ᰔ Song of a MARTYR ᰔ Writing Contest Entry (7) Play Song: Skyfall ١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤ "Ghislaine Augustin. That's your name, correct?" The man spoke to the woman who sat in the bed, in a monastery. Her forehead was covered with a bandage, that hid most of her scars of t0rture that she had acquired from the confrontation with one of the German soldiers. The war was a terrible thing truly, and to be one of very few who found herself strong enough to fight against the force and horrors of the war, the woman was now, least to say, cr1pp1ed to the best of her abilities. Yes, to the best of her abilities. If one were to elaborate, the woman was now unable to move her legs, barely able to form sentences, and unable to recall her past. Her past as Ghislaine Augustine that is. Her curly red hair, deep and dark, almost brown to many fell on her forehead, and her shoulders, most of it covering the bandages in such a manner it was difficult to tell that the woman in front had faced t0rture. Not the kind one. The more bru1a1 one, some may say. Or maybe because she had been accused of saving a German soldier from the Germans, had she been condemned to such pain. She was not sure, but her tired green eyes stared out of the window of the room of the monastery, staring at the countless nuns running here and there as a massive war truck brought in another armful of soldiers, all hurt or near the brink of d23th. "....Is that your name?" The man asked once more, staring at the narrow shouldered, yet straight back, and yet small woman whose posture could only make one fool themselves into believe that she was completely fine. Her clothes, though stained here and there with bl00d and mud, could not hide the fact that this woman was of a good bearing. A wealthy family. And yet how did she come here? That...was a secret. And Ghislaine could not just go ahead and tell the doctor her secret, could she now? She looked up at the doctor, staring at the man who stared back at her meaningfully. His warm hazel eyes conveying a hint of intrigue, yet most of it only showed the impatience the man had towards her and the countless injured he would have to tend to. Resources were short during the war. After all, almost everything had been drained in attempts of freeing France from the War. From the German's clutches. And yet, even then, the French found themselves being forced to flee or getting hurt under the control of the once suppressed but now furious men of the country of Germany. The children of Germania. An allegory that one would use for the nation of Germany that was under his rule. The man no one wished to utter the name of. "No, I am....Jean. Jean Norman..." A lie. However this lie was crucial. For she could not have this man find her identity out. Not now, not never. "Jean?" "Yes, Jean. I was Lady Ghislaine's servant. Personal Maid. Even a playmate for the poor woman when she was young. A child that is." She spoke with the simplest of tones, trying to administer within herself a feeling of warmth that her late friend, Jean Norman would have portrayed when faced with such a question had it been she who had survived. Her eyes and her elocution drafted, almost to match that of Jean. These men would not know who Jean was, or who she was. And the identity certificates did not contain pictures. So it would be impossible for them to put apart she and Jean. Simply because she could not have anyone know herself as Ghislaine anymore. Not when the entire world was out to get her for saving a German soldier. The Germans, because they wanted to k111 any thread related to their own mishaps before their great siege and the Allies, because well...she saved a German. "...Are you sur-" "Yes, I am Jean Norman." Then again, Clark Rooney could not say no. He had no choice in this matter. He could not press the matter either, because the woman clearly had the identity tag of the name she claimed was hers'. "JEAN NORMAN". A simple maid. That would mean that the woman, the lady of the Augustin manner had...succumbed to her eternal illness that had plagued her since childhood. That would be sad, since Clark wished to interrogate that woman himself. Talk to the woman of the name of Ghislaine, and hand her over to the authorities. Perhaps earn some recognition and be sent to the frontline camps, to help more of the soldiers. Or maybe buy himself a ticket out of France to some other country. A country that would be safer than France itself. Safer than here, where the hills were being concurred by the Germans. But this woman, he could not force her to claim she was Ghislaine. And yet he could not believe her.
Continued: Clark Rooney was a man of habit. A doctor of nature, and a skeptical person in terms that he was skeptical of every existence within his reach. Be it his own people or not, he was a man who could not help but judge, could not help but question people's actions and wonder if they were in any way, of benefit to him. But supposedly it seems he would not get an answer from this woman who sat on the bed. "Why is it that you are wearing the clothes of Lady Ghislaine then, if you are not her, Miss Norman?" His narrow yet sharp jaw moved with a sort of essence of authority, as he spoke in a chipped voice, his broad shoulders tensed, as one of his hands found their way to rest on the door panel, while the other continued to rummage through the woman's bag, filled with cosmetics and dirty rags. Some stained with bl00d, others filled with tiny letters scribbled on them with perhaps squid ink. It was true and very well known that Lady Ghislaine was generous to her servants. But she was a crazy woman, as many said. It could be that this woman received the rags, which would have once been expensive yet old handkerchiefs or old pieces of cloths, and yet still, he could not help it. He wanted this woman to be Ghislaine so dearly, it was making him desperate. To the point even he couldn't believe he was desperate. To the point he was completely ignoring the Mother Genevieve standing beside him, who was watching him abashed and horrified of his insistent manners towards a poor damsel in distress. "Simply because the lady saved me." Forceful tears found their way out of her eyes, as she stared at the nun for sympathy, and back at him, trying to show the emotion of pain she would have felt as Jean. The true Jean that is. And somehow it came to her so naturally. Maybe because she was still heartbr0ken over how Jean had saved her from the f1re, that now she claimed to have been saved by herself. Those hot tears, droplets of waters dragged down her s00t dusted face, staining them with small unseen particles of salt. But she would have nothing to say, because she had down the magic. "That's enough Dr. Rooney. That was unnecessary. And please do stop looking through the poor woman's bag. It does not serve you right to treat a woman of god in such manner!" ١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤ Author's Note: A world war-inspired horror story? Amazing right? I don't know which novel the og cover is from, maybe from the...horror game manhwa? I dunno, but I made use of that cover and turned it into this cover on canva. So all I'm gonna say, there is gonna be a lot of medical conditions mentioned in this that at that time may not have been classified as one. ١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤١٥٧٤ Entire Story: Notes + Facts:
