17th of Spring, 511 AV The-thing-called-Ulric threw the Dek across the dank, murky tunnel that snaked through the bowels of the mountain, dark eyes glinting with their usual intensity. “How pathetic,” he snarled, watching her bony frame strike the rough stones. “How utterly pathetic.” He saw that her amber eyes wide with fear. How piteous she seemed as she cowered in the shadows, clutching a withered arm to her body. He’d been that way once, young and weak, and he despised her for this reminder. He wanted to wring her neck, if only to end her misery. “Why doesn’t it run?” he crooned. “Why doesn’t it seek to hide?” He reached out to brush the lank hair from her dirty face, rage surging when she cringed at his touch. “Why is it afraid of us?” He wrenched her chin up so she stared into his eyes. “Why doesn’t it understand what we are? Why does it shiver at our touch?” He ran his fingers over her face, then down her neck, curiosity widening his eyes. So this is woman? He was a child in the ways of the world, newly freed from the prison that had contained him for twenty years. He searched through his discordant scraps of memory, kept seeing a dark, dingy room, stifling with a strange musk, could hear, could almost feel the slap of flesh, the frantic rapture that engulfed his every thought, his every movement. He flushed, stared uncertainly at the cripple. We are confused. He stared into her eyes, his hands slowly, tentatively, tracing the contours of her body. How strange the world was now. Not so long ago, he’d swum in the placid, yet murky depths of the lake, then helped his father clean and gut their catch for delivery to the fishmonger. He’d had a boy’s frame then. Now he was a man grown. A huge, scarred warrior privy to troubling secrets, with the blood of a slain god coursing through his veins. And yet, he didn’t know what had brought him to this place, eighteen years into the future. He’d escaped the long night, yet the screams kept echoing through his head. No matter where he looked, he saw knives that caught the glow of torches, their serrated edges slicing through human flesh as the glistening carcasses of beasts hung from rusted hooks, bearing witness to a spreading pool of blood. And there, laughing like demons, were the torturers, watching him as faint music rose above frenzied screams. “Wond adon and aeien qoman.” Desank was uncertain. “Wndi odam qudn ol ajsnf inal wqfnso msdfn.” Drawn from his terror, the-thing-called-Ulric opened his eyes again. As he stared at the cripple, he couldn’t help but wonder if her people were the same. They had fiery hair, like the masked woman. They were bad. They hated him, and he did not know why. Tearing his mind away, he moved closer, breathing in her scent. “Such beauty,” he reflected, “Yet why is it clad in rags? Why is its cheek bruised?” He encircled her slender waist with his fingers, hoisting her up against the stones until their faces almost touched. He saw no spark of defiance in those eyes, the orbs strangely dead, as if mind was separate from abused body. He’d seen this before. Her eyes were disturbingly familiar. “Does they force it to do bad things?” He reached for another memory, then shook with and impotent fury. “So fair, so fine… it seeks to conceal its beauty beneath a layer of grime, but the eyes must hunger, oh yes, and the brutes trade pain for pleasure.” On a whim, he lifted her higher, setting his ear against a meager breast. Her eyes were empty, but her heart was racing. What is this cruel place? he wondered, lowering her back to the ground. Why can’t we go home? His heart ached with grief, not only for his father, but for the life he’d been taken from. He wasn’t going to cry, though. His tears were spent. Fate, and the other, had conspired to bring him to this place, where nobody liked him and everybody wished him harm. He kept scouring the other’s mind, but every memory was only a fragment in the puzzle. He did not understand this place, or its people. He was learning, oh, how quickly he was learning, but he knew that nothing could bring his father back. He wanted to lash out, with this warrior’s body, but deep in his heart he knew that he, too, would be slain if that ever came to pass. He was afraid, always afraid – and enraged by the cruelty of these strange people. To survive, he hid in the depths of the earth, where none dared bother him. He needed time to think, to understand. With every passing day, he found a new piece into the puzzle. He plundered that which had come before, venturing ever deeper into that shattered mind. He could not sleep, for every night he was assailed by shards of his once-future. His dreams were horrifying, and yet, the horror was not enough. Not once, in the years he’d been slept through, had the other sought vengeance. Now, he craved it with every waking moment, and this broken thing, this girl with the withered arm that bore such a striking resemblance to his once-mangled leg, would bear witness. Timidly, he ran splayed fingers through her hair, yet when he spoke his voice cut like a sword. “We have something it must see.” |