by T. C. Edge
"Ah, patients," he cackles, taking another suck on the little white stick. "Hardly patients in here. You gotta be treated as human first." He puffs out, clouding the air with thick grey smoke, before coughing heavily.
"Sounds like you should be being treated, not the other way around," I say.
"No treatment for what I got," he grunts. "Just doin' my bit 'till my time's up."
"You're ill?"
"Ill as they come, darlin'. Oh well, had a good run. Medic over in the big carriage tells me I've got a few months yet. This'll be my last job, I'm sure of it."
"Oh, well...I'm sorry."
"Ah, not your fault. Now what d'you want? Better be worth my time. I ain't dealin' with scrapes and falls no more."
Finally, he turns to look at me, snuffing out his cigarette against the side of the carriage. The look that comes over his face is really rather comical. It starts confused, then turns into a state of profound shock. He stumbles back at the sight of me, all but falling into the mud.
"Oh sh...I, er," he stutters, words tumbling from his lips like a verbal bowel movement. "Mistress Herald. I'm...er...I'm so sorry I..."
"It's fine, forget it," I say quickly. "You weren't to know. You might have if you'd actually looked at me, but, you know, looking's overrated when speaking to someone, right?"
As I grin, he stands up straight as an arrow, eyes watering as he attempts to hold in a violent cough. I enjoy the moment a second before saying, "Go ahead, let it out."
He does so, turning to one side, spluttering like a cat with a fur ball. I hold the look of disgust from my face, even though it is, well, disgusting.
"I'm sorry, Mistress. S-so sorry," he says, finishing, wiping his mouth, and standing back up again. "I'm always like this after a puff. I keep the coughing outside though. And the smoking. Wouldn't put the patients through it, I promise."
"So they are patients now?"
"Of course, of course," he says, bowing. He must know my reputation. It's all rather comical, actually. "I thought you were some stuck up Worthy girl with a scraped knee or something. I get those all the time. Minor complaints, you know. Nothing that needs my attention."
"I understand," I tell him. "You don't need to explain."
"I...um, thank you, Mistress. I heard you were a good'un. One of us once, weren't you?"
"Still am," I say. I wave my hand behind me. "This is very recent, all this. So, you're from the Fringe too?"
"Yup, and proud of it. This lot wouldn't have an Olympian looking after Fringers, that's for sure! Need one of their own for the job. I'm not too well trained, but I do my best. Got a bit of experience, you know. Had plenty of work over the years."
"Like what?"
"Excuse me for sayin', but beatings from the soldiers. Happens too often for my liking."
My eyes turn deep, brow furrowed into trench-like form. "Yeah, that's why I'm here."
"Oh?" he says. Then his eyes light up. "Oh, right, the kid from the other day? Yeah, heard you came across him, you and that Chosen Fire-Blood boy. Something told me you might pop in."
I smile, despite the circumstances, rather enjoying the man's lighthearted and irreverent approach. It's probably something that comes with age and the knowledge that the end is near. When you've got months only to live, you don't care too much to watch your tongue.
"Better late than never, I guess," I say. "He's still here, then?"
The old man nods sullenly. "Yeah, was meant to be back out workin' by now but he was too banged up. Got a nasty gash on his face that ain't healin' fast as I'd like, and his right arm ain't workin' properly yet either. Thought I'd try to keep him in here a little longer."
"Thank you, um..."
"Name's Ralph, Mistress. Go ahead, the boy's inside. You'll make his day, you will."
I smile at the old man, and he moves aside for me to climb into the carriage. The musty smell emanating from within hits me immediately. It's not exactly overpowering, but distinctly noticeable, the smell of rot and decay, of stained blood and worse, rather than medicine and disinfectant as it probably should be. More a mecca for disease than healing if you ask me.
It's dimly lit too, the interior cleared out of all unnecessary embellishments and fitted with a series of small beds along each wall. There are eight only, four on either side, none holding any privacy, not separated by curtains or dividers of any kind. The limited size of the carriage forces the beds to be packed close together, hardly enough space to walk between them. There are three figures inside, each lying upon the beds. Two are to my right as I enter, both at the front of the carriage opposite one another. I look at them first, one a woman, the other a man of middle years. Both are asleep. Neither are whom I've come to see.
I turn the other way. The other end of the carriage fits the second four beds. Tucked right at the back, as far as possible from the faint lights illuminating the front and centre of the carriage, is a figure of a man bundled in dark clothing. Workers clothing. A slave's clothing. Torn and loose fitting, stained and dirty, it hangs upon the man as he sits up in bed, staring forward at the opposite wall.
On his face I see a bandage, covering the cheek, soaked in blood. His arm sits in a sling, cuts and bruises scarring it. I step forward tentatively, trying to get a good look at him. The side of his face showing is hidden by the bandage, his frame cloaked in the shadows of the carriage's rear.
I feel nervous for some reason, my voice coming out a croak. Something about his shape looks familiar.
"Hello there," I manage to say quietly. My foot drops onto a loose floorboard. It creaks loudly. "I...I wanted to come and..."
The young man turns his head.
The exposed side of his face comes into view.
I gasp, my hand rushing to my mouth, and stumble backwards into old Ralph, following in behind me from the cold outside.
"What's this?" he says in surprise as I bump into him. "You know the boy or something?"
My mouth hangs open, my head dipping into a nod. Every part of me begins to tremble.
"I...do," I whisper, staring forward.
Staring at the boy I always thought I loved.
Staring at...Jude.
77
It's a face I know so well, and yet hardly remember. One that I've known all my life, and yet can hardly recognise. It's been months, only, since we were stripped from one another when first entering Olympus, and yet it seems like a lifetime. I closed my thoughts off from him to shut out the hurt. Now, seeing him again in this state, it all comes flooding back.
It must seem odd to old Ralph to see a Herald of War break down before him. The same for the two other patients here, if they're awake to witness the commotion. Yet I'm not a Herald of War, not now. I'm nothing but a girl looking upon a long lost friend, the boy I loved even if I barely ever admitted it, the young man who would always do anything for me, no matter the danger, no matter the harm.
I feel my knees weaken as I try to step forward, tears beginning to flood from my eyes. I whisper his name; it comes out a feeble croak. "Jude," I say. "Jude, it's you..."
I stutter as I near his bed, all but set to fall. Forgetting his injuries, he leaps to my aid, ever faithful, ever there, and catches me against his strong frame. His arm, slung up to his chest, presses against me as I fall into the nook on his other shoulder. I see him wince from the obvious pain, but he doesn't make a peep.
Jude, so brave, so strong. Jude, like me, so far from home.
"What...are you doing here?" I crackle, my voice still struggling, my head still swimming. He draws me to the bed and sits me down. Suddenly, in this carriage for the injured and infirm, I'm the patient, I'm the one being tended.
He stares me deep in the eye, checking me over. Old Ralph steps forward to see if he can help. Jude is quick enough to dart him a look, telling him to stay back.
He looks back at me. "Are you OK, Amber?" he asks. "Do you need to lie down?"
His words, that voice that's so familiar and comforting, brings a
smile, even a laugh. Am I OK? Me? Here he is, bandage across his right cheek, face sliced open, arm disabled and body covered in Prime knows how many cuts and scrapes. And yet he's asking me if I'm OK.
He always was, and remains, the most selfless person I've ever known.
"Forget me," I tell him through the laugh. I reach out, composing myself, banishing the feeble flutterings in my body, and gently touch his face. On the good side, where there's only skin and thick stubble, his jaw as square as ever, eyes as deep and startlingly handsome as any man on this green earth. No, more. Despite his injuries and rotten garb, he's never looked so good to me. "How are you?" I whisper, staring into those eyes. "Forget me, Jude. How are you?"
"I'm fine," he says. "I'm fine, right Ralph?"
I turn to look at Ralph the so-called medic, hovering by the door looking awkward, as though he really shouldn't be watching this conversation. "Well, er..."
"I'm fine, Amber," Jude continues, turning back to me. "My arm's a bit wonky, but it'll straighten out. Nothing to worry about."
"And this?" I look to the bandage, reaching to tease at its edges.
"Fine," Jude repeats. "It's nothing, just a scratch."
I look back at Ralph. The old man mumbles something and ducks his head.
"I need to see," I say.
"It's nothing."
"Jude, let me see."
I reach forward and begin lifting the bandage. Jude winces again, though this time not through pain. He turns his head slightly as the gash comes into view, clumsily stitched together like poorly laid train tracks up the side of his right cheek.
A silence follows as I regard it. Then, gently, I place the bandage back down, press my palm to Jude's uninjured cheek, and pull his face back towards mine. "You look more handsome than ever," I whisper. "A scar will suit you. It'll drive the girls even more wild."
His eyes flatten on mine. He seems more hurt by those words than any physical injury he's suffered.
"I don't care about that," he says. "I don't care about having a scar, Amber, or about being chased by girls. Life isn't...it isn't like that anymore. Everything's changed." He takes a sharp breath, and lowers his eyes. "Everything," he whispers.
A great swamp of sadness descends upon me at his words, at the look that crosses his face. I feel my tears beginning to come again, and squeeze my eyes shut to stop them. Fingers touch my chin. I look again to find Jude lifting my gaze.
"Do you have any idea how hard it's been since I lost you?" he whispers. "Do you have any idea what life's been like back home?" He shakes his head, eyes turning to a dark corner of the carriage. "Your parents are a mess. Your grandmother..." he stops, hardly able to utter the words. I feel a strike of pain rip through my chest at the thought that rips through my mind.
"No..." I say. "She isn't..."
"It's OK," he says, looking back. "She isn't dead, Amber. She's just...lost. She's sunken into someone I don't recognise anymore. Word reached home of what happened to you and, I don't know, she just...couldn't cope."
My mind fills with an image that pains me. My grandmother, alone in her cabin with only her pet goat, Washington, for company. Spending her days in solitary confinement, recalling only the terrible regrets of the past. Has all of this brought it back to her? Is she reliving those days when she was banished from the city, when the life she so adored was taken away from her?
But painful as it is, my mind quickly wonders to a more pressing question. "And...you?" I ask. I flick my eyes around, suddenly frightened. "Why are you here, Jude? W-why?" My voice breaks, my eyes intense. I work for an answer before it's given, but can find only lies and deception. "The Overseer," I say, shaking hands stiffening in anger. "He told me you'd be fine. He told me he sent you home!"
The thought precipitates a flush of fury, my armour pulsing red. Jude winces, drawing back from the heat, sending a throb of panic through my blood. It douses the anger, holds it back, sending my veins frigid once more. The room darkens again. By the door, Ralph looks on in quiet, astonished awe.
Jude takes my hands in his, not fearing to touch me, and begins gently stroking my fingers as he speaks. "He did, Amber," he whispers to me. "I was sent home. He did hold up his side of the bargain."
My brows knit tight with confusion. "But then...how? What happened, Jude? Why are you here?"
"You happened, Goldie," he says, suddenly lifting that signature smile, lopsided and glorious. "Everything that happened to you...it changed everything for me too. I...I couldn't cope either. I hated what they'd done to you, to us. I hated it all. Everything you used to preach, you and Alberta, it all suddenly came out of me instead. I lost it. I screwed up, and spoke heresy in the streets. I just didn't care. And..."
He stops, falling silent a second.
"And what?" I breathe.
"And I...I..." He slips his fingers from mine, and reaches up to the bandage on his cheek. Once again, it's lifted, revealing the wound. "And this," he says. "Take a closer look."
I stare closely at the jagged scar, the flesh around it enflamed and raw. Yet there's something more there too, something I didn't see before. I distinctive marking, a letter, a...
"A brand," I whisper. "You were branded a Defiant?"
He nods, replacing the bandage. "You see, this scar's nothing compared to that. Maybe it'll hide it, I don't know." He shakes his head again. "The way I was acting, they had no choice. I deserve this brand, Amber. I am a Defiant now."
"And they sent you here because of it? They sent you to be a slave in war?"
"No, not at first," he says. "They took me to a facility to turn me, brainwash me into being a good Devotee." He shakes his head sarcastically. "I wasn't exactly compliant. Then a few weeks ago, they came recruiting diggers and workers for the army." He shrugs. "Guess they thought I'd dig a good ditch."
"Well, I'll bet you do," I smile, my eyes soft. "I'm so sorry, Jude. For all of this. For everything."
The shame, the guilt, comes again. Seeing him here, it shines a light on my past, on how I once was. What must he think of me now, for being who and what I am? Is he judging me, even now, for falling into this life so easily?
He doesn't understand, I tell myself, try to convince myself. How could he? He doesn't know what I've been through either...
"There's nothing for you to apologise for, Amber," he assures me. "I know that you had no choice with what you did. I know that you had to play ball to make sure me and Lilly were safe. I've heard rumours here, cobbled together your story. I don't blame you for anything. You only wanted to keep me free from harm."
"I did," I say, nodding quickly. "That's all I ever wanted. And Lilly...she's fine. She's doing really well, actually. She's working for a lovely young woman called Lady Felina. She's happy, Jude. And, whatever you might think, there really are some great people in Olympus. They're not all bad. Many, most even, are good people."
He nods along, eyes unsure, as I ramble and make my excuses. Is that really what I'm doing? Am I trying to convince him, or trying to convince myself? Am I really the good person I think I am, or did I merely fall in my pursuit of power, in my desire to let that great force within me break free?
Jude doesn't speak for a moment, extending the short silence into something more, something with meaning. Eventually, he nods slowly. "You really don't have to explain, Amber," he says. "I'm so happy Lilly is doing well. And I'm sure there are good people in Olympus. But...there's a lot of evil there too. We saw it ourselves, remember? Before you were taken in by them. And we see it here, now. You said it yourself; I'm a slave now. We aren't treated well here. Not us at the bottom of the barrel."
"I'll get you out," I say, loudly, my voice forcefully breaking free. "I'm a Herald of War, Jude. I have influence here. I can speak with Perses, or the Overseer. They'll be able to help..."
As I speak, a dreadful thought rushes into my mind, flushing away my energy, setting a darkness to my soul. Did they know that Jude was the beaten man? I start to wonder. Perhaps not Perses, h
ow could he? But the Overseer...he interrogated those men, got inside their heads with his telepathy, reviewed the entire altercation from within their memories. He saw it play out. How could he not have known?
"What's wrong?" Jude asks, his comforting voice releasing me from my thoughts. "What are you thinking?"
"I..." I blink, heavily, my mind accosted by a sudden darkness. "No, he wouldn't, would he?" I whisper, out loud, but to myself.
"Who? Do what, Amber?" Jude presses.
"The Overseer," I say. "Did he choose to not tell me it was you who got beaten? Why would he..." I continue to shake my head, thinking. He did say that the men's minds were muddled by alcohol, making their memories indistinct. Perhaps he didn't see Jude's face clearly. Does he even know what he looks like, properly know?
"Amber, you're making no sense. What's going on?"
"I just..." I draw a long, calming breath. "You know me, I've never been great with trust." I look him dead in the eye, those deep chestnut eyes. "Did you ever meet him? The Overseer."
Jude purses his lips and shakes his head. "No, never. I was only told that 'the Overseer', as they called him, had commanded for me to be returned to Pine Lake. I didn't really know who he was, but assumed he was important. Of course, I know a lot more now. I've seen him about once or twice, wandering through the camp all tall and colourful. He seems very, I don't know, out of place around here."
"He is," I snigger. "Quite the eccentric." I breathe a slight sigh of relief. "So, maybe he doesn't know about all this" I say, nodding and confirming it to myself. Frankly, those early days spent distrusting the Overseer have long passed. I've grown to like him, and enjoy our random meets, and would rather not return to those days again.
"No, probably not," says Jude. "And even if he did, would it have been sensible of him to tell you I was here? I don't know, Amber. I feel like they want you focused on something more...important."
I dip my head solemnly, that feeling of unease I've felt often beginning to rise up again. That feeling that I'm being used here, and little more. That my purpose is as a weapon, a dreadful weapon of mass destruction. That my elevation is based on that, and that alone.