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Her eyes open slowly, though they're not met with much. Just the dark underground cell that had been her world for the past seven centuries. She wouldn't actually be able to see with her eyes unless she used her magic to create a light. The only reason she even knows she's awake is what her other senses tell her. Her special perceptions, her empathic sense, and heart reading. Neither of those work in dreams. That's one reason she's always liked sleeping so much, it's much quieter. Much less overwhelming.
Though her other physical senses aren't telling her much either. No sounds or light or unusual touches. So why is she awake? She takes a moment to search her memory and check her perceptions again. Just in case she did miss something in the haze of sleep.
...Tension. That's it. What had woken her is the sound of a Fate String pulling tight. That's one special perception that does register in her sleep. The odd, pitchy, straining sound resounding through her mind could wake her if she's in the right part of a sleep cycle. Or if the string is one connected to herself, which is the case here. Unfortunately, it's hard to tell who's on the other end of the string from where she is.
She can see it, one of a multitude of silvery threads stretching out from her chest in all directions. The only one pulled taut, the rest are loose, except a couple dozen which are completely slack. She deliberately doesn't look at those.
She wonders dimly who this thread is, and what's happening to them. -It hasn't been that long since the last time one of her strings changed. Though last time a string had fallen slack, that meant one of her connections had passed from this life. She had never let herself worry about who.- She could probably tell, if she concentrated, she could follow the string and sense the magic or empathic signature on the other end and know who it is. But she's long since given up on tracking events that way. What difference would it make?
Maybe it's Harlequin, going through something again. She's always been vaguely aware of which string is his. Every so often, it strains at some character defining occurrence. In her experience, it's usually something bad or unpleasant. Though it's been a while since she actually kept track, around...6 human generations? She's not exactly sure how long that really is. Though, now that she thinks about it, this isn't Harlequin's string. Rather than giving into the temptation of curiosity, her mind wanders back to the last time she'd kept track of an event.
In the silvery light cast by her magic star, Maranwe watches a rat gnaw at the cooked bird leg sitting on her plate. Despite finding out fairies can't eat meat generations ago, some people who marry into her captives' family still insist on offering it to her along with things she can eat. At least it keeps the little vermin from chewing on her . The thought is bitter, one of the few things she still feels after centuries of isolation and abuse. The last flicker of what should be rage and indignation at her treatment. Once, she might have lashed out at the little creature just to alleviate the burn in her heart. But not now. Now that burn feels more like frost and doesn't spur her to action anymore.
The quiet voice of regret at the notion of how much of her has worn away, is violently interrupted a shrieking straining sound, and the image of string yanked taut bursting to forefront of her mind. On instinct, she follows the thread with her perceptions. Harlequin, one of her best friends since birth, and the king she was born to serve, something awful is happening to him. His feeling rip through her as if they were her own; horror, regret, sorrow, and unbearable pain . What in the name of the Sacred Tree is going on?!
She instantly panics, legs long numbed from her perpetual sitting position drive her heels against the floor of her cell, knock the plate askew as she twists, sending the rat scrabbling into the dark. The joints of her wings on one side are strained and pulled as she twists on the other way, desperately grabbing the eye spikes pinning one of her forewings to the cell wall and trying to pull it free. She's done this hundreds of times and never managed to budge any of them, each wing being pinned by it's owns spike like a laboratory specimen, but she can't stand to sit in the dark and do nothing! She has to at least try! She's his friend! His bard! He needs her! Needs someone! So she pulls, twisting and straining as she tries each spike in turn. Never getting a single bit of movement out of any of them.
She wanders back to the present and idles in the pitch for a few heartbeats before conjuring a little silver star to dimly illuminate herself and immediate surroundings. She flexes either leg in turn before pulling her knees up to her chest, then flexes the muscles that control her wings. They're always vaguely sore from being held in a somewhat unnatural position. Sure, the joints are the ball and socket kind, so they can move in any direction, but spread out like this isn't how they naturally rest. Or at least it didn't used to be. She often wonders if they'll be stuck like this. If she ever gets out of here.
She she lifts her head to look at her right forewing and flexes the muscles again, watching the transparent, magenta, and vaguely shimmery skin pull around the spike that's piercing it. She could probably tear it, if she tried, but she's never been brave enough. They're her wings, after all. A part of her body. And wings make a fairy! She couldn't just...mutilate them. And that's beside how much it'd hurt... and even if she could bring herself to rip the skin, there's the issue of the cartilage "veins" that run through and around it to make the ridged structure and shape. That's a tougher material, it'd be even worse... She could never. She's just not brave enough.
She lifts her right hand to grasp the chain running between the eye spikes, the metallic clatter of the rusty links breaking the silence as she gives it a half-hearted tug. The feeling of corrosion against her skin is wholly unpleasant, sending a sensation through her teeth like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. She lets go, and her hand comes away stained orange. She wipes it against her tattered, dingy, dust colored pants before reaching up again, this time grabbing the eye of the spike and giving that an equally hopeless pull. As every time before, it doesn't so much as budge.