Innocents

by Lena August

  Chapter 13

  We walk for several more hours until coming to a stop in a densely wooded section of the forest. The rain has cleared the last evidence of smoke out of the air, and I can almost forget about the roaring flames that nearly took our lives. I turn to Flynn, “Do you think the fire will cross the river?”

  He considers this for a moment, “It’s unlikely,” he finally says, “fires happen here all the time and rarely do they make it across. This one will probably burn itself out by tomorrow, we should be safe.” He falls silent for a while before adding, “The fire is actually a good thing for us, I think. It will delay the rest of the Domus.” I nod in relief and slide to the ground. I check on the cut on my stomach to make sure I didn’t rip any stitches during our flight. The stitches are still holding strong and the cut looks much improved and is no longer painful to the touch.

  “Those are probably ready to come out,” Flynn remarks and I wince at the prospect, it seems like taking them out would hurt. Flynn takes out his knife and I stiffen automatically and hold my breath as the blade approaches my skin. Flynn smiles at me apologetically as he carefully severs the knots holding the stitches in and pulls the strings out. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but it’s not a pleasant feeling either, like something’s crawling in my skin. I let my breath out in a hiss as the final thread comes free. Warmth courses through me as Flynn’s hand brushes my bare skin and I blush automatically. I look down at the cut to hide my face. Without the stitches, the once life threatening injury now is just a jagged scar.

  Flynn tells me that I should rest and recover my strength for tomorrow, but after half an hour of sitting I grow restless and take out my knife. “I’m going to go practice,” I call to Flynn.

  He hesitates, “Just be careful, we are in Volis territory now and I don’t want to attempt another rescue mission anytime soon.

  It feels great to practice again. At first, my movements are stiff and awkward, my sore muscles limiting my range of motion. But soon I start to feel loose and my strikes become more precise. I have just completed my warm up routine when I notice Flynn standing behind me. His expression is unreadable.

  “What?” I demand.

  “Nothing,” he says quickly, “It’s just that you’re good but…” He gives me an apologetic smile, “you have no technique.”

  I try to hide my embarrassment; I am used to my instructors gloating about how talented I am.

  “I mean you are quick and unpredictable, and have obvious natural talent” he adds hurriedly, “but if you ever get into a duel with an experienced fighter, those things will always fail you. You lack finesse.” Flynn walks over to me, “Show me what you were doing before.” Self-consciously, I start my routine over again. “Okay, stop,” Flynn commands, “First of all, your grip is wrong for that kind of knife.”

  I look down at my hand. I am holding the knife as I always do, the handle held firmly between my thumb and forefinger with my other fingers supporting.

  “That grip would be fine with a smaller knife, but with a larger one, your hand is too exposed to your opponent,” he explains. “Here, let me help.” He takes my hand in his and positions my fingers so that my thumb is on top of the handle and the rest of my fingers form a fist around it. “This will help prevent you from losing your grip on the blade. It also provides for greater power and allows you to use the other end as a weapon as well.”

  I nod and try a few thrusts. The new hold feels strange. It will take some time getting used to.

  “Let’s start again,” Flynn tells me. But he stops me as soon as I take my start up position.

  He looks like he is close to laughter, “Did they teach you anything about footwork back on Innocents?”

  I know Flynn is trying to be helpful, but I can’t help but feel slightly offended. Before meeting him, I had considered myself to be a perfectly good knife fighter. But Flynn looks like he is enjoying himself so thoroughly bossing me around that I can’t help but laugh. “What do you mean? Of course they talked about footwork in training.”

  Flynn shakes his head in amazement, “Your instructors must have been terrible then. It looks like I will have to take you back to basics.”

  His first order of business is correcting my “stance”, or the position I will start a fight in. He has me stand with my right leg forward and my left one to the side and back, my body tilted slightly ahead. Like the new grip, this feels entirely different and at first I am off balance.

  “Since you aren’t particularly strong, this stance will allow you to move quickly to compensate.” Flynn explains.

  For the next hour, Flynn shows me a variety of different training exercises, most of them helping improve my balance and footwork. By the end of the session, I am exhausted and Flynn seems happier than I’ve ever seen him. He seems to come alive when he handles the blade, as though during a fight he can set aside his personal demons and devote all of his concentration to the task at hand.

  The next day, I pass the journey by practicing with my knife. Flynn occasionally stops me to correct something, but for the most part we walk in silence. My shoulders are sore from last night’s training, but I continue to practice, determined to master the skills Flynn has taught me. Around noon, we stop for a rest. Despite the chilly air, I am sweating and my throat is parched with thirst. I wander off a little ways looking for water. The bugs are bad here so I know I must be close. Soon, I stumble upon a small pond. The water is crystal clear, with no signs of plant or animal life in its depths. I am about to take a drink when I hear Flynn’s voice behind me.

  “Brie, what are you doing?”

  “I’m getting a drink,” I tell him, even though it seems obvious to me.

  He looks concerned, “That water is poisoned. Did you already drink any?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good,” Flynn says, “Now that we have left Domus territory, we must only drink out of the rivers, or anything that has a swift current.”

  This confuses me, we had drank out of lakes and ponds before and Flynn never said anything. I take a step away from the water. “How do you know it’s poisoned?”

  “I know because I was one of the people who poisoned it. Marek ordered it. He figures if the Volis don’t have access to clean water, they will have to cross over into our territory, making it easier for us to attack them. But that doesn’t matter, just don’t wander off again,” he says angrily, “stay in my sight at all times.”

  This annoys me that he is suddenly acting like I am completely incompetent, “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I snap at him.

  “You’ve proved that. Just think about how long you would have lasted without my help. You would have died your first day here, so don’t blame me if I question your capability.” His voice unexpectedly is scornful.

  I feel my temper rising, mostly because I know what he said is true. I push the thought aside. “You’re right. I’m sorry I can’t commit cold blooded murder quite as easily as you can, Domus.” It is a low blow, but right now I am too upset to care.

  His eyes flash dangerously and for a moment I am afraid that I went too far.

  “Cold blooded murder? Is that what you call it? See, others would generally call it ‘rescuing you’ or ‘saving your life’. But whatever works for you, Innocent. Now come on, if we stay here much longer the Volis will find us. We wouldn’t want them to kidnap you again, because you would have a hard time escaping by yourself, now that you don’t need my help anymore.”

  I know that I should apologize, but frankly, I am sick of seeking forgiveness for everything I say, and Flynn’s words were just as harsh as mine.

  We continue walking in stony silence. Eventually I take out my knife and start practicing again. This time, Flynn doesn’t say anything even when I make an obvious mistake. Maybe he really meant it when he said he was done helping me. I start to feel regretful about our argument. After all, Flynn had just saved my life and I had thanked him with insults. Not that h
e wasn’t asking for it, a part of me that is still angry argues. I ignore the thought and decide that I will make things right with Flynn when we stop for the day, once he has had a chance to settle down. The anger in his eyes still scares me, but what really bothers me is that he finds me incapable.

  Our stopping point for the day is on the bank of a small creek. Flynn drops his pack and sits on a fallen log, moodily carving designs into the bark with his knife. I approach him and he looks up when he sees me. “Flynn, about what I said earlier…” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just try to make it to the fence without killing each other.”

  I shake my head “I didn’t mean what I said back there. You did what you had to do in order to rescue me and stay alive. I guess I was just angry.”

  Flynn gives a small smile, “I know, and trust me, I understand how that goes. I’m surprised Landon never killed me, with all the stuff I used to yell at him when we got into an argument. You have to admit though; I do have a point about you. You have a talent for getting yourself into the worst situations and aren’t so good at getting yourself out.”

  He must see the indignant expression on my face because he laughs and adds, “You’re tough though, and smart. I doubt any other Innocent could have made it out here as long as you. I guess today I was just afraid that out of all the ways to die out here, you would die because of something I did.”

  We sit in silence for a while before I finally get up the courage to ask about something I had been curious about for a while. “Flynn, what was it like growing up on Murderers, getting raised by Marek?”

  He gives a hollow laugh, “Oh you know, just like a typical happy childhood.”

  “Where was your father? I mean is Marek…?” I trail off awkwardly.

  “Is Marek my father? No, well, at least probably not.” The idea seems to amuse Flynn, “My mother was killed before she actually told anyone who he was. And since nobody stepped up to claim me, I got stuck with Marek. He seemed to see wisdom in raising somebody he could ensure was completely loyal to him, or so he thought. But he wasn’t exactly a loving father figure, and threatening a four year old with a knife is not a great way to build trust and loyalty. But he trained me well enough and I owe my survival to him, in a twisted sense anyway.

  My earliest memory is my first training session with him. I was probably only three then, but I remember wanting to impress Marek. Actually I am surprised I managed not to kill myself accidentally. See, Marek doesn’t believe in practicing with fake knives, and a clumsy three years old with a sharp knife doesn’t always end well.”

  He shrugs and although his voice remains calm, his eyes, once again, betray his anger.

  “I went on my first mission when I was nine. When I was ten, I decided to disobey one of Marek’s orders. And that’s when I got this.”

  He lifts up his shirt to reveal a long scar, stretching from his right shoulder to his opposite hip. Without thinking, I reach up and trace the mark with my fingers. Flynn tenses at first but then relaxes. He sets his hand on mine and we sit in silence for a second. My heart is pounding so loudly, I am concerned that Flynn can hear it.

  “How did it happen?” I whisper. Flynn allows my hand to drop away, but holds my gaze for a few seconds longer before answering. “I was out training with Marek and we came across three of the Unaffiliated. People who don’t belong to any clan,” he explains in answer to my questioning look. “He ordered me to kill them, saying it was a way to prove myself, and I refused. He was furious and said either I could kill them or he would do it for me. I still wouldn’t so he made me watch and he cut their throats. Once the last one bled out, he turned his knife on me. After he cut me, he turned around and left, saying if I couldn’t survive the walk back I wasn’t worthy to live, and if I could, then he would forgive my disobedience. I learned my lesson after that; I never questioned anything Marek said again, at least not out loud. It got better once Landon came, gave me someone I could trust to vent to, share some of my fury.”

  “And before Landon? You really didn’t have anyone you could trust?” I can’t imagine a world that lonely.

  Flynn scoffs at the idea, “Marek made sure everyone was terrified of me, and the few true friends I had didn’t last long. They all vanished mysteriously. Marek feared that I would become more loyal to them than I was to him. If Landon had been any less skillful at medicine and fighting, I am sure he would have vanished as well.”

  I am not sure how to react. I don’t want to seem indifferent if I stay quiet, but I also don’t want to appear pitying. Luckily Flynn doesn’t give me long to think about this. “So what about you, Brie? How did you end up on Murderers? I have a hard time believing that you would volunteer for something like this.”

  I just laugh, “I punched the wrong person.”

  This sparks Flynn’s curiosity. “Who did you punch?”

  “Oh, just the President of the PSC’s son.”

  Flynn seems entertained by the thought. “What?” I demand.

  “Nothing, just the idea of you punching anyone is pretty ridiculous.”

  “What’s so ridiculous about it?” I’m getting a little annoyed again, and Flynn seems to sense it.

  “Sorry, I’m just so used to seeing you with a knife; I can’t imagine you fighting any other way. Why did you punch him anyway?”

  “I was defending a friend,” I say, much happier now that I know Flynn isn’t mocking me.