Let me be your compass.

I am Ophelia of the forgotten lands, mourning and cursing and driven to deafening madness by my own grief, my own sorrow. Driven to cursed death. No, I am not the weak little girl born from the brainchild of a playwright with ambition. I am the real Ophelia, the true Ophelia. Flesh and blood and painfully beating heart—a heart that beats for all I have lost. No ink and paper dream, but a ragged, torn nightmare of merciless realism.

Let me be your compass.

Hamlet asked, to be or not to be? I ask, to feel or not to feel? For it is the feelings which determine your life, the emotions and the heartache which push you down narrow paths and dark caverns of deceit. So I have walked—oh, so I have walked. Losing myself as I go, neither man nor woman, human or beast. Down, down, down, my world around me plunges into corruption as I divulged into insanity.

Let me be your compass.

And all around me, they call out, Ophelia! Ophelia! Save us from the darkness. But how can I, when I cannot save myself? How can I, when I am just as lost, as broken, as vacant as those who seek my aid. I am just a girl—a weak little girl.

Let me be your compass-

The alleyway illumines with the pale light of a lone match. She spins around, fear fluttering within the void of her bosom. No sound is made, just the gentle hiss of a sword being drawn, and gentle breath upon the wind. A shadow of black and crimson stands, cowl of his hood drawn over his face like an empty space. The glint of a rapier, raised towards her throat in anticipation.

"Duel."

The icy baritone, gravelly and yet strangely clipped. Ophelia's heart constricts, as if a phantom hand squeezes it like a terrible vice. Trembling fingers draw her own blade, and suddenly the fear is gone—the madness sets in; madness like fire.

Rush of wind, scream of metal on metal. Iron scent of blood. Duel.

Let me show you true North.


A/N:the only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain.-persian eyes-