Loken knew that much. “Not much of an improvement really,” he said with as much contempt as he could muster. As if humans were as trivial as their lives were short.
Once more, Partridge didn't rise to the bait. “If I'm calculating this right, and we use the rate at which people develop, that would make you seventeen. Being generous.”
To his horror, Loken felt himself flush. “I'm no child!” he protested, certain there was a misunderstanding. “I saw my first battle when I was near six hundred!”
“There are various milestones, differing by culture or religion, that mark development. For example, in the United States, you must be eighteen to join the military.”
“On Rellaeria, one must be nine hundred,” Loken groused, not at all pleased to admit it. “Such an age also marks their majority, their coming-of-age.” Temper flaring, he added, “I don't see what age has to do with anything.”
“Developmental age.”
“Oddly, I gathered that myself,” Loken sad hotly. He wasn't an idiot. “I simply can't fathom what difference it makes. A madman is still mad, whether he's old enough to join the military or not.”
“You think yourself mad? Do you believe only the clinically insane see psychologists?”
Yes, he did. Back home, mindhealers mostly helped the men broken by battle or by loss. If someone had to see a mindhealer, they certainly didn’t advertise it. The stigma was too great. “I assume you’re about to tell me how wrong I am. Might I first point out the irony of needing to assure someone shackled to a bed that they aren’t insane?”
“Many of my patients live perfectly ordinary lives. They’re not insane; they’re suffering. And it’s my task to ease that suffering and provide them with tools to better their day-to-day lives. As for the restraints, I’m sorry for the discomfort they cause you. You’re strong, even malnourished as you are, and I’m told they felt it was necessary for your safety and theirs. Do you remember attacking Doctor Valdes?”
What? “No,” he said, and he wasn't certain what petrified him more. That he couldn't remember doing it or that he'd done it at all.
Had he harmed anyone else? Would they abandon him now that he'd turned on them?
(It doesn't matter. You don't need them. You don't need anyone.)
“Do you often have blackouts? Or is this a post-captivity development?”
After marveling at how clinical that sounded, he had to reply and say, “Post-captivity,” as if to clear his name. As if to say, ‘I wasn’t insane before all this.’ Even if that wasn’t at all true. He’d been shattered for a long time, never quite right. Even before he’d learned why, he'd known he was different.
“It’s understandable. You suffered a traumatic experience. It's not unexpect—”
Why could Loken still feel that madman’s hands inside of him? Worst of all, he couldn’t feel his abdomen to assure himself he was well. “You know nothing!” he hissed, agitated that he was bound as if still bolted to that cold, metallic table.
Loken was unable to stop the shudder that rushed through him, and when he opened his eyes, he found Partridge watching him intensely.
“I know you must be uncomfortable, but if we can get through a few more questions, we can work towards removing the restraints. Does that sound fair?”
It did. He needed them removed, and Loken suspected that the only reason he didn't have another anxiety episode was because of the medication the IV was feeding him, keeping the worst of it at bay.
He wanted to hate them for drugging him against his will….but it was more peaceful than he'd felt since being liberated from Lestat. He could think without drowning in anxiety.
Loken inclined his head, though the darkness inside of him writhed and demanded he remain combative.
“Now, I'm going to make a few statements. If you feel one is more true than untrue for you, I want you to tell me. If you can't, a nod will do. You may elaborate if you want, but that’s not required just now. Usually, I’ll ask a patient to evaluate the last week, but you and I have only a few days to work with. It’ll have to do. Ready?”
It seemed simple enough. In exchange for freedom, Loken was willing to do much more, so he agreed. Since coming to Earth, he’d been forging a new kind of armor, piece by piece, to barricade away the monster that lived within him. Now, that armor had cracked. Everyone could see what lurked inside of him.
Maybe, just maybe, this human could fix it. It was a thought born of desperation—for what hope did a human have of understanding the complexities of Rellaerian society and their conflict with the vicious Drakain?
Partridge began. “I feel like my future is hopeless.”
It was ridiculous hearing him make such a statement, but it was somehow easier than having to say it himself. Eventually, Loken nodded.
“My appetite has changed, either increasing or decreasing.”
After debating it, he nodded but wondered if that was accurate. His appetite felt stable, if slightly diminished. However, considering how much he should be eating to heal...
“I find myself feeling ashamed or guilty.”
That was true, but Loken deserved to feel that way, and what exactly was the difference between shame and guilt? “Yes,” he said, finding it easy to admit to. And I deserve it.
“Sometimes, I feel so much pain that I feel death is the only solution.”
Loken knew lying would be best, but the statement struck something within him. “I don't seek a solution,” he confessed, tone devoid of the conflict inside of him. “I seek an end.”
It didn't horrify Partridge as Loken thought it might. “I'm sorry you feel this way, Lailoken, but my job will be helping you navigate these feelings and, with patience, overcome them. At the very least, it is clear you have Clinical Depression. Ms. Darcell was quite vocal in her diagnosis before I even stepped foot in this room.” He didn't sound annoyed, but Loken knew how adamant Danika could be. “I've but one more question for the moment. Do you currently have a plan for how you might ‘seek an end?’”
“No.” It wasn't a lie. He didn't, but that didn't mean he couldn't make one.
“Alright. What I want now is for us to form a plan, a list of steps for if you start getting overwhelmed by these thoughts.”
That sounded ridiculous. How was he supposed to enact a step-by-step plan while mad with the desire for death? “I don’t understand,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, in my experience, suicidal thoughts build. They get louder and louder, over time. Has this been your experience?”
Loken couldn’t quite manage to nod.
“So, we’ll create a plan, a series of things you can try so that it doesn’t come to another attempt. What are your hobbies?”
He was going to suggest Loken, what, read until he forgot how much he hurt inside? “Reading, I suppose. I have an exercise regimen I try to do daily...but it involves daggers.”
Partridge’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Perhaps we’ll leave the daggers out for now.”
His daggers. Despite the medication, anxiety swept through him. Where were they? Had he returned them to his voidspace? Had Maganti gotten them?
“Lailoken? Focus on my voice. Breathe. In and out.”
He did, but it wasn’t helping.
“Breathe. I want you to focus on my voice and breathe. You’re safe. Focus and name three things you can feel.”
The odd request caught his attention, but it was hard to concentrate. He flexed his fingers, wiggled his toes, just to find something to mention. “The sheets. The mattress. My clothes.”
“Two things you can smell.”
He flared his nostrils, trying to ignore how much sharper his sense of smell was. “Something lemony. Maybe used for disinfecting? And...the scent of the sheets. They’re clean. Like someone washed them recently...” When he was done, he met Partridge’s eyes. “Now what?”
Partridge only smiled. “Nothing. You did well. You need not complete an exercise in order for it to work. Now, can
you tell me what set off this panic attack?”
Panic attack. Was that what it was? “My daggers. They were a gift from my...from the woman that raised me. I don’t know where they are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m certain your friends will help you locate them, if asked, and hold onto them for now.”
In other words, no one trusted him with them...and he didn’t necessarily disagree with their assessments. The kitchen knife he’d stolen was inefficient at killing Drakain, but the Aeirnin metal would not be. Still, it was strange to be denied access to the reassuring feeling of a dagger in each hand.
He’d been near six hundred years old to Sanjay’s seven hundred when their father took them out to witness their first battle, mere days after he'd been presented with his daggers. Without preparation or warning, Father had brought them to a remote moon of Hecrore where hundreds of Uraix and Kyds fought.
Holding their hands, one in each of his own, General Urien led them to a cliff where they could overlook the conflict raging below.
Loken stepped forward, absorbing every detail. Each clash of blade against blade, blade against armor, scream of pain, and shout of triumph added to the cacophony. It was far more gruesome than any historical text could convey. The blood, the bodies. Loken swallowed his horror. It wouldn’t do to fail Father on their first outing, though he hadn’t a clue what they were doing here.
“Are we to join the war, Father?” Sanjay asked, sounding too eager for Loken’s liking. “Look! They fight like farmers! We could take them easily!”
His brother was right, Loken noted with a frown. Many of them did seem poorly trained. As if, perhaps, not all of them were soldiers.
Urien came to his side. “What do you see, Lailoken?”
“They’re...they’re not soldiers, Father. The Uraix men.”
Loken could hear the frown in Sanjay’s voice when he asked, “How do you know they're men?”
Of course his brother hadn't bothered to pay attention to that lesson either. Why would he? “They have curling horns. Their women have none.”
“Yes,” Father agreed. “A conflict over territory has turned into a blood feud. Both sides have lost too much to quit now. Neither controls Hecrore after a hundred years of quarreling, but still they fight. They fight for the spilled blood of their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, children.”
It all sounded so...pointless. At the very least, a waste of life, but Loken knew he shouldn’t think that way. The Uraix and Kyds had to avenge their fallen. It was no less than the Evoir would do.
“Can we get closer?” Sanjay asked.
Loken bit his tongue when Father said yes, and soon they were standing on the outskirts of the battle. His heart jumped to his throat when a Kyds man road into the fray upon the back of a hoofed beast, cutting down man after man. It wasn’t fair! The Uraix were clearly only defending their settlement.
“This is war, my sons. Now, go. Help the Uraix defend their homes.”
Without asking why his father had chosen the Uraix to champion, Loken dashed after Sanjay, who gave a zealous laugh. This was where Sanjay thrived. For his brother, battle was about honor and victory. For Loken, it was about deceit and survival. He couldn’t strike a foe down with brute force like his father or brother. He had to rely on speed, cunning, and magic.
Before he could get his bearings, the sound of clinking armor came from behind. Loken teleported to safety, left a clone in his place, and struck a lethal blow by slitting his opponent’s throat. It was indescribable, the feeling of sliding a blade through flesh. He expected it to feel unique, significant, but it wasn’t all that different than hunting.
When he saw the soldier was a boy hardly older than himself, he froze. Everything seemed to slow down as he stared down at the gasping boy. Then, Loken’s survival instincts kicked in, and he returned to the fray.
As the Kyds began to retreat, Father came to their sides.
“Some of them were just boys,” Loken blurted out, unable to conceal his horror. ‘Why?’ went unasked.
“Yes,” Father agreed, seemingly unmoved. “Do you know why I’ve brought you here today, my sons?”
Loken didn’t, but he desperately wanted to.
“On the battlefield, all blood is the same,” Father said. “It is not always soldier against soldier. The so-called glory, the glamour—that comes after the war has been won and is always told by the victors.”
Loken avoided surveying the blood soaked battleground. He couldn't remember how many had fallen by his hand—and wasn't that awful?—but he remembered the dying face of the boy.
He chanced a glance to Sanjay, who looked pensive but not quite disturbed.
For many years after, each time Loken looked at the crimson coating his daggers, he remembered the boy he'd killed and how long it had taken for him to die.
“Lailoken?” Partridge’s voice cut through the memory.
“I prefer Loken,” he replied, still struggling to focus on the present.
“Alright,” Partridge said. “Since we’re on the subject, I prefer for my patients to call me by my first name. Harvey.”
Likely to establish trust, Loken mused. He supposed it didn't matter. He was already cooperating, wasn't he?
(You need only indulge them until you're free.)
Yes. That’s all he was doing, right? Playing them, plotting his escape.
“So. Reading and exercise. Both are excellent starts. When you start feeling overwhelmed, try to read. If that doesn't work, watch a show. Once you're well, you can add exercise as the next step. If that all fails or you fear thoughts may turn to action, you should call someone. If no one is available, call me.”
Call someone. As if it was that easy. How could he admit to what he felt—Well, now. That wasn’t really a problem anymore, was it? It was likely they all knew.
Yet the shame of needing to reach out for help… “You make it sound easy.”
Harvey’s expression softened. “I assure you I’m not making light of your struggle. I understand it can be difficult to take steps towards a solution when enthralled by depression. If it were easy, everyone would do it by themselves.”
Loken took a breath, swallowing the rising tide of emotions. “I don't possess a phone.”
“Ah-ha. Now, there’s a problem easily fixed. Mr. Nolan has informed me he will provide you with one.”
Distrust reignited—what man gave so much away for free?—Loken scowled but didn't decline. He had money saved away and could pay Nolan back, if necessary.
“Our session is coming to an end. How do you feel about continuing with me? If not, I can try to find another psychologist for you. I have a few in mind.”
If they were going to force him to see a mindhealer—and it certainly seemed as if that was their intent—Loken believed they had chosen Harvey for a reason. Did they trust him? They must, in order to introduce him to an alien. “Do you work for ALPHA?” he asked, musing aloud.
“No. Nor will I ever.”
Loken found that statement odd, but he didn't pry. Not yet. “Yet Nolan called you. He must know you, seen your work to have faith in you.”
Harvey only gave the faintest of smiles.
Men that were wounded in battle, permanently maimed in some way, were made to see mindhealers. Nolan hadn't lost his leg in battle but… “You're also Nolan’s mindhealer? Or you were?”
“Sound inductive reasoning,” Harvey replied, which wasn't really an answer.
Loken let it go. “I suppose you're fine. For a mindhealer.”
Harvey smiled, as if unbothered by Loken’s word choice. “Our next session will be tomorrow. For the first couple of weeks we will meet more frequently. It's common to do so during difficult times.”
‘Difficult times’ made it sound temporary. It didn't feel temporary, but Loken didn't speak up.
“I want you to remember what we've discussed. Follow the plan if you start feeling overwhelmed, and if you have another anxiety attack, try what w
e did here. Breathe and pick apart your soundings, sense by sense. Call me if necessary. My number is programmed into the phone you'll be given, and I'm almost always available.”
Though he wasn’t certain he would or could abide by such an agreement, he acquiesced...and was rewarded with what he sought when Harvey moved to unlock the restraints.
It was a mistake, but he reflexively rubbed his wrists and, in doing so, disturbed the IV and wrappings. He hadn’t quite realized he was still wounded due to the lack of pain. Was the IV feeding him medication for that? Ignoring Harvey’s eyes upon him, he used the bed for support and stood on wobbly legs, staring down at the feet that met the floor. He could feel they were his—black claws, green scales—but it felt surreal.
“Loken?”
He’d forgotten Harvey was present. Steeling his expression, he met the mindhealer’s gaze. “Feeling fatigued,” he said, which wasn’t a lie. Though he was stronger than when he'd woken up in the suite, he was still plagued by exhaustion. It was frustrating to be restless while lacking the energy to remedy that restlessness.
“Rest. I'll be back tomorrow at about two.”
Loken’s nod was apparently sufficient because Harvey left without another word. As he tried to come to terms with the unlikely reality that he'd just seen a mindhealer (and, when he'd cooperated, he hadn't been called mad), he sat back down on the bed. Not to rest. Merely to think.
If he lowered his head to the pillow, well, that was just because he had a headache from the absurdity of his situation. And if his eyes drifted closed soon after, it was only to escape the rather plain view of the room.
Chapter 13
To his surprise (and immense relief), he awoke in the pale flesh of his Evoir skin. Well, one of his Evoir skins. It seemed that he’d accidentally taken to his female guise while sleeping. His magic had reacted to his subconscious desires, likely fueled by his discomfort and revulsion towards his Drakain form. Too afraid that if he tried to shift, he would overextend his healing maedir and once more be stuck with horrifying blue-green scales, he let it be.
Trickskin (Worldwalker Book 1) Page 24