"...through a torture she called love."
Mare
Without routine, there is chaos. Without distractions, there is chaos. I've convinced myself this much over the course of these past days.
Tyton and the others who share my ability have been a vibrant light to the foggy dark I've become accustomed to. Ella often comes to sit with me in my chambers during the early afternoon with lunch, and we talk awhile afterward. Silly topics, usually steering clear of the sensitive ones. Yesterday she asked if I'd reconsidered dying my hair, to which I kindly rejected. Tyton comes for dinner, virtually acting the same as Ella, and every morning Rafe comes to challenge me to a battle.
And each day I watch the trio from my window, longing to join their training. But also fearing what foes I'll meet in the hallways. For that logic, I always refuse the prospect. Farley tells me I can't stay cramped in this room for eternity and I sadly agree with her.
A soft knock resonants off my door, not startling me in the least. My internal clock has become attuned to my schedule very fine these days and I was waiting for the sound. Of course, the sun's position in the sky greatly assists my projections. A naive version of myself, just beginning her long trek of imprisonment, might think the task of keeping track of time would be a simple thing. With the meal deliveries, it was made easy enough, yet in another way, it contributed to my sense of forlornness. No windows had been planted into those walls, scaring off natural lighting. Each tray of food meant I had spent an additional five hours in the hellscape, the hope of rescue seeming further gone with every new minute. Still each dawn, I'd use my fork to cark another uneven line into my bedframe.
Without my consent, Ella strolls in, food tray in hand. She hides something else behind her back with the other. A shadow of a grin paints her mood. Assumably a session of electricon training with Rafe purposely doing something stupid. "Just lunch for you today, I already ate in the cafeteria." A ping a jealously washes through me, though I should be able to stop it. This room is not a confinement and I go where I please. "But I'll stay for awhile," Ella quickly adds, not desiring to abandon me.
"What do you have behind your back?" I query, ignoring the delicious incense of vegetable soup. Silvers have a good taste in food, I'll give them that much.
She attempts a look of confusion, but it doesn't fool me. "What do you have behind your back, Ella?" I use her name to make the statement infinitely more serious.
Letting out a hefty sigh, Ella slants forward to retrieve the item that had been crunched between her and the chair backing. She then reveals a transparent flask containing a purplish-black liquid. "Looks like an ale, doesn't it?"
"My first guess was just that," I murmur. The bewilderment lifts off my brain quickly, as I realize what the broad vile contains. "Seriously? I already rejected your idea." Not alcohol, but hair dye of course.
"It would cast such a beauty," Ella drawls on, picking up on the debate right where we left off yesterday. "Imagine what Cal would think!" She must be feeling bold today; a silent rule has been established that no soul utters his time here.
I raise a spoonful of broth to my mouth, conjuring an excuse for the silence that has been brought down. Flavor floods my palette, though I don't register it. In the beginning, I had faith time alone would be able to mend this heartache. My cries may have halted days ago, though internally I feel no different. It must be there, for I'm breathing, yet occasionally I'll press my hand to my heart and find not a single pulse. As if I'm dead.
She immediately comprehends her mistake. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
"It's okay," I cut her off. "I suppose I need to begin hearing his name and learn to not flinch." I urge my lips to form a narrow line and switch my attention to my tips of my hair. Grey as ever, a detail I could forsake. But no matter how many times I pressure such thoughts from my mind, Cal's portrait sprints back, the image evermore not far, always threatening to make a sudden reappearance.
Ella tucks the object back away, no longer interested in her persuasion tactics. Then she rests her chin on her fist and gazes outside. Horrid quiet restarts, only the sound of me slurping my soup continuing. Silence is a wicked thing; it allows tortured individuals to bask in their own misery, nothing to prevent depressed thoughts from freeing themselves. It isn't much different when I'm by my lonesome.
"Dammit," I blurt suddenly and loudly, causing Ella to start.
"What is it?" She asks, worry in her voice.
Only now do I understand what a terrible thing I've been doing to myself. I've crafted a secluded prison without knowing it. This time it is not Maven's obsession that binds me, but my own head. My friends distribute my meals just as Arvens did at Whitefire. I chart the days, though not carving them into wood. Invisible manacles lay on my wrists. "I'm not fighting a war to remain chained," I say dripping with certainty. "I ought to get out of here."
I shakily clamber up from the chair and make a move to the door; no Sentinels or Arvens block my path. "Mare, where are you going?" Ella's voice is laced with panic. Like any other level-headed person, she deems me unfit to go wandering these halls without a chaperone.
I turn back to face her, my eyelids pulled open as far as they can go. From her perspective, I doubtlessly take on the characteristics of a crazed animal. "I don't plan on killing anyone or blowing priceless artifacts to smithereens," I speak in my mildest voice. "I simply need to go outside, and get some fresh air."
My reasoning doesn't have an effect on her. "You don't even know where the exits are here. You'll get lost!"
I roll my eyes as if I'm babbling on with Mom. "I would've found one. And if not, I could've smashed open a window." The old concept is resurrected once more.
"You and I both have a grasp on the fact that your theory wouldn't work," Ella snaps, seemingly tired of the bickering. "Just let me come with you," she tries to compromise, weaving her arms together uncomfortably.
"Fine." Though I'm stubborn, I relent, deep-down knowing it's best.
I don't fuss over waiting for her to catch up, slightly annoyed she treats me as if I'm a fragile bird with a broken wing. On the other hand, she is right. I couldn't find my room last week and managed to reward myself more tears. Ella has my best interests at heart, I need to remember.
Sole seconds are necessary for her to catch up; Ella's legs are quite a bit taller than mine. I cross my arms, mimicking her. Our feet find a pattern to step with, each pair of boots gradually pacing themselves to follow the other's tune. The din appears as only one set of footfalls. As long as I stare straight ahead, there wouldn't be any suspicion that I was walking with another being.
Sooner than I expect, I lose my direction and Ella leads me. Blessedly at no point do I find us journeying down the corridor with the portraits of notable royalty. For all the moments that have gone by, I cannot discover the words to break the silence that forges ahead to stalk us. I steal glances at several of the court's children and recognize a good number of them. Evangeline and Elane Haven converse quietly at the extremity of the walkway. Oliver Laris and Sonya Iral do the same, their hands brushing once. But in the end, what nets my engrossment would have to be the band of magnetrons testing their knife skills.
"Why don't they practice in the field? It would be much more practical," I word in a hushed tone to prevent them from listening in.
"We requested the space for the afternoon. And while those knives might appear dangerous for a hallway, they've been playing with them before they could stand. I'm sure it's fine."
Nonetheless, I observe the group with leary eyes. Shade took a needle to the heart composed of the same material. The weapon that was meant for me. Perhaps the very metal that was Shade's demise rests in the palm of one of the magnetron's. Ptolemus comes to mind with a renewed sensation of fury. Though Evangeline would not unlock my manacles if I hadn't promised to leave her brother safe. I suppose now if I were to rupture the old deal, I'd have to kill her too.
Sure, we come across a couple loitering courtiers, caught up in their gossip and such, but silence takes them as well when we pass them. Obnoxious roars from the young adults are instantaneously reduced to timid muttering. They are the ones who are too old to be babysat, yet too young to be accepted into King Volo's exclusive court.
Instinctively, I hasten my strides to clear the corridor faster. I haven't an ambition to become friends with any of them. Even if I did, I'm dubious they'd accept me.
"Hey, little lighting girl!" It's not required for me to turn around to know it's a magnetron. The voice came from the same side of the hall as they had been clustered on. "How are you holding up from Tiberias's decision?"
The cruel boy's words sting every inch of skin until they seep into the bone. This is the cause of my plan to stay hidden away; an event by the means of this would occur. My first hunch is to whip backward and transform the magnetron into a battery.
Ella's vocalization is so low, I can barely grasp the information that is expelled out of her throat. "Do not turn around. Under no circumstances should you turn around." Her air of voice doesn't only resemble a command, but a threat.
I heed Ella's warning and swallow my pride. Further abroad we march from the magnetrons, yet the boy's words ring louder. Nearly to the crook of the passageway, I can hardly resist the idea of breaking into an all-out sprint.
"To have ever entertained the thought of a poor red girl capturing the heart of Norta's future king could only have occurred in the mind of someone like yourself. Delusional," He barks out laughing.
I drown out the new words Ella plants into my ears and on the contrary, circle about to meet the culprit's eyes. The boy, a few years younger than I am, stands apart from the rest of his group. My heart initiates a cycle of pounding against my ribcage, then retracting before starting the process over again.
Blacks eyes, not any different from the rest of the magnetrons. No hair grows on his head, just like that of Lucus. Lucas, as in the boy who died because of me. Then again, so many have died because of me. Their faces would be uncannily similar if not for their blood relation. "You're his brother," I finally speak, my words vague yet enough to discern. "It's no wonder you have a grudge towards me."
"A grudge would be an astronomic understatement," the boy's growls come straight from his chest. "I loathe you." If his comments weren't enough, the way in which he said it by far compensated.
"I was framed for those wrongs. Lucus died in vain, purely for the cause of a prince's ascendancy. But his casualty was not my doing." I understand the boy's anger towards me; he finds the closest individual who was involved in this entire mess and pushes the blame on them.
"Perchance not. But that doesn't make your hands any less dirty."
"You have to understand. I didn't want Lucus to have such a fate," my voice cracks, on the verge of tears. "He was my friend."
I divulge nothing but the truth. Survivor's guilt is an awful thing to endure, and I've been strained with the burden more times than I could count. But I've come to terms with his death. It was not my fault. It was the monster's.
"My brother was my best friend," he bites back. "I loved him more than you ever could've."
"I'm sorry," are the concluding tidings I gift him before turning once more. He shows every sign of hatred to me, and it seems I cannot change his mind. This attempt, nobody calls out to me to pick a fight. Additionally, there isn't a single utterance made by anyone about a separate topic.
Silence overtakes us again.
When we've taken the turn, Ella speeds ahead only to stand in my way. "What were you thinking, engaging with him like that?" Her face tells a tale of both sadness, outrage, and everything in between. Ella then drags a hand down her face, then pinches her chin at the bottom. To punish herself, it looks as if.
"You expected me to take his accusations. Do I look delusional to you?"
"No, you don't." Ella breathes out a lengthy exhale and drops her shoulders, before softening her vocal tone. "I simply did not yearn to see maids wiping up blood splattered on the windows. Davidson doesn't want any of his soldiers to be making scenes while we're here." Of course, he doesn't. We already have to maintain the attitude of supporting the new monarchy. Collateral discord is not vital at this moment.
"I couldn't let him get away with that," but I trail off as we approach grand double doors. A hazy glass pane is embedded into each door, iron makes up the actual doors, as always. Spirals of iron create intricate patterns on the glass, skimming its surface. They're thick, but not enough to rid our ears of all the sounds. I can still make out muffled voices verbalizing speculations on reign, matrimony, and alliances. All of which I'm extremely uninterested about.
Cal is surely inside, I cognize. He must be.
I do not vocalize, fearful that somebody behind those doors will hear me. Alternately, I elevate an eyebrow to question her mutely. If she tells me it's a meeting, she'll have to drag my limp and dead body into that room.
"You'll see. He asked me to bring you to him when you were ready to leave that cave you call a room," she mouths, just before cranking the door open. Farley gave me an opportunity to compose my features before entering the belly of the beast. Ella is vicious in that way; not bestowing a single second to prepare. But it could be that it is best that way, related to how a parent rips a bandage of a child's knee. Pain is best dealt quickly.
The door delivers a bone-jarring creak that angles the lords and ladies attention to me. I look to Ella for help, who leans on the frame of the door calmly. Her expression is impassive, offering no guidance whatsoever.
Anabel Lerolan speaks up. "Can we help you, Miss Barrow? Are you lost?" I covet the day I am allowed to slap the woman across the face. She treats me as though I am no older than five.
"No, Miss." I vex her by speaking so kindly. "Someone sent for me, I assume?" I keep my eyes solely on her, not daring to glance about the rest of the population. It doesn't take a genius to infer who else surrounds me.
"That would be me," Julian's voice is not one that I could fail to remember. He ascends from his seat, conveniently located next to Anabel's, so my gaze is not forced to travel far. His pleasant, warm smile greets me from over the way; even his gentle brown eyes grin up at me.
For a fraction of a moment, the rest of the world no longer is relevant. War does not rage, nor does heartbreak. No wrongdoing is possible. Only my bygone mentor stands, the author of the tomes that kept my sanity with me. So for that cause, a broad, genuine smile blossoms out on my face; mere artificial smiles are often the only option these days. "Julian," I say his name aloud as if the declaration of him makes it all the more real.
"Mare Barrow," he repeats my action. "how nice it is to see your face again." He passes over from the table to approach me, and I find that I do the same. At the halfway mark, my arms encircle his shoulders and his going under, forming an embrace. "I arrive here and Tiberias thought I came for him! But no, no. I had to disclose that I traveled all this way for you. I've acquired some new philosophies and I am eager to test them." He describes these details loud enough for all to hear. To scorn Cal.
"Well, what are we waiting for?" I ask, desperate to leave and wander far away.
"Very well," he agrees and makes a beeline for the exit.
"Julian, what exactly do you intend to teach the girl?" Anabel questions, drumming her fingertips together. I note that the old queen sports a crown, not nearly to the degree of extravagance as Maven's crown, but still, a crown. She deserves to be seized by the arms, shaken, and yelled at that she does not hold a title anymore. That she is nothing. "Does she really need to be conceived more lethal?"
Julian mocks puzzlement. "But of course she needs to become more lethal. And what would be the fun in explaining to you how I'm going to make that happen?" Anabel mutters incoherently to herself before relenting. Former today, I never saw Julian interact with his fellow silvers; he is an outcast among them, for his varying beliefs. "Let us go, Mare."
Thick, humid air wafts over my skin, practically causing a sweat. The sun rests high above us, chasing away the shadows of trees that desperately cling to the forest floor. Faraway into the beautiful greenery Julian guided me, and we now sit amongst wildflowers and the greenest of grass. Strange, how wildflowers are categorized as weeds whilst they are much more pleasing to the eye than many other flowers.
My teacher relaxes upon those blooms with no caution on crushing them and sits with his legs crossed. "Sit." He orders, reading my mind. For once, I decide to be docile and follow his command.
"Why did you come back? Have you identified exactly what causes me to be like this? What this mutation is?" The last time I saw this man, he told he'd find these answers. Not a god's chosen, but a god's cursed, I revive Julian's written words.
"For a great period of time, this question stumped me; I even went entire nights without an inkling of sleep. It drove me mad." Julian closes his eyes now as if it'll atone for the past energy deprivation. Time is fickle, the one concept that is everybody's enemy. "Think about it. Why do silvers have powers? And why do reds not have these capabilities? What makes the two any different? Mankind is but one species, whether or not you chose to accept this is up to you."
I drop my jaw open then closed, in doubt of what to respond with. Beyond the age of the Calamities, there was not a blood divide; all people bled scarlet. When silver blood did arise, they were crucified, the unwanted of society.
How things have changed.
"Humanity is an existence that is both a miraculous and devastating entity. Evolution, as well. Centuries ago we could've needled for answers as to why humanity developed the second color of blood. We evolve because we must, and that is all there is to it."
"Not a god's chosen, but a god's cursed," I repeat this time aloud. "That's what we all are." His theory takes the form of simplicity, yet makes total and utter sense.
"How kind of you to directly quote my works." Julian reopens his eyelids and stares me directly in the eyes. "But you didn't find those books, as you told me at Piedmont. I kept them hidden away, deep in my study. He provided them to you, didn't he?" I shouldn't have ever bothered lying to a clever man. In hindsight, he was not the object of my falsehoods, but Cal. To protect him from the fact that Maven is not completely gone.
Somehow I find the strength and courage to keep my gaze fixed on him. Not to the ground, not to the sky, and not to my own hands. "He gave me the texts, yes. A small act of kindness bestowed by an inhuman boy."
"That small happening may have been the deciding force in the state of your mentality. Afterall, you did divulge that my notes helped you pass the time."
"Perhaps so. Now, did we come this far for anything else?" Julian and I must've walked a good eighth of a mile, if not more.
"One can never be too secluded when exchanging secrets in a court of backstabbing. You should know that better than anyone." Nothing is truer than this statement. I've been betrayed various times, all of them people whom I loved and trusted more than anyone else. I've made the mistake of allowing myself to become close to people. "But," Julian picks up. "I'd like to resume my position as your instructor."
"Just like when I was Mareena? Teaching me how to manifest by ability, how to trigger it. It's second nature, how much more could I grow?"
"Newbloods, hypothetically, have the means to amplify their powers to be tens of times greater than silvers. You can summon electricity from thin air, but I fathom your ability goes deeper than that." Julian uncrosses his legs, then stands. "Recollect this during the hours you may sit here. You do not control the storm. You are the storm, the angry clouds, the claps of thunder, and the deadly bolts of lighting that rain down upon the Earth."
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Something that hasn't been done before," he announces before entering the underbrush; mere seconds pass until he disappears. "What makes you angry, little lighting girl?" A disembodied voice calls out, in question.
"When others call me little lightning girl," I mutter to myself; Julian is long gone.
In the beginning days of our training, it was riskless to for a man to stand near me during training sessions. But the bolts have gotten progressively larger and potent, making shields essential for rounds of sparring. My skin prickles at the vision of the duel between Cal and I. Firery fingertips raked on my back, the contact so minimal, yet so very painful. It proves that no time at all can inflict misery. Or even, in some cases, death. His meaning is clear: Julian wishes for me to call upon a storm more powerful than ever before. Using my anger as fuel.
Doing a deed I previously vowed to never commit, I rekindle agonizing chronicles that hurt just as much as thousands of knives to a heart would. Truthfully, I'd choose the blades over the thoughts. Still, I take great pains and coerce myself into reliving them.
I'll make the others scream for you, Mare, every last one.
I am the king and you could've been my Red queen. Now you are nothing.
Let the rest go-and I will be your prisoner. I will surrender. I will return.
His kiss burns worse than his brand.
I am in love with you, and I want you more than anything else in the world.
The last one is a blatant lie. I am the shadow of his flame, and after months spent together, after each battle fought side by side, it meant nothing. Still, the crown prevails; Tiberias succumbed to the promise of a powerful reign.
Throughout my eighteen years of existence, loss and I have established a kinship, and it trails my path wherever I lead. It seems I cannot shake it. During her and Maven's engagement course, Iris wondered whether the gods adored or despised me. These days I tend to agree with the latter.
Thunder rolls overhead and clouds thwart the sun's rays from roaming freely. Occasional impurities in the otherwise plump veil invite strips of buttery light to shine down. The Ridge House's illumination fails to reach such a distance, which is only logical. Near total darkness envelopes the expanse and angst should accompany this weather, but it does not. Authentically, I accept the shadows; after all, I am one of them. Though they do not stay past their welcome, the sparse patches of light curling up on themselves to bid farewell.
Black as night, the sky has forsaken it's principles. Sheer moments ago, there hadn't been a cloud dancing in the sky, nor the anticipation of a storm. Electricity throws a tantrum inside of its condensation as if it was hostage inside of a cage. I can relate. Looking down to my hands, lawless sparks of violet energy fly down to the grass, various units plunging into the heads of wildflowers. I'd call them harmless if not for the flammable material I sit aloft. My mind strays from the task at hand, briefly envisioning the devastation a fire would bring to this manicured forest and how Larentia would scream at me, sending her snake to attack.
Additional remembrances flood my head, like a dam shattering.
Her eyes are on mine as he brings the butt of his gun down, shattering the bones in her sewing hand.
He tried to run away. He was executed. Beheaded.
And I said I would save you.
You ask how much of it was me. Some. Enough.
We're going to let them kill each other.
Something buried to great depths-rooted securely in my bones- ignites. Not a fire, never a fire. A different something. I relinquish my grasp on the lightning held above and focus my stamina on assisting this foreign concept to fester inside of my soul. Unrestrained currents of white, hot power now flash constantly from the heavens, purple and black blending into each other. A particular vigorous stalk comes into contact with the ground, forming a vulgar sound that causes a shiver to rattle down my spine. A noise that could certainly be heard for miles. Several seconds after the instance, the Earth convulses.
The truth is what I make it. I could set this world on fire and call it rain.
As if all of the world ground to a stop, the never-ending cracks of thunder fade away and the lightning withdraws back to the billows of dark air. At least that is where I assumed it went; for it did not travel upwards but to me. Malleable, sturdy threads of electricity lace over my whole body, composing a second layer of skin. I am the storm. I'd probably appear to be a monster if another saw me.
In the beginning, the sensation is only but a nice tickle, warming me. But it hastily transforms to become a dangerous, explosive thing that pushes to be set free. Hot sweat drips lazily from my glands, contributing to the ever-growing heat. It commences to physically hurt me, my cardio system aching from exertion. My spine loses its firmness and I fall backward, my shoulder experiencing a blunt-force wound via a sharp rock. My entire supply of health is being drawn to keeping the electricity in, excluding the rest of my body. I find that my breathing becomes shallow, depriving my lungs of the oxygen it so desperately craves. Soon, my eyes will fall shut.
Moisture leaks from my eyes, no sobs accompanying. I formerly had the luxury of allowing the two to combine, but not anymore. Not enough air enters my body for that occurrence. So much energy, it feels as if my skin has been set ablaze.
Perhaps it has.
So as my eyelids close themselves, I grant myself the pleasure of letting go of all the power.