by Raven Bouray
But she had to. Had to see what pain echoed through her mind and heart. Her small hand lifted and closed about the lever and she pulled it downward. The door opened slowly, so slowly, inward and revealed carnage within. But not at once, as she had closed her eyes not having any other control over her body. Her ears functioned well enough as the sail and snap of the whip echoed the loudest with the half cry of agony and the splatter of what she now understood was blood.
Eyes snapped open at the intensity of the cacophony and she was greeted with a macabre vision. There was blood, the brightest color red dripped still yet downward as gravity demanded. Even older, darker patches and stains littered the floors and walls like an old painting chipped and dull. But that was not what stopped her heart cold in her chest. It was the figure who hung in chains from the ceiling. She could only see the back of him, if any part of his back remained. Strips of flesh hung from muscle, pink and bloody and raw like a piece of fresh meat. He tried to move his feet but the slicked floor only caused him to slide upon it, and she heard the chains rattle in response.
Her attention was drawn from the scene of horrible suffering to a black garbed figure with a raised hand and within it a whip. “No,” she screamed and reached out as the forward momentum of his hand brought the tip of the whip once more on battered flesh with an audible crack. The torturer did not seem to hear her plea but the tortured did. He turned to face her and the glimpse she drew of dark green eyes ripped her from her slumber with a breathless gasp.
Her first thought was of illness. The revulsion gagged her, and she had to fight the urge to vomit. Of which she was ultimately successful, but the sorrow and terror she brought into the waking world took a while longer to abate. The cool night air dried the sweat on her brow and back and added a shiver to her already trembling body. The moonlight illuminated the night and she sought to still her trembling hands but as she looked around at her surroundings she found that a bed of flowers that had most definitely not been there when she went to sleep surrounded her. Like the first time she centered herself and the moss had surrounded her. She also noted absently that her nightmare did not seem to have awoken both her travelling companions, as they were still sleeping soundly not a few paces from her. But eventually her body calmed and she was able to fall back asleep and wish for happier dreams, or no dreams at all. The horrifying scenes that she dreamed played until her eyes shut and were banished from her mind with dreamless rest.
The next morning was quiet with Emmaline still troubled by her nightmare and Kelithor not offering to fill the silence with small talk. Maybe it had been her imagination running wild. Her father always told her that it was vivid and coupling that with Kelithor’s aloofness and unwillingness to talk about his trauma that she made something up. But still… That person looked so much different than Kelithor and yet there were the similarities that she could not deny. The first being his eyes and next his hair, though in her dream it was shorn near his scalp, nearly bald but was a dark color. The blood all over obscured most of his body, but she knew that he was lean and well muscled.
Her mind was so focused on dissecting her dream that even though she still walked today, she barely noticed the pain.
Eventually her silence and pensive mood was noticed by her travelling companion, and she was brought out of her deep silence by his voice. “Why are ye so silent?”
“Huh? Oh. No reason.”
“Oh? Then why has this day been the first in many days I can hear me own mind?”
“Perhaps I don’t feel much like talking.” Her remark was met with a snort and she was briefly irritated with him. She didn’t talk that much.
“May it be the reason for all the clamor I heard las’ night?”
“Clamor?”
“Ye slept poorly. I heard ye up in the night.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” She slowed down enough to draw back from him and continue walking next to Arya.
And they continued like that for a while longer toward a forested area, but not long after she fled his side, he stopped and turned to her. “I am sorry for my dark mood last night, if tha’ is wha’ upset ye. I have no’ had ta be proper in some time. It is still no’ easy at times, even though we have been near one another for a time now.”
“Thank you. It is appreciated, but I’m used to your poor mood. I only had a bad dream.”
“Bad dream? It must ‘ave been some dream ta silence ye. What was it abou’?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
Kelithor looked for a moment as if he wanted to press the issue but after a few moments, dipped his head in acquiescence and turned from her to continue on.
She noticed after a short time that the pace seemed slower but her feet had always been slower than when she rode Arya. Or maybe he was taking pity on her lack of endurance or her absent mindedness. She appreciated the gesture no matter the reason.
As night fell, they encountered the forest edge and Emmaline couldn’t help the feeling of excitement and elation at the smell of the trees, the noises of animals and wind creaking through the branches, and the feel of the rough tree bark beneath her palms as she drifted through them. Under the cover of night and leaves that were slowly changing to autumn colors, they foraged for fresh berries and mushrooms. One particular mushroom Kelithor took from her pile when she presented her find to him. He had a look of distaste when doing so, and she made a mental note to ask him about it later. She knew that some fungus was poisonous and others might cause one to behave oddly. Neither seemed appealing now.
They ate in silence like always, aside from Emmaline’s soft sounds of delight at the explosion of different flavors across her tongue. Her mind was not one to quiet itself idly and began to race without the distraction that foraging provided. After their meal, she did sit and take off her boots before rubbing one of her feet as she did the last night.
Wordlessly Kelithor dropped down next to her and took her other foot in hand to apply pressure to the aching soles without asking her if he could or if she wanted him to. She did, but that was hardly the issue. The issue was that this was rather unorthodox for two people who in reality barely knew one another. This was something that her father would do for her mother or vise versa. It was intimate or subservient. And if she really was Elven, which was still most doubtful, then she must have been someone of rank...or importance, even if it was to just one person.
“Ye mind races, so speak it.” His hands were still rubbing her sore foot and his sudden question startled her.
“What?”
“I have learned much o’ ye on our journey. Ye brow creases when ye are deep in thought o’ something troublin’.”
“Oh.” It sounded silly after she spoke it but it was the only response her preoccupied mind could think of.
“Did ye dream of when I tried to take ye life?” His tone had taken on a harsh quality.
“No. And you need to stop dwelling on that. It is in the past and should stay firmly rooted back there. I trust you and I know it won’t happen again. If you must know, I dreamed of a place I had been before in my dreams but not in body. A place of stone and tunnels and of a large door with unspeakable horrors beyond it. And a green eyed boy with blood running in rivers down his body and flesh torn from muscle and bone that hung in strips down his back. It made me sick down to my soul but I have been dreaming all manner of odd things lately. My father always told me that my imagination was a living wild thing--.” She stopped speaking when she noticed that his hands had stilled on her foot, his skin was pale and ashen, and his stare was lost to her.
A cold prickle tingled at the base of her head as she realized that maybe it hadn't been her imagination at all. But if not that, then what was it? A memory, but not hers? What could that horrible nightmare have been? He rose soundlessly and retreated from her. She watched him go with a hollow ache buried in her chest and without anything else to do she decided to rest and thankfully it was dreamless.
The next day, despite the soothing balm of the forest surrounding them, the air was thick with unspoken tension, and she stood near Arya to help her mare pick a safe path through the underbrush. Keeping her distance from him and her attention on a task still did not diminish the worry that she held for her travelling companion and his pensive look. But getting anything at all out of him would be as tedious and difficult as pulling a tooth, as it always was. She wished that he would just open for her, not all of it, just stop shutting down every time something difficult came up. They still barely knew one another, but the way that he looked at her sometimes spoke volumes more than what he told her in words or even his standoffish manner.
It wasn’t until that night that Emmaline worked up the courage to speak and it was not even the words that she wanted to say. “The scar on your cheek did not come from battle?” Spoken as a question but with a certainty of knowledge.
“No. It did no’.”
“How did you come by it?”
“I think ye know.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I will no’ tell ye. Gods… Look at ye eyes. Ye canno’ hide any emotion, can ye?” He accused and looked away from her.
“Sorry,” she spoke softly, quietly, and looked away from him as well.
“I will no’ hold any pity from ye. I do no’ need it.”
“I don’t pity you. I see something deeply wounded in you. One that begs aid, not pity. You have survived something horrific and lived. That is strong. Not pitiable or weak.”
His answer was a bitter laugh. “It is too far long an’ late for aid.”
She looked at him once more with a narrowed gaze. “Unless you tread upon the paths of the dead to the Underworld in the care of Nyxa, there is always time.”
He looked at her with a strange expression, almost like reverence. As if she walked as a god on the earth, or someone who had seen a sun for the first time in years. “What brigh’ eyes ye have.” He closed in on her and lifted a gloved hand to rest, just barely not touching the skin of her cheek. A whisper of air is what separated them now as she looked into his eyes, but his reverent expresion faded, light in his eyes dying slowly, and out of the corner of her vision, his hand clenched steadily into a fist. “More a tortured soul than mos’.”
“It helps to talk with someone willing to listen. That’s what I’ve found when I’m scared, sad, or angry.”
“I be the way I am because o’ ye.” The words were not shaped as a dagger that would wound her, but were delivered with a cold certainty and the impact of them made her retreat back from him. Her hope, that soft emotion, turned to confusion. His expression remained devoid of warmth and light and a feeling of guilt crept into her open mind and she was almost certain it did not belong to her at all. Confusion was at the forefront, fear and sadness rounded off, but she had no reason to feel guilty yet. What did he mean that it was her fault? How could she have caused him such misery? He retreated from her as well after watching her for a few moments more and climbed into the nearest tree to rest while she turned away from him and went to Arya, rubbing the hair of her neck and yet that guilty feeling remained. Every answer he gave only prompted more questions. Would she ever be rid of them?
Chapter 34
They continued much the same that they always had before, with silence and tension between them. Emmaline tried her best to make conversation and to bridge this gap that had been created between them. They were gentle prodding questions about the weather, plants, and of his life before all this. She had even thrown in some coy, flirting words and tones that even her mother would be proud of, but even her charm wasn’t working when usually that would get some kind of reaction from him -- a stiffening of the shoulders, a chuckle, or actual full words and sentences when he was feeling particularly playful, which was not very often.
But yet questions remained as numerous and leaves falling from autumn trees. Who had she been, according to him, that could have caused him so much pain and torment? Was she an evil, wicked child? Someone of great wealth or power? Why else would she have been sought out and dragged up the continent if she did not have some power of some kind to benefit others for good or ill? So, doing the only thing she could think of, she stopped. It was some time past midday, as the sun was already starting it’s descent in the sky for the moons to rise once more.
He must have been soundly trying to ignore her because it took him nearly twenty paces after to stop in his tracks and turn around with his brow furrowed in either confusion or annoyance. His words would convey either emotion. “What are ye doing?” Confusion it is then. Better than annoyance.
So she gave the most direct answer she could. “Stopping.”
His confusion now turned to annoyance. Funny how she could do that so quickly to him. “I can see tha’. We do no’ have time fer games.” He strode toward her and reached his hand out to grab her, but she dodged his lazy attempt.
“No games. I am choosing to not be led like a child anymore. I am tired of you being angry at me for slights I do not remember nor you will tell me about. I do not deserve your shifting moods of anger and kindness, and you know it. I know that you are not without injury to your body and mind but I refuse to move until you apologize for lashing out at me and explain what you meant last night.” She set her jaw stubbornly and glared at him. Daring this man to try to cart her off like a sack of goods. Emmaline D’Terin has finally had enough and it has been long awaited.
“Do ye really wish ta know?”
At her continued glare, he rolled his eyes and acquiesced with tired half nod.
“Fine. Ye know wha’ ye saw in tha’ dream, yes? Flesh taken fro’ body, blood on the floor?”
While he spoke, Emmaline noticed that he started to pull the fingers on one glove and watched in eager anticipation as it was pulled from his hand. Scars of varying lengths, widths, and colors adorned his fingers, palms, and even the back of his hand. “Tha’ happen’d ta me often. I knew more pain in those years than I ever ‘ave. It taught me tha’ one can stand more than I though’.” He unclasped his heavy cloak and it fell to the ground with an audible thud on the brush covered ground, but she could not tear her gaze from him to even look to see what things he had stored in that to make it so heavy. He was so much smaller, leaner without that cloak but still bigger than she had imagined him to be. “Nearly thirteen years o’ this torment. I was ta guard the mos’ precious treasure in the Elven lands. We were attacked on an importan’ night, and I failed my charge an’ fer tha’, I was punished. Injured and weak, they took many o’ us that still lived ta the mountains, and we suffered.” His voice was tight with anger and perhaps sadness as well. That same rough hand covered in scars darted forward before she could react, and he grasped her wrist to haul her forward. They were nearly touching, so close that it would have been indecent in her usual circles, but her mind spun. He smelled like fresh wood and tannin, and it invaded her senses and left her near witless as he pulled the cotton shirt he wore out of his leather pants and thrust her hand under the cloth to press against the warm skin of his back, but it felt wrong. Where there should have been smooth skin, perhaps slick with sweat, she only felt ridges and rough spots and heat. He was so warm. Her palm tingled at where it pressed on his scars and she barely managed a gasp when her thoughts caught up with her touch. When her fingertips travelled up and around and found no soft skin. Not a piece of it anywhere. The sheer amount of damage that he would have had to heal from was catastrophic if the rest of his skin was anything like the patch that she was currently pressing on.
It is. You know it is. You saw it happen.
But before she could form a coherent word, he yanked her hand back. His pupils were blown wide, and he was panting slightly but regardless, he brought that same hand up more gently and slowly to his face for her fingers to rest on the ridge of his dark scar on his left brow. He pulled downward so that they danced along the path it took down his cheek and past his lip until the end. She remained unmoving, caught in hi
s spell, and then he started speaking again. “The firs’ few months were no’ so terrible. They fed an’ clothed me, kept me in a good room, and treated me as a guest. Then, like all things, when tha’ did no’ work ta get me ta talk, they turned to small hurts. Little things now in the wheel o’ fate. Starvin’. Keepin’ me alone. Roughin’ me up a bit. Then came the rest. Day after day. Drove me near ta madness, it did.” He stopped and used a finger to tap at his scar while he still held her wrist fast in his iron grip. “This was done by a madman who carved his blade slowly in my flesh. They held me down, and I screamed and screamed until it was over. The whippings I found tha’ I could shut ou’ an’ go deep inside, but no’ the feel of tha’ knife as he cut and laughed. It is like the res’ o’ me. Ruined. The scars on my body are nothin’ like the ones on me mind an’ soul.”