Alene

I was at work thinking about Game of Thrones, and this came to mind. Oh, and "alene" is the Norwegian word for "alone", not the character's name.

The drizzle of cold rainwater against her cheek awoke her.  She blinked as her vision cleared.  It was still dark, the hazy silhouette of the moon barely visible through a veil of dark clouds overhead.  Her clothes were soaked from several days of continual rain, which only made her feel even colder.  Wet brown hair clung to her face.  Heavy chains rattled as she brushed it from her eyes.  She flinched as the rough metal scraped against the raw flesh on her wrists.  A guard paused his rounds and scanned the enclosure for any movement.  Most everyone else was still asleep in the mud around her, occasionally moaning and whimpering in their dreams.  After a moment, the guard turned away and resumed his vigil. 

She lay still, trying not to draw attention to herself.  Her back was still sore from the last time they'd beaten her.  It had been for something really stupid. Singing -- not even -- humming a silly lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was scared. She wasn't even sure why she'd been thinking about it the other night.  She wasn't scared.

A shiver ran through her body, and she curled up just a little bit in a futile attempt to warm herself.  Usually, she liked the rain, loved the sound of it pattering around her, loved the scent of damp earth that always accompanied it.  But usually she was admiring it from her bedroom window, wrapped in the warmth of dry clothes and a blazing fire in the hearth.  Now the safety of that window was far away.  The comforting scent of moist earth was all but drowned out by the putrid stench of human flesh.  The overpowering smell made it hard for her to breathe without gagging.  

How could anyone survive like this?  Out in the open with nowhere to sleep but the mud beneath them, cold, drenched, hungry, weighed down by shackles that were meant for someone much bigger and stronger than her.  Nobody could have guessed who she was by looking at her now.  They'd never suspect that she was the daughter of a great Lord, that she had once lived in a great house with a fireplace in every room, that she knew what it was to sleep in a soft bed and have enormous hot meals served three times a day.  That she'd loved her father and been loved by him.  That she'd been happy.  It seemed like such a long time ago now as she lay curled up in the mud, shivering in damp peasant's rags, the disguise that had saved her life when her father was murdered.  She shuddered at the memory of it, even though her view had been blocked.  Everything that had happened since then had been a blur, scraps of memories that didn't all quite fit together in the right order.  Frankly, she didn't want to remember any of it.  It had all led her to this place, and that was all that mattered.  She wanted nothing more than to wake up in the safety of her own bed to find her father stroking her hair or her mother singing that lullaby.  But home was far away now.  Her father was dead, and it was likely that the rest of her family assumed she was dead as well.  No one would come looking for her.  No one would know where to find her even if they thought she was alive.

She was alone.