Yo!
Thank you Emmanon for the very helpful review!
I did go back to chapters 1 and 2, added some minor stuff that I feel should help with the reception of the piece.
As always, I welcome all suggestions. :)
Anyway, chapter 3 is already up, since I probably won't have enough time to post during the weekend.
Bane rarely remembered his dreams.
Most of the days he rationed his sleep to two or three brackets, tucked between commanding his men, overseeing their work, exercising, and working on his paper. Three, maybe four hours at a time, one eye always open, wherever felt adequate and safe at the moment.
While on the compound, he sometimes indulged in a luxury of an extravagant six hour rest in his bed. Mostly though, he made do only with reading while splayed on comfortable mattress, eventually always drawn to work at his desk.
Despite its Spartan appearance, his life was comfortable. He had his own quarters; more than one in fact, set the way he liked. His meals prepared always according to his wishes. All books he could ever want were just an instance away. Trinkets, gear, vehicles - all there. Carefully balanced were his excursions, time spent with his men, and the leisure he allowed - to them and himself.
Contrary to his fears, he didn't grow soft with time. The stability straightened him, fortified his bones, nourished muscles, stabilized and sharpened his mind. Ferocity of his youth, volatile moods and brutal behaviour that earned him his name crystallized into a focused determination. There was nothing he had to prove anymore. He set his goals, charted path towards them, and unfailingly, proceeded accomplishing them. Through the years, he shifted from tangible things to ideals.
He picked and chose whom to strengthen, whom to strike. Unlike the League of Shadows, he didn't build a philosophy or a legend around his actions. The people advancing humanity towards order were his brothers in mind. They might choose different paths and means, but ultimately, he was the wolf that protected the forest from rotting from the inside. Regardless of what others thought of the purges he unravelled over their homes.
At times he only got satisfaction of ending an unproductive, unnecessary being. Most of the time though, his efforts were sought out and handsomely paid for. Sometimes, spoils of war included more than just money.
Today was one of those days. Days he would indulge himself.
The orders were given yesterday, soon the transport should arrive.
Straightening slowly, he allowed himself to experience the pleasure on an unhurried morning. Even after decades, he had to make a conscious effort. Feeling sheets sliding across his skin. Hypnotizing warmth of covers wearing off his limbs in the crisp air. Blankly staring at droplets of dew clinging to the windows, myriad reflections colourful like a kaleidoscope.
The shower was hot and humid. Brief reprieve he got from the mask was spent efficiently on eating, shaving, brushing teeth.
Then, a knock reverberated through silent rooms.
They were here.
He leaned on the doorframe of his bedroom, arms folded, waited for the women to scurry inside prompted by his men. He would get the first pick, and then the rest would have time to enjoy themselves. The lucky few mercenaries chosen by the officers and himself.
His eyes focused on the group.
He didn't have a type, set array of parameters to look for in a woman. Willingness wasn't really a factor, as all of his guests were prostitutes. Every single one slim, lovely built, barely clothed as to appeal easily to every man.
Sparse movement of his hand singling out one of the women was instantly picked up by their escort. All but one were hurried out and away.
She was a lovely thing, young, curvaceous where it counted, fit. Gracious smile tugged her wide lips open a fraction.
"How are you today?", she asked in Armenian.
"Eager," he said, with a smile hidden behind the mask, but palpable in his voice.
Her own grin widened impossibly.
"Well then, whatever you desire, I'll deliver."
One slender brow rose high, blatant disbelief openly visible in his eyes. He retreated back to the bedroom.
"You're more than welcome to try, my dear."
oOo
The compound was waking to life with a melody of its own.
Rustling of sheets on bunks being made. Guards yawning, slurping coffee. Lazy scraping of feet, people shuffling slowly to get into positions. Guns clicking, knives sliding out and back in sheathes.
Freshly out of her morning ablutions - courtesy of one of the guards to let her use bathroom regularly - Helena settled on her bed. She felt better than the night before, pumped on antibiotics, full of hearty soup she was ordered to drink throughout the day.
The day ahead would probably look the same as ones before that. She developed a routine, with her future occupation in mind.
Invariably her days started close to dawn, when some men gathered for prayers somewhere to the left from her only window. They were a strange, eclectic group. Muslims all, or most of them, but from different sects as far as she could tell. They prayed only twice daily, sometimes not even that, their voices resonating between walls of the compound.
Rest of the men seemed to observe no faith, or if they did, they chose to practice in more intimate setting.
She wondered briefly, what Bane made of it.
She wondered about him often.
Few minutes into prayers there was a change of guards, and she was accompanied to the bathroom. Most of the time, as well as today, by the tall, muscular black skinned man who had helped her yesterday.
He never spoke to her.
Ten minutes in, regardless of her progress, as she found out on the first day, he escorted her out. Or dragged, if necessary.
The rest of the day was a vast stretch of boredom, with very short interludes of humble meals in the morning and around midday. Middle Eastern cuisine, vegetables, rice, and beans.
More boredom, then at dusk another meal, trip to bathroom, after an hour or two of reading - lights out.
Day after day, the same.
She used her time to think about the book, wonder about Bane, and learn the inner workings of her prison. No guards spoke to her, but if she asked for something, it appeared by her bed in the morning. She had neat stack of books by now, one per day spent waiting in the cell. Mostly classics of European literature. She breezed through each in few hours, which left her everyday with ample time to observe what little of the courtyard she could see from her narrow window.
Today she got 'Count of Monte Cristo', which made her laugh as soon as she saw it. She knew this one by heart, so she decided to spend her day compiling everything she had learned about the man imprisoning her.
Although Bane communicated with his men mostly in English, she heard him using other languages frequently. Mercenaries between themselves also spoke English, but often in smaller groups used what she suspected to be their native tongues. She identified a few, German, Chinese, Spanish, Japanese, Arabic. Most though, she didn't hear enough to pinpoint.
The monastery was inhabited largely by mercenaries, but not exclusively. She saw sometimes a figure or two in long skirts, bustling around briefly at odd times. Some old men, too frail to be of any combat value as well. Those people tended to focus on an area somewhere to the left from her cell. She caught a waft of aromatic air coming from that direction.
Mostly though, she observed teen to middle aged men of all colours and sizes. Each and every one constantly in paramilitary getup, guns close by. Sparring, strolling, tending to their gear. They disappeared in groups sometimes. Often led by Bane, coming back few hours or days later bloody, exhausted, proud.
Today it seemed would be one of those days. Familiar SUVs stood in the middle of the courtyard, trunks open. Younger guys packed them up with weapons and packages, while some veterans stood by supervising with smokes and leers.
All stood at attention when Bane came out of the main building.
Everything seemed to mute the minute he appeared. People's movements got slower and more deliberate, conversations hushed, died out, all eyes tracked his movements. He was an imposing figure, but there was a quality in the air around him that would command attention regardless of his stature. Charisma mixed with fear, a heady concoction brewed and maintained by the man himself. Helena suspected a hint of admiration and awe as well.
In herself she found even lust.
It frightened her the very first time she observed him, and realized fully how it affected her. There were many younger, shapelier men around, men with their handsome faces boldly displayed to the world. But she knew the hint of attraction she felt had less to do with looks, formidable as they were, and more with his attitude. Power was an extremely strong aphrodisiac. Not only the hold he had on her, as a prisoner, although that did indeed play a vital role in her predicament. She was fascinated with utter respect of his mercenaries, this almost heretic admiration they seemed to hold for him.
Yet, he talked to them as they were brothers. Younger ones, but still. Not quite equal, not really out of reach. Approachable, but with great care. He pierced people with steely gaze, dissecting them. Exposing their fears and uncertainties.
Helena was surprised she learnt that through observation rather than experience. Her brief conversations with Bane verged on inappropriate, while being both frivolous and to the point. She wanted to be disoriented by that, but honest inspection of her own mind on the matter proved unusually clear.
She was kidnapped. Kept against her will in foreign country, by a very well organized military group. Terrorists or mercenaries. A task was given to her which gave her shadow of a purpose. They were being civil towards her, despite the circumstances - she fared rather well.
Her position was clear, allowances and meagre luxuries laid out plainly in straight, obvious lines.
There was nothing she could do.
There was no one she wanted to share news of her position with. Neither her sister, nor her ex-husband. What good would it do, anyway? There wasn't any money for a ransom, even if Bane agreed somehow to let her go. No government agency would risk operatives for one hostage, without clear political gain.
She was trapped. Alone.
It didn't feel half as bad, as she supposed it should.
Not just yet.
A rustle just outside her door had her glancing curiously on the corridor.
The guard slouched in a chair, arms folded, positioned a little to the right, probably to supervise both occupied cells at the same time.
Helena shifted to the door, wrapping her fingers around bars on level with her head.
She smiled at the man.
His eyes narrowed.
"Thank you for helping me yesterday."
No reaction.
"I apologize for any inconvenience I must have caused."
He looked away.
"I'm Helena," she tried, "What's your name?"
His eyes turned back to her, only to mock her with a smirk and raised eyebrow.
Two can play that game.
"I see, you're not allowed to familiarize. Smart."
Both eyebrows arched up.
"I'll have to find a name for you myself, then." She glanced back theatrically at the book she got this morning. He noticed. She grinned at him again. "So how about I'll call you 'Ali'?"
He snorted. She was a tad surprised he either was detached enough and chose not to be offended, or knew who the character was. A laugh was not the reaction she expected.
"Ok, Ali, I'll leave you to it, then. Thanks again."
She plopped back on the cot, opened the book in the middle.
"It's James."
She smirked, looking up to acknowledge him with a short nod.
oOo
Bane felt a bubbly, fizzing sensation in his chest as he watched Helena preparing the final list. He was giddy. One wouldn't call what he did peeking curiously… But he realized that was what he was doing. He would collect the items personally during his excursion to the compound in Norway, and he couldn't wait to get a hold of everything that for now stayed only as an idea on paper.
He would make it a tangible thing. As he always did.
The amount of preparation that came with physically creating a copy of a manuscript reminded him of a military operation. Reconnaissance - what materials is the original made of? With what technique? Which tools? Then, planning. How to lay out everything, so the end result would mimic priceless book as close as possible? How much time would it take to finish a page, a chapter, whole manuscript? Assembling all necessary tools, organizing people, and finally the execution, all carefully planned out on a sheet of paper.
He was anxious to see the labour of creating a copy of the book. Not only because of its contents, but mostly because he loved them.
Books were his only companions throughout his tumultuous life. Even Talia wasn't a constant for him as much as it pained him to realize one day. But books, his research, steady and stable facts were his rocks. He played with theories, constructed hypothesis but always, invariably leaned on bedrock of knowledge - one that was always self-verifying and checking its steadiness.
Briefly, his mind entertained the idea of keeping the woman with him indefinitely, using her skill to create an old fashioned library of the greatest works known to mankind - each and every one handmade, copied to the letter or fashioned according to his instructions and taste if the original was nowhere to be found. This compound would have been perfect for keeping it too. An old monastery, trapped in wilderness.
Smile invisible from behind the grille of his ask creeped slowly on his lips. That fantasy was way easier to realize than some of the other undertakings he accomplished so far, so maybe…
Rustle of a sheet of paper brought him out of his musings. Reflexively he took a neatly calligraphed list in his hands.
"These are all the things I could think of to recreate the book as closely as I can," Helena stated matter-of-factly while rolling out her neck. She looked both tired and excited, an unusual and interesting mix, giving her an air very close to one of his mercenaries. "I imagine the price of materials won't be problematic, but I included some alternatives if the best in slot items could not be obtained." Bane nodded, scanning the list. "Also, you might notice at the bottom estimated time of finishing the project, provided I work every day without day off, eight to ten hours without long breaks."
He did notice, the date a tad more distant than he would have imagined. On the right there was also a neat number ending with a Euro sign.
Looking back up at her he almost laughed.
"Do you expect to be paid for this?"
Surprised, her brows shot up, then furrowed in incomprehension. Then, she covered her face with one hand, scoffing softly.
"Yeah, force of habit, that," she smiled. "At least you know what my rate is. Apart from keeping me alive after I'm done here."
Her matter-of-fact attitude was a nice change, seeing how he usually had to wrestle everything he wanted from people. She wasn't demure, there wasn't any false platitudes, just straightforward expectations and realistic at that. Refreshing. Like her calmness in the airplane, in the middle of a panic attack. He wondered briefly if she might be still in shock, or if not, what made her develop control over herself to this extent. Her life so far didn't seem to prepare her for any of the stress he was putting her through.
"You will start your work when my men collect your items."
Dismissal was plain, he turned and went out of the cell folding the paper and stuffing it in a pocket inside his flak jacket.
He liked the silence that accompanied his departure.
oOo
The work started on April sixth, setting back her expectations for a finish by two weeks. One day she woke to find crates of pigments, vellum, paint brushes, nibs, and penholders. Unloading everything in neat rows on the floor took her almost an hour.
Stuff was missing.
There were no knives, blades, needles or anything made of metal and sharp, save for nibs.
She settled herself more comfortably on the floor, back resting on the bed frame, elbows on knees, hands outstretched. She couldn't work without all her tools, so there would be a discussion.
The question was how to approach the subject. Should she admit knowing how to use everything else she had as a weapon? Technically, at least, she did know what to do; all she was missing was the experience of maiming or killing a person. Easily correctable in this setting. On the other hand, the more calm and collected she would stay about the whole ordeal of working for the mercenary, the bigger the possibility of staying alive and well.
At least she hoped so.
Thud of boots echoed down the walls of the corridor. Heartbeat picking up a notch she tried to stay as calm as possible. Bane hadn't visited her in a while.
"Good morning," he threaded his hands through the bars, resting them outstretched on elbows, much like she did.
"Good morning, Bane."
"Are you satisfied with your supplies?"
"They are very good, thank you." Helena stood up slowly, paced close to the door. She looked him over briefly, wondering what to say next. "Some things from my list appear to be missing, though."
"Indeed?" He cocked his head to the side, obviously amused.
"Some of them I need to start the work at all."
Nonchalantly he rested edge of one hand on her shoulder. It was heavy, impassive. Helena realized he wanted her to draw the conclusion for herself. It could be a threat… but only if given a reason to threaten.
He just stood there, measuring her response.
"I really can't start without a drawing table and a chair. A good lamp or two would also help a lot."
"Hmm," his eyes crinkled when he narrowed them pensively. "I'll see what can be done about it. Anything else?" Taunting.
"Yes, since you're limiting my access to sharp tools I would like some help with cutting vellum for pages and eventually stitching the book together. We could also discuss what kind of cover you'd like to have, since the original is rather dull."
"Later," was all he said, sliding his palm off her, going back.
She looked after him until his grand silhouette disappeared behind the corner, wondering if it showed that she had a soft spot for authoritarian men in combat boots and cargo pants. And form hugging thermal shirts.
Frustrated sigh escaped her as she plopped down on her bed.
It disturbed her how easily she responded to a stranger, when half her marriage passed on desperately trying to ignite back 'the spark' towards her husband. One of the reasons they broke up was her supposed iciness in bed. For the last three years she sought for anything that could make her cream as easily as the masked mercenary did. Figures. She kept celibacy, first because there was no desire to sleep with her husband, then because she didn't want to cheat on him, only to be kidnapped by a personification of her favourite kink, just when she was ready to get back to dating scene.
And her cell was monitored by guards just outside the door, around the clock.
No point dwelling on it.
She got back up and organized all tools back in the boxes. No work until she gets a desk, so she might as well read.
Later during the day James escorted her two stories up. During their stroll she resolutely kept quiet, glancing around curiously. The room they arrived at was spacious compared to her cell. Sparsely furnished, it was nonetheless adequate. Single window was completed with frame and glass, instead of only bars. The bed was more than just mattress on the ground, and there even was an armoire.
Above all, one whole corner of the room was occupied by a working station.
The door clicked shut behind her, so she didn't waste any time acquainting herself with her workplace.
Previous weeks were just a muffled memory. She could finally start her work. The sooner she would finish the book, the sooner the mercenary would let her go. If everything went according to her plans she would be done with the manuscript by September. That would mean six months imprisoned. Not that bad. Almost one month passed already, anyway. And she gave Bane an exaggerated timeframe for her work, so she could impress him with her agility.
If she lived through the ordeal, that is.
She set her supplies in order, and prepared for the task ahead.
oOo
Rough sketch of the page looked promising. She tried out italic first, but decided against it, on the merit of uncial script being both used in the original and corresponding visually with the place she was at. Armenia. She was sure of it. At the most it could be neighbouring country, maybe Azerbaijan. Hand holding the paper dropped to her lap. What were her chances of getting back home when she was this far away?
Leaning back, she sighed.
If she somehow managed to break away out of the compound, there was no telling how far the closest town was. She had to get to a police station, find someone who speaks the same language as her. Notify the embassy or consulate, whichever was closer. Maybe she could play with the information she gathered while captured to get home faster.
A sly smile tugged at her lips.
How does one contact the CIA?
"In a good mood today?" Rumbling mechanical voice came from the door of her room.
Helena opened her eyes, but didn't turn to face her visitor. "Just daydreaming."
"I see you were already working on the book."
"Working out which hand to use, actually. It will impact both layout and overall graphic feel of the whole piece. I was thinking it would be best to do it in the same hand used originally, maybe a tad more refined. Would you like there to be illustrations, or just plain text as in the original?"
"I trust your judgement on the matters of aesthetic."
"It's your book," she scoffed, "I would hate to discover halfway through that you don't like the way it turns out."
"Fair enough," with a smirk he stepped closer. "Show me."
She simply outstretched her hand, picking up almost forgotten sheet of paper from her lap.
With a slight grunt he leaned on the wall beside her, examining the sheet, switching swiftly to the others spread on the desk.
Helena took the opportunity to observe him up close. He nodded at few pieces, an action that she saw often, an involuntary reflex of sorts. He also rubbed his fingers a lot when he seemed impatient. She suspected he was somewhat handsome behind the mask, seeing how regular his visible features were. Mountains of muscle obvious under his skin spoke volumes on his outlook on his body. There was visible fat here and there, thickness about his middle hinting that everything was built specifically with strength and endurance in mind. Utilitarian.
Her eyes focused on the soft hollow of his throat, visible above his black shirt. It was strangely vulnerable spot to see on such powerful man. The contrast between harshness of the mask, the softness of thin skin there, and overall thickness and sturdiness of his neck made her mind numb.
What would it be to feel that skin under her fingertips?
If the circumstance was different she was sure to at least try grabbing his attention with a set goal in mind. Especially now, fasted for touch and attention as she was.
Come to think of it, he was only person on the compound she could talk with.
"Are the guards forbidden to talk to me?," she asked, as her gaze met his eyes.
"You stare too much," he said.
Tiredly, she smiled. What was she thinking, expecting a straight answer to a question like that? "Not much else I can do in here," she replied.
"Some of the men think that's indecent."
"Oh." Scoffing. "Go figure."
"I can see what they meant."
"So you couldn't before," she mocked. "What did I do to change your mind?"
"You stare too much." He straightened up swiftly.
She thought she saw hint of a smile from behind the grille of the mask as he left her room.