Closing a Chapter

Rebekka Citreola couldn't help but to linger. Every second wasted could mean the difference between a successful, discreet escape or detection. But it was as if the whole room, the very stone walls and every object on the shelves, begged for her to stay. An uneasiness tugged at her mind as she stood on the threshold, her hand resting on the handle of the half-open door. Finally, she sighed, and closed the door behind her as she stepped back into the room.
The office space was almost too small to be labelled as a room, but it was something. It was hers. Or, perhaps, had been - just as with everything she couldn't fit into her satchel and saddle bags or wear on her tiny body, she was leaving it behind. She thought it'd be simple - she had never cherished possessions, with a few exceptions. Her Master's scythe and Beldane's scarf were two of them, but the sooner was strapped to her back and the latter was wrapped around her neck - like a comforting hand. But now, she realized, it wasn't going to be easy to sacrifice the rest. All these possessions meant something to her; they were all a piece of history, shards of things lost and half-forgotten. The moment she would leave this place, close the door behind her with the intention of never coming back, she'd loose the last remnants of the only existence she had ever known. During her seven year among the living dead, she had never come to appreciate her unlife. But there had always been some amount of acceptance, and finally, with time, she could find pride and comfort in servitude. But as she'd cut the last strings, she'd be in free fall. She had always scolded her underlings and colleagues when they journeyed into unknown territory without performing proper reconnaissance first. Rebekka smiled wryly, but her pale eyes remained the hallow and expressionless mirrors of the dead. Irony would never cease to haunt her, it seemed.
The frail Forsaken slowly slipped the satchel's strap off her shoulder and lowered it to the floor. Then, she stepped forward to the largest mass of shelves in the room. They covered an entire wall. The top shelves were empty, for an understandable reason, but the rest sagged under the weight of countless books, journals and engineering devices. Rebekka trailed her spindly fingers along the edge of one of the shelves, her fingertips leaving trails in the dust. She wished she had taken better care of the place. Yet again, irony stepped unwelcome into her mind. It was a little too late for that now, wasn't it.
Then, she turned towards her armour rack, on the opposite wall. Next to several swords and a pair of axes, none of which she had truly mastered, hung her Blight Stalker armour. She was tempted to put it on one last time, to feel the familiar weight of leather and mail. It had served her well during this last year, better than any other armour she had ever owned. Previously, she had been forced to wear what others left behind, leaving her with clumsy, too large gear. But her Blight Stalker armour had been made for her, close-fitting without hindering her movements, just the way she liked it. With great carefulness, almost as if it was a holy relic, she lifted the green silk hood off the rack. She put it to her face, feeling its soft texture against chin, mouth, and the tip of her nose. Maybe, she'd bring the hood, nothing else, just the hood... But no. She couldn't bring her old unlife with her. She had to reach deep within herself to find the willpower to put it back on the rack. As she lowered her hands, they were quivering slightly.
Finally, she sat down behind the small desk, pressing her hands, palms down, against its worn wooden surface in a vain effort to still herself.
The desk was, just as the shelves, cramped with piles of books and journals, but she had managed to clear a small space in the middle, where she could sit and work, the piles forming protective walls around her. Ink, quill and parchment were stored neatly in the desk's drawers, waiting to be used. The only item cluttering the cleared working area was a dark wooden box, beautiful in its simplicity. She took a deep breath, unlocked the box with the delicate silver key that had been laying on top of it, and placed her hands on the lid. It took a moment before she managed to urge herself into opening it. She had to see them a last time.
The hinges didn't make the slightest sound as she opened the box, revealing its velvet-padded inside and a dozen shining and seemingly pristine syringes. Most of them held a length of eight inches, casings made of mithril and barrels of brilliant glass. But the larger ones were generally made of thorium, while the casings of the smaller ones shone with the clear blue shade of adamantite. There was even one - the smallest, only four inches long, needle included - made entirely out of khorium. They were quite different from normal syringes, with tiny cogs and delicate mechanisms partly hidden behind thin protective plates, and a trigger button instead of a plunger. They were her only inventions. She could replicate devices by using schematics or even by studying the devices themselves, but the steam-driven syringes were her only true accomplishment as an engineer. She picked one of them up, and couldn't help but to find some joy in how it fit perfectly in her hand, well-balanced, and every regulator placed in just the right spot, easy to access. Rebekka felt the tears that would never come build up in her dry tear ducts. The object in her hand was no longer a scientist's instrument, but the tool of a murderer. It had injected death into the veins of one of the very few people she had ever cared about. She would never use it again, no matter what the purpose was. She couldn't.
Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't stand to stay in the room for another moment. She stood up swiftly, and cringed like a beaten dog when the chair fell to the floor behind her. She didn't bother to pick it up, nor did she place the syringe back in the box - she simply dropped it on the desk, as if it was a venomous snake. With one hand, she snatched the key that she'd put on the shelf a couple of minutes earlier, and with the other one she hauled the satchel's strap over her shoulder. She didn't draw a single breath until she was out of there, with the door locked safely behind her.
Pack it in, she thought to herself. Drowning in self-pity won't get you anywhere. You know it was the only choice. The only thing you could have done. But now you've got to leave it behind. This chapter of your unlife... it's over. With this, Rebekka straightened up and lifted her chin an inch - it made her appear much taller than she really was. Before she turned to leave, she dropped the key to the ground, and slid it under the door with the help of her toes. I can do this. For the Master, for Amandah... for Beldane. All the good and honourable dead of this city. They cannot wait any longer.
The faint sound of Rebekka Citreola's footsteps remained in the narrow corridor long after she was gone, until it finally sighed its last echo - and died out.