He began to second guess his decision to work with the Legion. Not because of the ethical and moral dilemmas. But because of the girl.
She watched him every time he walked through Fortification Hill, her wide brown eyes following his every move, discerning, scrutinizing. He cared little for the child slaves—pathetic, subhuman wretches that infested the camp—but he harbored a profound distaste for this one in particular. His vexation swelled during each instance of her gawking. If she wanted sympathy, he had none to give. Attention? His focus was better placed elsewhere. Regard? He barely considered her notable enough to acknowledge.
Although he remembered nothing of his past, somehow he knew he couldn't stand children.
She spent her mornings and afternoons tending to the brahmin pen, wearing the same filthy dress day after day. Short black hair hung in greasy clumps to frame her round face, which sported at least two layers of crusted dirt. He wrinkled his nose whenever he had the misfortune of passing by that section of the Fort, and he ignored her every time she tried to catch his gaze. She never spoke a word to him, never tried to approach him, but somehow he knew she was attempting to reach out to him.
When he finally inquired about the girl, Antony snickered.
"Oh, that little brat? Her name is Melody. We found her alone in Arizona, mother long dead. Don't mind her, she's probably sulking because I took her toy bear away. Now she just spends her time staring stupidly at everyone and everything."
Except, that last sentence brimmed with inaccuracy. Only the Courier drew her eyes.
And for some reason, the mention of her name rang a distant bell in his head.
Days became weeks, and the staring continued. His irritation morphed to anger, and his patience grew thin. But he endured the vigilance, still denying her existence. That is, until an incident set a sequence of events in motion.
After running an errand for Caesar, he spotted her hurrying across the grounds. A bucket of water sloshed in her arms as she huffed, out of breath, and darted in front of his path. He exhaled in annoyance when, predictably, she tripped and drenched herself in the bathwater intended for a centurion. Her expression reflected horror and shock as she raised her head, and she peered up at him as he strode closer, one small hand trembling as it stretched out to him for help.
The Courier blinked once before stepping over her sprawled figure.
Several legionaries instantly swooped over her, unyielding and ruthless in delivering the penalty. He never cared for children. Never shied from violence. Never even considered the slaves worth pitying.
Yet, he had to look away when a number of switches struck her, something fracturing in his chest at the sound of her cries.
The next day, he strolled by the brahmin pen and spotted her lying on the dusty ground. She caught sight of him when he appeared at the other side of the gate. An unconscious force compelled him to stop, the morbid will of his conscience whispering in the background. He saw the angry red welts that crisscrossed the skin of her arms and legs, the dark bruise over her left temple. She watched him with eyes that no longer held the captivated quality, and after a few seconds, rolled away to show him her back, shutting him out.
The image persisted in his mind during the weeks he spent outside the Fort.
Upon his return, he found her on material duty. Tasked with transporting miscellaneous items to and from the supply rooms, she dragged a large crate of spare equipment across the training field. He witnessed the way her small, exhausted body struggled and strained, the new limp in her gait showing evidence of some physical pain. An unexplainable restlessness grew in his stomach, but he dismissed the sensation, convincing himself of his own indifference to her plight.
And she, in turn, had stopped watching him.
The loss of her observation brought him a measure of satisfaction, but it came coupled with persistent disquiet, a knocking in his skull. Melancholic dreams plagued his sleep night after night, appealing to the threads of humanity that lingered in his psyche. He still felt nothing for the rest of her people; only she haunted his subconscious with those doleful brown eyes.
In the daytime, he caught himself stealing glances at her during every idle opportunity, wondering what set her apart from the others enough to invoke a secret tendril of concern. Although loath to admit to some developing connection, he recognized the folly of disregarding the notion. On a whim, he manipulated Antony into surrendering the toy bear, and he snuck into the pen to lay it next to her napping form. His gaze took in the premature lines on her visage, but he backed away and slipped out when she stirred, wanting no credit for the retrieval of the stuffed animal.
Days later, his vision locked onto her as she once again worked to pull an oversized crate of items through the camp. A wisp of ire curled around his center, this time for the men who had assigned her the chore. A slave's efficiency became useless if given an ill-suited duty—at least, that was his excuse for feeling rage on her behalf. He urged himself to turn around and forget her encumbrance, but a shrill scream pierced through the haze in his mind.
She crumpled to the ground abruptly, one hand clutched in the other. Something from the crate lay next to her, stained red with her blood. Upon further squinting, he identified it as a radscorpion poison gland.
He remained frozen in place, unsure of the correct action to take. His good standing with the Legion painted him in a collected and merciless light, and he sought to preserve the reputation as a number of slaves ran over to tend to her. But once her throat closed and she began to convulse, something raw and excruciating formed beneath his sternum. And when a decanus stomped to the scene with a whip raised in the air, all self-control snapped in the Courier's boiling core.
In a flash, he appeared between the legionary and the girl, the crack of the whip accompanied by cutting pain as he blocked the strike with his forearm. The rough leather lashed and wrapped around his limb to inflict a coil of welts. He bore through the stinging, muscles taught as he yanked the weapon from the other's hands in one swift movement.
"Leave her be," he snarled, veins pulsing through the surface of his skin. "Better yet, have someone tend to her, lest you forfeit another laborer to appease your sadistic thirst."
Something more menacing than the Legion itself must have resonated in his stance because the decanus stood down without quarrel. As more legionaries approached to assess the situation, he pivoted on his heel and stalked off, unwilling to deal with the repercussions of his interference until his simmering temper receded. However, he later learned that his intrusive display never reached Caesar's ears.
He neither saw nor heard anything of the girl in the following week. Curiosity and a sliver of unease spurred him to ask around. Under orders, the slaves remained tight-lipped, and the legionaries feigned complete ignorance of her existence. He passed by the empty brahmin pen on more than one occasion, frowning at the toy bear left behind in the dirt. Relentless agitation weighed down his mood until he debated scouring the Fort on his own to track down her whereabouts.
Finally, a female slave broke her silence and came to him in a clandestine meeting one night.
"They've left her to die," the woman sobbed. "Melody has maybe hours left. She asked about you numerous times in her feverish state. If you have any heart at all, please at least go see her before she passes."
He agreed before he even knew what to think.
A pounding started, first in his chest, and then in his ears. Her spoken directions led him to a secluded tent hidden in one corner of the Fort. Using the night as his cloak, he maneuvered past the Legion guards and entered. A wave of heat and loud coughing greeted him, and when his gaze settled on Melody's weak frame reclining on the cot, the overwhelming sight echoed of familiarity. Fever burning, baby crying, soul tearing, woman dying…
Something clicked at last in his lost memory.
Comprehension and grief rushed into his cavernous chest as the perpetual fog in his head dissipated at once. At that moment, all reason crumbled around him, leaving nothing but widespread despair in its wake. He staggered to her bedside and sank to his knees as she sensed him, though her eyes had long gone blind.
Blind.
And only then did he see himself in her face.
Her fingers reached for him, similar to the day she had fallen with the bucket of water in his path. A sad and regretful quality touched her features, and he felt the emotion ten times worse. She would never again watch him from across Fortification Hill.
And as he took her small hand in his, he vowed a hellstorm of revenge for her sake.
He cursed the tribe that had run off with her to Arizona years ago; petty relatives who snatched up the child before the woman's ashes had cooled. They'd left him broken, alone, and unable to reach her. Unable to stand other children.
Unable to even recognize her.
It took this for him to remember? This twisted déjà vu? And now fate dictated that she perish in the same manner as the mother?
This karmic world was sick.
His shoulders shook as he lowered his head to the heated skin of her palm, and in whispered words, he begged for her forgiveness. His true self had gone and returned too late, and he would have given anything to turn back time and change this outcome. He listened to her labored breathing, the signs of her life leaving, but looked up when she attempted to rasp out a sentence. And when he deciphered it, realized what she was saying, the remnants of his heart shattered into a million fragments.
Even in her delirium, she tried to comfort him; to numb the anguish, ease the ache.
"Don't cry, Daddy."
x-x-x-x-x
A/N: I wrote a really rough version of this on the kink meme, but cleaned it up for posting here. Definitely some disheartening themes present, especially with the main character coming to terms with himself when truth and reality decide to throw a curveball. Challenging to write, but a good literary exercise. Thanks for reading!