Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2)

by Nadia Scrieva

  Vachlan found himself reaching for his sword, which lay on a pile of cloth and blankets. When he saw the blankets, he could not help wondering if Visola was cold, and considered covering her with one. The thought happened before he could control it, and with his sword clutched tightly in his hand, he reached for a blanket. He lovingly arranged it over his wife, tucking the corners around her with trembling fingers. He mentally insisted to himself that this was his final humane, sentimental act. He returned both hands to the hilt of his sword.

  While torturing her, he had used odd and unconventional instruments, but this was different. She deserved an honorable and swift end. He swallowed, lifting his sword. She doesn’t even deserve that, King Kyrosed’s voice sneered in his mind. She cuckolded you. Visola doesn’t deserve a kind quick end—why don’t you wake her up and let her watch? Do it slowly and have some fun? Vachlan shook his head to clear the voice away. He hated that voice, and had no idea why it would not leave him alone. He would behead Visola, and he would do it cleanly. It would be over, and it would stop haunting him. He could forget her, and forget all hope of forgiving her, and he could live the remaining centuries of his life in peace.

  His eyes glazed over as he stared at the sleeping girl. She was completely vulnerable; she trusted him. He had seen it in her eyes when he had removed her blindfold. She knew that he would never let any harm come to her. Not any real harm. This was not true—she was mistaken to have such trust in him. She was mistaken to think that she could allow herself a deep and restful slumber, completely off her guard. Was she off her guard? Visola was never truly vulnerable, was she? He watched her chest slowly expand with her breathing, and he knew that she was; she was utterly defenseless.

  He tightened his grip around the hilt of the sword, adjusting it slowly in his hands. He raised his hands to shoulder level. I need to do this, now. No more stalling. Do I really have the balls to do this? he asked himself. No, part of him answered. Visola does not deserve this. Whatever happened with Kyrosed—it was not her fault. She is probably so ashamed of it that she cannot speak about the subject. She deserves better.

  No! She betrayed me. Reasons do not matter. Circumstances do not matter. She is remaining silent out of guilt and shame. If it had not been her choice, she would have confessed that she was forced or blackmailed. She betrayed me! She made a joke of me! She ruined our perfect life, our dreams of having a family together… and she knew how badly I wanted a family! She knew how badly I wanted a place to cast my anchor and feel at home. She knew that she was my answer, and my end—the end of my drifting, destructive existence.

  We intended to create and nurture life, when all we’d both known was destruction. We wanted to make a change: to be human and happy. She ruined it all! She ruined it all, and this is my long awaited vengeance. So yes, I will now kill General Visola Ramaris. I am bound to her through our marriage, so I accept that with her death, I will slay a part of myself. Nevertheless, it must be done. Forgive me—if there is anyone who has the power or jurisdiction to do so, I ask your forgiveness in advance. My dead mother, or any possible gods who preside… Sedna, the Inuit goddess that Visola so respects. Please, forgive what I’m about to do.

  He adjusted his grip once more, turning to stare into the dark silver of the metal. He saw his own grey eyes reflected back in them, distorted and stretched. He closed them briefly, unable to look at himself. He imagined the strike before he delivered it. It was the correct procedure—to think about something carefully and picture doing it several times before following through with the motion. Especially when the decision being made was such a large one. He knew that he did not really have to make the decision. His job was to follow orders, and his orders were to kill the girl. He could empty his mind of conscience, and just allow himself to be the tool guided by another. Yes, that is how he would find the resolve. He would cast aside his personal feelings and become a weapon.

  Visola, please forgive me for betraying your trust. You should have known better than to trust me.

  As his arms pulled the sword back in the beginning of a swing, images of Visola flashed through his mind. He remembered her laughter, although it had been a considerable fraction of an eternity since he had heard the sound. He remembered her green eyes glistening in the sunlight, her body moving under his as they made love. He remembered her whispered words, her strong hands clinging around his neck. More laughter. He remembered her sternness, and her hard voice reprimanding him. He remembered the gracefulness with which she moved in battle—like liquid flesh. There was no one quite like his wife, and he never felt more triumphant and free than when he was in her company.

  The sword quivered for a millisecond in his sturdy, battle-worn hands. How could he kill the most alive person he knew? It was an insult to the world, and an insult to all of nature. Visola’s spirit was a masterpiece of creation; he loved the way that it was always in perfect harmony with her body whenever she moved, and the way that she never could subdue it, even when she was trying to remain expressionless and silent. He could never conquer her—he knew that. He could also never destroy her, despite being the Destroyer of Kingdoms.

  Now, he would strike down upon her neck, in one violent, powerful strike. It would sever her head from her body, and her life would pour out in her blood. He would steal her breath, and smother her life, but he could never truly extinguish her flame. She was one kingdom that could never be destroyed. This was the thought which reassured him, and returned the strength to his hands. The words and thoughts dancing through his mind were empty and emotionless. Their purpose had been to prolong the inevitable, but now it was time. Vachlan steadied himself, and looked at his target: her slender neck. He could not look. He did something he had never done before when about to kill. He averted his eyes from his victim. He could not face how dishonorable his impending strike would be. He just had to get this over with.

  Vachlan clenched the muscles in his arms, and drew the weapon back for momentum. He exhaled as he swung it downward in a firm, true strike to sever the head of his wife. He closed his eyes tightly and waited for impact. He knew how it would feel, and he braced himself. A feeling of horror coursed through his gut, and he felt an overwhelming bout of nausea. The impact came. His eyes shot open and he froze. He breathed a few staggering breaths. He had expected to feel the force of her life leaving her body through the blade. A clean cut. Skin, flesh, veins, bone, soul. The impact which he felt, however, was completely different from what he had expected. Abrupt. Metal.

  Visola ripped her eyes open, feeling pain shoot through her arms as the full force of Vachlan’s blow was absorbed by the shackles on her crossed wrists. Having heard the sound of metal whizzing through the air, she had reflexively moved her hands into a blocking position. Dazed, she stared at the clashed metal for several seconds before her eyes followed along the long blade to its wielder. She saw that Vachlan’s head was turned away, and she could not register what had happened. Her mind replayed the jarring sound of metal against metal—she felt her clenched fists tightly pressed against her jawbone. She was not even sure that she was completely awake. She had been dreaming deeply only seconds ago, and the dreams still lingered, casting a haze over reality.

  When Vachlan turned to look at her, he seemed more surprised than she was. Her stomach sank and she understood what had happened. She felt betrayal wash over her. It drained her strength. She pushed his sword away from her neck, and rubbed her sore wrists. She could not reconcile why this had happened; had she not gone to bed thinking that she could trust him? Had he not shielded her from Zalcan? Of course—because she was his special toy to abuse, and he would not allow anyone else to share in his amusement. It had been jealousy! Pure jealousy between competing men, having nothing to do with her whatsoever. It had not been the well-meaning, loving kind of protection.

  Why did she feel betrayed? Why had she expected more? He had killed Corallyn. He had brutally dissected Corallyn, like a soulless beast. No, not even a beast! Animals killed
to eat or to protect themselves. Only brutes killed for pleasure, and only thugs killed the harmless innocent. Of course he was not on her side! She had been a fool to believe that—thank heavens that her body was not as quick to trust as her mind. Her body had remained apprehensive and on guard, even while her mind had decided to relax. She sent a little prayer of gratitude to her father for training her so well, and for developing her instincts beyond even her own comprehension. She felt a little rush of victory, as though she had passed some great test.

  Vachlan stood frozen solid, as a bead of perspiration trickled down the side of his face. As he stared at Visola’s expression, hungrily inspecting her animated eyes, the dread that had paralyzed him slowly receded back to its distant corner. He breathed out, without realizing he had been holding it in, and the air came out in a rush, a sigh…

  Of relief.

  Vachlan tossed his sword aside, and it clattered noisily to the floor. He fell to his knees at Visola’s bedside, grasping her shackled, bandaged hands. He could not bear her tormented stare, and he bowed his head, resting his face on her hands. He shut his eyes tightly as clarity came to him in patchwork flickers, and he realized how unhinged his emotions and behavior were. He was losing touch with reality, and he was losing command of his own actions and thoughts. He was filled with regret and despair. He did not even know what he wanted anymore; he did not know what was right and wrong. His whole body trembled with the weight of his emotions, shaking under the force of a sob.

  “Viso,” he said, his voice breaking. He was sobbing, but it was muffled against her hands. “What have I done to you? God, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Visola felt the moisture of his tears sliding over her wrists. They coated the narrow space between her bandages and her shackles. She tried to resist the instant wave of pity and love that afflicted her, but she was powerless at the sight of his suffering. She realized that she was witnessing a phenomenon that no one alive had ever seen. Vachlan never cried. He never felt remorse. Words swam through her mind again. You reach your limit when surrounded by truth! It crushes you, it crushes your bones. The pressure is too heavy, and the darkness too obscure. It is also cold. You cannot go any further. Visola blinked the confusing words away, and tried to focus on the even more confusing situation unfolding before her. She watched her husband’s shoulders shuddering involuntarily.

  Seeing that he was inconsolable naturally aroused her maternal, or perhaps wifely instinct to console him. She slid closer to him on the cot, and touched her head to his. She kissed his temple, and kissed his wet cheek. The moment her skin brushed against his moist warmth, she forgot everything but the desire to be close to him. There was sense and rationality in this touch. Hundreds of years of lost love and longing were kindled in the uncertain connection of her lips against his cheek.

  Vachlan’s disbelief at Visola’s tenderness quickly turned into desperation as he turned his face into hers, pressing his lips against her chin. His tears soaked her skin as they tumbled off his lashes, and he found himself seeking her mouth. He pressed his lips against hers hungrily, pulling her bottom lip into his mouth, and running his tongue over her skin. It had been so long since he had tasted her. His mind seemed to shut down as he lost himself in the passionate pressure, as their clammy lips smashed together. Their kiss was pleading and parched, but quickly being flooded by a monsoon.

  There was so much wetness that it was several minutes before Visola realized that she was crying too. She was so transfixed on his mouth that she had been unaware of the potency of her own need, disintegrating her mental fortresses like acid. She awkwardly put her arms around him, trying to untangle herself from the chains. With her kiss, she tried to communicate everything that she had been inhibiting herself from explaining for weeks. Understand me, she begged with her touch, and her tears, please understand me.

  He pulled away from her abruptly. He looked at her tear-streaked face with amazement.

  “I’m setting you free,” he said, fumbling for the keys at his waistband. He seemed dizzy, lost, and uncomfortable with his surroundings. “You have to get out of here.” He moved to unlock her shackles, but she pulled her hands away from him.

  “No,” she whispered hoarsely. It was the first time she had spoken in weeks, and she was surprised at the sound of her own voice. “No.”

  “Visola, please,” he said brokenly, as he tried to grasp her hands to remove the chains. “You have to get away from me. I can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “It hurts more to be away from you,” she said softly. Her tears were blinding her until she could not see, although she furiously tried to blink them away. “If I go, then I’ll never see you again.”

  “I am a curse in your life,” he told her as he wrestled her for the handcuffs. She twisted away and put her hands beneath her so that he could not reach them. “Viso, you need to go. Leave Zimovia and never look back. Go now.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she whispered. A small smile came to her lips. “I can’t get very far on this leg anyway. Listen, Vachlan. I would rather stay as your prisoner than live apart from you again. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here.”

  Vachlan gently ran his fingers through her tangled red hair. Grasping the back of her head, he pressed his lips against her forehead firmly. It felt strangely to her like a kiss of promise.

  “Well, there are many places I’d rather be,” he said. He stood up, and headed for the door.

  “Vachlan, don’t go. No!” she called out weakly. “Vachlan!”

  He was already gone. Visola bit her lip, pounding her chained wrists into the jagged rock wall beside her. She groaned at the pain in her sore, swollen hands. She hoped that he would return.

  Chapter 25: Letter of Resignation

  Thick, rough fingers dug into her injured knee, jolting Visola awake. Her first reaction was surprise that Vachlan had begun torturing her again. Then she realized that those thin fingers with sharp fingernails did not feel like Vachlan’s hands, and those eerie, shallow gasps did not sound like his breathing—she opened her eyes and lifted her head to view her attacker. It was a strange man whom she did not recognize. He had dark brown skin, and was probably of Indian descent. Visola fixed the man with her most intimidating glare.

  “Such pretty green eyes,” the Indian man remarked, in the feminine voice Visola had heard before. “Why would he ever put a blindfold on those?”

  He tightened his grip, increasing the brutal pressure on her knee, and Visola tried to pull her leg away from him. She looked around for Vachlan, and was alarmed to see that he was still not in the room. Where had he gone? Her first fear was that something had happened to him. Had he been punished or harmed for failing to carry out orders and kill her? Her second fear was that he had abandoned her. The panic which suffused her had plenty of historical evidence to justify flourishing in her chest. Her pulse began to quicken. She had shared a sweet emotional moment with Vachlan. He had considered it a sign of his weakness, and he had gone running.

  “Are you looking for your husband?” Prince Zalcan asked, putting his face close to hers. “Vachlan left on important business. He said I could enjoy you as much as I liked.”

  “Is that so?” Visola asked, recoiling at the heavy stench of whiskey on the man’s breath. She realized that she had begun hyperventilating, and she tried to regain her composure. She could outsmart this slip of a boy.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” the man said with a sleazy smile. “I am Prince Zalcan Hamnil from the Maldives, heir to the Clan of Zalcan.”

  “I’m General Visola Ramaris, also known as the woman who’s going to kill you.”

  He laughed, a high pitched and annoying sound, especially at close range. “Have you noticed your handcuffs? I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “You don’t know me very well,” Visola said. “I always make good on my promises. Do you want to know how I would like to kill you? With acid. I would like to drown you in acid—pinching yo
ur nose while slowly pouring it into your mouth until you inhaled it, letting it fill your lungs. Can you imagine how it would feel to have acid eating away at your lungs?”

  “You have quite the imagination,” Zalcan said, with a snigger. “That’s never going to happen. Let me tell you what is going to happen—I’m going to pound you raw. Vachlan says you’re a great lay, so I’m here to try you.”

  “Try me?” she asked, stalling for time. “Am I an article of clothing, or a gourmet dish?”

  “You’re a woman—a scared helpless animal who exists only for my enjoyment.”

  Visola chuckled. “You really think you’re more masculine than I am, Ladybug?”

  “You doubt my masculinity?” he whispered as he reached down and began to undo his pants. “Let me demonstrate the extent of my manhood.”

  “Sure,” Visola said with a smile. “Put it in my mouth. My teeth aren’t that sharp, I promise.” She ran her tongue over her incisors, with a malicious look in her eyes.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t take orders from commoners. I will choose exactly where to put my…”

  “Listen, Hamnil—may I call you Hamnil?”

  “No. You must address me as Prince Zalc... ow!”

  Visola had used her shackled wrists to deliver a blow to his head. She cursed when it was not strong enough to knock him unconscious.

  “That hurt!” he squealed, as he fell away from her cot. He rolled up into a ball on the floor, clutching his head. He whined loudly. “You bitch!”

  Visola groaned. “I really doubt that anyone, in any part of the world would consider you masculine. That’s perfectly fine and you don’t have to prove anything to any…”

  “Vachlan said you were broken!”

  “He broke my heart once,” Visola said, with a melodramatic melancholy. She smiled at her attacker. “Want to hear about it? I’m in the mood for some girl-talk, and maybe if you have any ice cream or chocolate…”