That. That right there, Will. I know how exceptional your circumstances were, and while I understand it, it doesn’t mean you weren’t weak. You made a conscious choice to do as you did; nobody forced you into it. You were wrong, very wrong, but deep inside you don’t think so, and Amelia can feel that, even if she doesn’t really know what she’s feeling.
Eleanor’s words murdered the quiet voice in his head, silencing its comforting reassurance, its justification for his fall from grace. And something monstrous took its place: something with no voice, just claws and teeth to rip at him. Eleanor let him feel it for a moment before her love flooded through him again, pushing it back. Will turned his head, looking at Eleanor’s limp body lying near him. She looked even smaller than normal, so fragile, like a painted eggshell. He reached his hand out, stroking her hair.
Eleanor?
Yes?
You have to stop this now. You have to let me feel the pain. This is hurting you.
I’m still not sure you can take the pain, Will. Mortarlo nearly killed you. Some of what he did is permanent. You’ve not even realised yet that I had to remove the index and middle fingers of your right hand.
Will gasped, raising his right arm, the bandages and splints making it heavy. He stared incredulously at the bandaged space where his fingers should have been. How do I use a sword? Or ride a horse? Or hold a pen? A tight, hard lump of emotion swelled in his chest. I’ll never be able to draw again…
I’m so sorry, Will. They were damaged beyond repair, Eleanor said, haunted grief in her tone. I know what I have taken from you, but the bones were in pieces, the nerve damage was extensive. If I had left it, you would have been in constant pain while not actually being able to use them. It seemed more sensible just to cut them off.
Still shocked, Will continued to stare at the gap. A shiver of terror crept up his spine. Flashes of the hours he had spent in the torture chamber came back to him: the pain, the fear; but more than anything, the loneliness. I don’t want to suffer and die alone. His body shaking, Will fought to control himself. He whimpered, then sobbed with relief as the glowing, comfortable warmth surrounded him again, the agonising memories fading into the background. Slowly he dropped his hand.
It’s not just the physical pain I’m holding back, Eleanor continued. The psychological damage Mortarlo caused is something I don’t think you should have to deal with yet. Then there’s the damage you did to yourself by being a Protector, going against your true nature to get the job done. And Amelia…? Despite everything, she loves you; she’s barely holding it together. I don’t know how watching you suffer is going to affect her. Conlan has an idea of what you’ve been through; he’s seen the inside of a torture chamber too. He knows what I’m doing is damaging me, but even he recognises that it’s a necessity. I don’t think you can take on your physical and emotional pain at the same time. I’m frightened that it will be too much.
Will shuddered; he knew what she meant. Every pain he had inflicted on others had torn at his soul, and he could not be absolved from that, could never be forgiven. His life as a Protector had been all about justification—this bad thing would produce this good result—but it did not feel like that anymore. Nothing good could ever really come from the evil he had perpetrated. The lives he had saved were tainted, marked by the horror necessary to preserve them. He did not feel like there was any justification for anything he had done. He had been weak and had acted out of fear.
Let me feel it, Eleanor. Leave my head. I don’t deserve to be protected, and certainly not at the cost of your health.
We don’t always get what we deserve, and honestly, none of your actions wipe away all the good things you’ve done, all the kindness and generosity of spirit you’ve shown. I don’t want you to suffer.
Will reached for Eleanor’s hand and brought it towards him, tracing the lines of the bones and tendons with his thumb.
So you would suffer instead? I’m strong enough to throw you out of my head if it comes to that; I can feel it. It’s only my selfish fear of the pain that’s stopped me trying so far. Please, Eleanor, I know you’re trying to help, but I need to learn to deal with this. I might as well start now.
Silence.
He felt something stir in the back of his mind, and Eleanor’s presence brushed past him; he felt her leave, like sand through his fingers.
Nothing.
Then the pain hit and Will gasped, his body involuntarily tensing. Stabbing, red hot needle pains shot up and down his right arm; a tight, hard, crushing sensation engulfed his right hand and wrist. Joints and muscles emitted a deep, throbbing ache. Every breath was an agony of semi-healed ribs and stretched stitches. His head felt like it was packed with wire wool, a headache pushing through it like a chainsaw. For several seconds Will felt every ache, every broken bone, every bruise, every cut. Biting hard on his bottom lip to hold back the cries, he whimpered. Then the agony smothered him and plunged him back into welcome unconsciousness.
He drifted with the pain. Reality was there; sometimes it was close, sometimes it was far away, but it was there. He heard voices, was occasionally able to piece conversation together. None of it sounded good. He heard Conlan and Amelia arguing in low, harsh voices. They were arguing about him, about the pain, about Eleanor going back into his head. Conlan was reminding Amelia that Will had wanted Eleanor to stop. Amelia was sobbing that he had no idea what that would mean, whilst Freddie comforted her. More disturbing than the pain were the memories, the dark places that his mind took him to. Mortarlo’s leering face stalked him. Bloody nightmares gripped him. In them it was Conlan on the torture rack, or Amelia or Eleanor or Freddie. He cried for them, but it did not stop Mortarlo from slicing into vulnerable skin as they screamed, howled and bled before him. If they lay before him they must have done something to deserve it, said the soft voice of the torturer from behind him. Other voices spoke up. The most devastating was Amelia’s, quiet and gentle, telling him that their only crime had been to love him.
He was aware of a reed going back down his throat and did not fight it, because he knew he wanted to live as long as he could. He needed time. Time to find a way to make up for what he had done. This thought tapped into the strong, solid core of his being; he made it a part of himself. He would make amends, not to Conlan or Amelia exactly, although that was part of it, but to Mydren, to the universe, to balance out the stains against his soul. Not because he expected forgiveness, but because he wanted to keep his sanity, and this was the only way: to forge something positive from the horror.
The pain began to recede. Will was conscious for longer and longer periods, and his memories began coming back to him. Vivid flashbacks would seize him without warning, and it was as if he had never left the cell. He could smell the putrid stench, could hear his own pleading and feel the hunger gnaw at his belly as the cold seeped into his aching body. These episodes left him shaking violently, drenched in sweat, his heart racing, sobbing and so very ashamed of his fear. Retreating, Will tried to distance himself from everyone and everything, refusing to engage. It was all just too humiliating: he was being regularly reduced to tears by his own unruly mind. Sleep would not come without a sedative. He jumped and panicked at every noise, terror coming out of nowhere. Those he loved made efforts to reach him, but he shut them out, not wanting them to see his anxiety and distress. In an attempt to draw him out of his self-imposed exile, Amelia let the children visit him, on the understanding that they had to be quiet and gentle. May wanted to know when Will was going to die. Distressed, fighting to retain his composure, Will yelled at them to get out.
Later that day he woke to find Oakes had slipped back into the cart and was lying on his side in the bed, facing him. His son had grown while he had been away. Will still saw the child, but Oakes was taller and stronger, with a firm chin and kind, intelligent eyes. It was a gift, to see shades of the man he was growing into, and the insight left Will stunned.
“Hello, Bapa,” the boy said, shy love in his ey
es. “I know you have seen and experienced some really terrible things, more than anyone should. I cannot change the past, but if you let me, I can help you change your future. If you want to talk to us, we are here. We want to help you feel better.”
Stunned, overjoyed and humbled at being called Bapa, it took Will a moment to realise that they were his own words that Oakes had spoken: the first words he had ever said to the boy. Oakes smiled and tentatively reached out a hand, wiping away tears Will had not even noticed he was crying. Numb and unable to respond, he held the boy’s gaze, needing to express his fear and misery, but not wanting to burden his son. When he did not speak, Oakes filled the silence, and in a steady, determined voice he told Will about his sister, about being held by Daratus, about the terror. Will could relate to every word he spoke, and awareness of his situation entered his conscious mind for the first time. I have post-traumatic stress disorder! The realisation that his feelings stemmed from an illness lifted a huge burden from his heart. This was not a permanent change in his personality; it was something that, with work and time, he could learn to manage. He still could not bring himself to inflict his torment on his son, but he knew that the only way forward was to allow someone in, to admit that he needed help and could no longer handle the way he felt on his own.
Eleanor came to check on him every morning and evening, inspecting him, running her gaze over his body with a practiced eye. In the past it had made Will feel uncomfortable and angry. She knew how pitiful he was; she knew him, all of him, inside and out. This feeling had changed after Oakes had visited. While Eleanor chatted about nothing important, removing stitches and rubbing antiseptic paste into his wounds, he realised that being truly known and still loved was a precious gift for which he should be grateful. He discovered that the feel of her fingers on his skin, a torment that in the past that had reminded him of Mortarlo’s cold exploration of his flesh, now made him miss the loving comfort and sense of connection he and Amelia had shared. Amelia would not come near him, and he could not blame her after the anguish he had put her through. She was with him every day but sat beyond his reach, her arms wrapped around herself, her body language screaming ‘Stay Away!’ Will had wondered briefly if she was doing it to punish him and had then felt ashamed of the thought. She was not that childish, she was just hurt and trying to come to terms with it; and he would wait, patiently, miserably, until she was ready to take him into her arms again.
At Will’s request, Conlan made regular visits for a few hours each day. At first, expressing how he felt seemed important to Will. He admitted his feelings of inadequacy and humiliation when a flashback or panic attack hit him and how it made him feel pathetic and helpless. Conlan heard all about the nightmares, and Will took great care to describe everything in detail, finding it helpful to face his terror with rationality, to understand, if he could, where it came from. As he grew more comfortable with expressing himself, they finally moved on, and over several weeks Will told Conlan everything. Conlan listened in silence as Will told him about Mortarlo, about how his body and mind had been broken. Will explained the way his terror had paralysed his mind. He spoke, without trying to defend himself, about Shyla and the shelter she had represented. He talked about what he had done for Pandral, how he had betrayed his beliefs to solve cases. There was regret in his voice as he described all the times he had abused his Avatar gifts to get what he wanted and all the empty reasons why he had done it. And throughout it all, Conlan never interrupted and never passed judgement. He would occasionally ask questions, but there was no expectation that they would be answered. Then there were times when Conlan just held Will’s hand as he wept, nothing in his expression but gentle concern and sympathy. Will knew he had much further to go before he would feel like himself again, but he recognised that the depth of love his family and friends had for him was slowly pulling him back from the drop into the abyss upon which he had teetered.
At Eleanor’s uncompromising insistence, Will started making daily excursions around the camp, usually accompanied by Oakes. At first he had not gone far and had moved quietly, not wanting to be noticed. He had not wanted to see the pity in the eyes of Conlan’s men. However, it soon became clear that pity was the last thought on the minds of the men who stopped him to chat. Will only vaguely remembered most of them, but was touched and a little confused by their open admiration for his bravery and grateful thanks for the service he had done them. Oakes explained that Conlan had told his men all about Will’s heroic mission to spy on the Lords of Mydren. There had been no mention of the Source, but this was no surprise to Will. What everyone seemed to know—and all, it seemed, they needed to know—was that he had returned injured, with information that would be vital to their cause.
“Hello, Will.”
Will froze, fear suddenly gripping him, his heart pounding in his chest, a cold sweat bathing his body. Pandral was walking towards him, a delighted smile on his face. Oakes took a small step and moved to stand in front of Will, leaning back against him, offering comforting support and protection at the same time. Grateful beyond words, Will took a couple of slow, deep breaths.
“How are you feeling?” Pandral asked, concern showing in his eyes as he got closer. “I am sorry for what I did, Will, abandoning you to Mortarlo. It was cowardly of me, and you paid the price of my fear. Please accept my apologies.”
Will nodded, unable to speak, fear scraping its nails up and down his back. Oakes took Will’s left arm and draped it over his shoulder, as if he was seeking comfort from a parent. Will pulled the boy tightly against him, under no illusions as to who was comforting whom. Oakes was his anchor in the storm that raged inside him.
“Is this your son?” Pandral asked, looking down at Oakes. Will nodded again, feeling like an idiot, but speech was still impossible with a dry mouth, a tongue that felt like a lump of warm lead and a throat that was getting tighter by the moment.
“Hello,” Oakes said, holding out a hand. “My name is Oakes.”
Pandral shook the boy’s hand and smiled. As his gaze began to move back to Will, Oakes spoke again, and Will silently blessed him for his delaying tactics.
“Are you really a Lord of Mydren?” Oakes asked.
Pandral frowned. “I used to be, but I think that life has been lost to me.”
“You sound sad about that,” Oakes observed.
Pandral sighed. “I worked very hard to become a Lord of Mydren; it was all I ever wanted. Now I am nothing, with no purpose. It is a lot to take in. I miss being a Lord.”
“You can have purpose with us, if you want,” Oakes said. “The king offered you a place on his council. That is better than being a Lord.”
Pandral’s eyes opened wide in surprise before narrowing in suspicion. “You seem rather well informed for a child.”
“And you are rather stubborn for an adult,” Will said with a smile, finding his voice as he found his courage, saving Oakes from having to respond. “A place on the council is an honour, Pandral. You can do far more good from that position than you ever would have managed as a Lord of Mydren.”
“Jonas,” Pandral said. “My name is Jonas.”
Will nodded. “Oakes is right, Jonas. Being on the king’s council is much better than being a Lord; you would find it far more rewarding. The king is a great man, someone I love and admire. I would rather kneel in the mud at His Majesty’s feet than rule Mydren from the top of the White Tower. Give him a chance to explain himself; you can trust him. I know you will not regret it. You have a new name, Jonas, and you are a new man. Perhaps this new man can find the strength to devote his efforts to a cause that needs him, instead of to his own advancement.”
Jonas stared at him, thoughts dancing through his eyes. “I am so glad I stopped to say hello,” he muttered with mild sarcasm. Will gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder as he moved past, leaving the former Lord to consider his future.
As the panic attacks, nightmares and flashbacks became less frequent, Will found sleep came more eas
ily and he became more aware of his body. It had taken months, but now the bones had knitted back together, the lacerations had healed and the bruises had faded, though he still felt battered. More disturbing was the tingling, painful heat in fingers he no longer had. He had heard of ‘phantom pain’, but the clinical description came nowhere near close enough to adequately explain what it felt like. To feel his fingers twitch, the skin rubbing and the muscles in spasm, knowing that none of it, skin or muscle, still existed, was a disturbing experience. Yet more disconcerting than all of this was the feeling deep inside him. Will could feel his energy spinning and pulsing. It twisted and writhed, straining against him, wanting release. It wanted to absorb the power it needed to rip free of the frail flesh, fragile bones and weary soul that held it trapped. Upon investigation, Will found it was Eleanor who was holding it in check, and he wondered, with a morbid fascination, what would happen if she stopped. It was time, he knew, to tell Conlan everything.
Will sat in the open mouth of a cave halfway up the valley wall, before a fire Eleanor and Davlin had built, once they had helped him up to the spot. It chased off the autumn chill. Below him, somewhere under the canopy of trees, was their camp, well hidden in the dense forest that was nestled in the small valley. Having left the Box Swamp a month before Will had returned, they had been making for the East Tower when the balloons had landed, and upon finding this relatively safe, easily guarded spot, Conlan had ordered them to make camp so that Eleanor could tend Will’s injuries in a stationary cart. It had been months since then and still they had not moved. Will was very aware that Conlan and his warriors, now honed to a knife’s edge, were anxious to leave to take on the East Tower, and he found he was restless too, but before they left this haven they had found, Will had one important thing he needed to say to Conlan.
Will (Book 2) Page 76