WIngless Sorrow

[nostariel]

-drip- -drip- A small leak of water gently pattered on the cold stone. All was silent as death, except for the screamiing and moaning that occasionly rang out through the dungeons.Most of the cells along the wall were empty, only bones filling their cores. Sewer like opening led to a truely horrifying form of tortue. The pit. At the far end of the south corridor there was a door that led to a room. The investigating room. Where all forms of torture were performed to get you to spit out words you didn't even know. The north end of the hall had stairs leading up to the higher levels. If you were watching a small cry was heard, and you could see a tiny black spider, lots of them all going in the same direction. It was a cell, with a tiny window at the top, barred. Moonlight shone through it, landing upon the hauntingly beautiful face of the girl. Her pale blonde hair shifted as a breeze caught through the bars. Her hands were bound to the wall. Blood and cuts were along her shoulders, face a wrist. SHe wore a simple black and blue dress. Yet, if you looked upon her back. Bandages were wrapped tight about her top part. Blood staining the part where her shoulder blades were. For you see, they had done the inimaginable. They had ripped her wings from her back, the Fae princess. Yet, her long years here....She could not remember that, nor even her name. A sorrowful song rang from her soft, pouty looking lips. Beautiful and pure, like herself. She winced as she pulled a little away and the tight leather about her wrists cut into flesh. Her fingers were quite worse, bent and broken in all the wrong places. And so, the sorrowful song rang out through the cells...Taking away all hope, all desire to live.

"I know....Of a land far sea
where the white gulls cry,
yet my eyes don't leave......
I sing....Of a place of sorrow,
undying ease.....and where love's full given.
Yet my heart is chained.....To these walls of stone.
Forever am I bound...Doomed to cry and woe...." she the turned to an unreadable language. Some sort of elvish of some kind. It was high, pure. Cleansing the sould with sorrow, and pain. A gaurd at the top of the stairs, sitting on bench swayed, a bottle of rum in hand as the song clung to his heart, as he listened to the nameless, the hopeless, the beauty.