The Edge of the Knife (Annie)

My story inspiration has been pretty dry lately, so I'm breaking down and posting something old. It isn't my best ever, but it is the first story I ever wrote about one of my RP characters :') A snippet from Annie's past, one of the more defining moments of her life, which took place when she was eighteen. Hope it's enjoyable!

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'The Edge of the Knife'


Aniane crouched against the damp stones, her heart thumping heavily against her chest. She peered through the foliage shielding her, trying to catch a glimpse of any movement in the small garden, of anything that might indicate unwanted company. She could hear Athaldrin's haughty tones echoing down the arched corridor that led toward her hiding place, and bit her lip, trying to keep herself calm. The crude dagger in her hand slid against her wet palm and she wiped her hand on the ragged cloth of her trousers, looking down at it. Her knuckles had whitened from the waiting, and she shook her hand before gripping the hilt again.

The sound of voices grew closer and then paused somewhere in the corridor, and she grimaced. If Athaldrin arrived with someone else, then the waiting would be all for nothing. She had watched his steps with painful care for the past few weeks, following him as often as she could without being noticed, and had discovered that he usually came to this garden alone at dawn to stretch and to train. If not today, perhaps tomorrow; but there were only so many mornings she could spend waiting without her absence being noticed. One had to be wary in the Syndicate. There was always someone, whether jealous or petty or simply bored, who would be more than happy to get a person into trouble with the lord of the manor.

Aniane grimaced, stretching up onto her cramped knees and then leaning back on her haunches again. The household was a tangle of backbiting thieves, servants, and ne'er-to-do-wells hanging around Lord Alarius, hoping for the scraps that came from his table. Their loyalty to the Syndicate and to Alarius, if it could be called loyalty, was born half out of fear and half out of greed. She herself had come because of greed-- no, more accurately, she had come because of Dorian. It had been Dorian's idea to join their small company of cave-dwelling bandits to the Syndicate, in pursuit of a better and more respectable life. A bitter smirk spread across her face at the thought. Better? More respectable? She and her friends had been divided up among the various Syndicate households, assigned to menial tasks, frequently bullied and mocked. Only Dorian had earned some respect; but then, Dorian wasn't a petty thief from the Hillsbrad countryside like the rest of them. Dorian, with his hooked nose and his rare and slightly bitter smile, had himself once been of the Alterac nobility.

That was what had gotten him murdered, she figured, letting out a quiet breath. She had never discovered the exact reasons for his death, but after the day she had stumbled across his body slumped in the hay of the stables where she worked, she had sneaked, spied, and eavesdropped on anyone who looked important. Finally, after some weeks, she had overheard Lord Alarius' son, Athaldrin, leaning lazily against a sundrenched courtyard wall and talking to another man about Dorian. Lord Dorian Andural, the ambitious fool. And so Aniane had discovered that it was Athaldrin who was responsible for Dorian's death; for the strangled corpse she had found buried in the hay, a large Syndicate 'S' hacked into the skin of his back with a blade.

The sound of voices began to grow louder again, and Aniane swallowed, her palms beginning to sweat once more. She needed this to go smoothly today. She needed this chance.

'Nay, don't be a fool. I will find you this afternoon. We'll take our horses and make a nice sweep of the hills to the west. Perhaps we'll even bag a cougar.' Althaldrin's voice; high and lazy with a perpetual note of superiority.

'Whatever you say. I suppose I have enough letters to attend to to fill a morning without sparring with you taking up my time.' That was Sebastian's voice, she thought; one of Alarius' more trusted men, as laughing and sarcastic as ever.

Althaldrin murmured something lightly in response, and footsteps faded away down the corridor once more. Aniane felt her throat drying out and a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed hard, forcing herself into a temporary calm, and bent her head to look through the the branches of the bush behind which she was crouched. The lord's son tossed his cloak onto a stone bench, adjusting his gloves and reaching down to choose a blade from a case. She had to act now. It had to be this moment, for there might never be another.

Aniane sprang out from behind the bush, covering the few yards of grass between them and flinging herself at the young man's unprotected back. A strangled noise escaped from her throat as she brought the hand holding the dagger plunging down toward Athaldrin's neck. With the practiced speed of a swordsman, the man sidestepped Aniane's blow, the full force of her weight unbalancing him briefly as he turned. He recovered, quickly, catching her dagger-wrist as it sailed past him.

'Faugh! What's this, a child assassin?' He twisted her wrist harshly, grabbing her around the shoulders with his other arm, and she let go of the dagger with a shrill cry as the bone snapped.

'I ain' a child, ye fuckin' bastard!' She caught her breath raggedly in her throat, tears springing to her eyes with the pain in her wrist, the words flying from her mouth with all the force she had tried to put into her blow moments before.

'Men! Sebastian! Ho there!' Althaldrin lifted his head and shouted as Aniane struggled to get out of his grip. She heard the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor again, but this time there were several, and they were running. With a strangled sob she bit down on the arm holding her, and Althaldrin released her with a fierce yell.

'--the little bitch! Sebastian, stop her!'

Aniane turned, running blindly forward toward the exit, but several hands sprang out to grab her. Sebastian and two other men blocked her way, and one hit out at her with the hilt of his sword, knocking her heavily to the ground. She hit the grass, rolling, clutching her arm to her chest like a wounded animal. She lifted her head, shaking it, trying to see through the pain and the tangle of red hair that had clouded her face.

'Ye killed Dorian, ye cunt! Ye spoiled, mindless git!' She flung another string of curses at Athaldrin before one of the men aimed a kick at her, causing her to gasp from the impact and curl defensively to ward herself from further blows.

'My, what a filthy peasant... listen to the mouth on her.' Athaldrin curled his lip, looking down at the girl on the ground and brushing off his surcoat. 'Deal with her in the usual way, I suppose. I really can't be bothered to have anything to do it.' He nodded in Aniane's direction and sighed, rolling up his sleeves and picking up the blade again, preparing to practice. Aniane stared up at him, opening her mouth again, but arms grabbed her from behind, hauling her half way to her feet and then beginning to drag her from the garden. She flung another torrent of abuse at Althaldrin, tears clouding her vision again.

'Ye'll fuckin' pay for this, an' for everythin' y' did!' One of her captors cuffed the side of her head with a gauntleted hand and she trailed off into a hacking sob. The last thing she saw as the dragged her away was Athaldrin drawing himself into a flawless sparring position, his thin blade raised, a satisfied look of calm adorning his face.

* * *

Several hours later, Aniane awoke lying on her stomach on a rough mat in the corner of the stables. She raised her head groggily and drew in a sharp breath as pain washed over her entire body. She let her head fall back onto the mat, fighting back the urge to cry. The day's memories flooded back into her mind: the encounter in the garden, her broken wrist, being dragged into the dusty courtyard at the centre of the manor, the flogging, the branding with the Syndicate 'S' on her lower back. She had seen it happen before, mainly to those who had attempted to run from the Syndicate, to those who had turned against Lord Alarius, or to those who had ruined a job. She had never expected to be the one tied there in front of a crowd, trying to hide her face from the jeering and the embarrassed alike.

So this was the end of everything, then. Her search for vengeance, any chance to honour Dorian's memory. Recalling the disinterested look on Athaldrin's face as they had dragged her screaming from the garden stung as intently as the bloody mess of torn skin on her back. She didn't even know if he had heard her when she had yelled that she had been doing this for Dorian. There was nothing gained. She groaned inadvertently, the fire in her back intensifying as she began to more fully regain her consciousness. The Syndicate... petty, backbiting, viscious households, made up of the bloated ruins of the Alterac nobility... There was nothing she despised more, apart from Athaldrin himself; yet now she had their mark branded into her skin for the rest of her life.

Aniane turned her head to the side, a cough wracking her body, and then struggled onto her hands and knees, crawling slowly toward a trough of water put there for the horses and tipping her head down into it to drink. She collapsed in the dust next to the trough, her energy spent on the brief crawl of a moment before. As she lay her cheek against the caked mud of the stable floor, her dirty russet hair flung out around her, she clenched her jaw and thought back over her eighteen years of living. This was going be a beginning rather than an end. They had wanted to break her; well, she wouldn't break. She was finished with the Syndicate. As soon as she recovered, she would find a way to run. And somehow, someday, she would find a way to avenge Dorian's death.