cottage. The floorboards creaked and were caked with dust. The fireplace had been lit but was belching smoke, meaning it hadn’t been cleaned recently. There was a lit lantern on the single table. And the window to the outside, beside the only door, spoke of midafternoon or late morning. The sun was bright and the trees swayed in a breeze, creating a shifting dappled effect on the floor.
Omen could only hear the crackling fire and birdsong from outside. They were alone.
Their possessions were tossed to the side, laying haphazardly on the floor. But nothing had been searched yet. Caey was safe. For now.
Omen was laying on the floor, so that when the man sat down, he was still looming above them.
“I’ve been looking for you for a while.” The man took a swig from a waterskin. “You’re difficult to find, girl.”
Omen winced at ‘girl’. It shouldn’t have bothered them. That was the least of their problems right now.
The man continued talking. “I’d been hearing rumors for a while of a girl fighting in the False Queen’s little band. A girl matching the description of someone I killed several years ago.”
Omen’s belly turned to ice and they stopped breathing.
“I was contracted to kill a highborn lady suspected of aiding the escaped False Queen. And I did so. She was easy to identify due to a mark on her wrist, a brand. A very-”
The man roughly reached down and yanked on Omen’s bound arms.
They cried out through the gag. Arms pulled into a painful twist, shoulder sockets screaming.
“A very distinctive mark.” The man breathed, looking down at Omen’s wrist.
The wrist that bore the brand that he spoke of.
The man, the assassin from all those years ago, released Omen’s wrist, letting them fall back to the dusty floor.
“So, you lived.” He murmured.
Omen grunted around the gag.
The assassin leaned down and pulled the gag out. “Where is the False Queen?”
“Fuck off.” Omen spat.
He popped the gag back in, wound back his foot, and kicked Omen in the stomach. Hard.
Omen struggled to draw breath. The wind was knocked out of them. Before they could recover, there was another vicious kick.
A blow to their nose. Stars. Blinding pain. Watering eyes. Blood streamed down their face and trickled into their throat. Metallic and hot.
Omen writhed, crying out through the gag.
They arched their back. Reached with bound hands into their boot. Felt the slim, bone knife handle, warm with body heat. Good.
They grasped it and hid it behind their body, working on the bonds as best as they could.
The assassin paced around the cottage.
Omen sliced their fingers and hands. The knife was sharp. Blood made the process slippery.
“I’m going to ask you again.” The man circled back around to them.
The rope was cut. The bonds loosened. Omen pulled free.
“And if you say-”
Omen hurled the knife. It stuck neatly in the assassin’s shoulder.
He bellowed.
Omen rolled away, under the table, and began to attack the rope that bound their ankles. Halfway through, the assassin came at them, their own bone-handled knife in hand. Omen scrabbled back with their legs untangled and the rope in hand.
They leapt on the man.
Spat blood in his face.
And it was quick work after that.
Several minutes later, Omen stood. Head throbbing, nose swollen and bleeding, and ribs maybe broken. They wiped off the knife and placed it back in their boot.
They limped over to their pack and belongings. With cut and bleeding hands, they prepared to leave. The diadem still lay within their pack. As soon as they touched it, Caey spoke into their thoughts.
“You look terrible. What happened?”
Omen snorted and spat blood onto the cottage floor. “It’s a long story.”