Previously, on Faerie Tale
Santos cursed under his breath. The high of interrogation was running strong through his veins and he hated to leave right as he was starting to make headway. But he knew this couldn't wait. They were only able to pick up on Escobar's transmissions every few days, and they were absolutely essential in the scheduling and planning of his bands' movements. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse, and he feared that a confrontation was rapidly approaching. His face contorted into a mask of anger and contemplation as he thought, and he felt a spike of pain from his nose. He didn't let it show, but vented his heightened anger in a hiss.
He cursed again, wielding his whip one final time, channelling his rage into an impact so hard Magnus barely had time to scream before passing out.
Santos swiftly wrapped the whip around its handle as he stalked to the communications tent, throwing the flap aside and entering.
It was even hotter in the tent than it was outside. There were large scale radios, signal boosters, and portable power units. The humming of their machinations created a constant, low buzzing, and the heat they emanated contributed to the dank mugginess. Anywhere from one to four men occupied this tent at one time. With the addition of Santos, the small enclosure was crowded and sweaty.
"What is it?" he growled at the man seated on a crate in front of a small table that held the main radio. The frightened man held one half of a large pair of headphones against his ear, listening intently. After a few moments, he turned to his leader.
"He's found us," he said simply.
"Damnit!" Santos swore. "How many?"
"About 40 men altogether."
They were outnumbered.
"How long until they get here?"
"Three days. Maybe two."
Santos' mind raced with calculations: How long it would take to pack up their camp, who he would send ahead to secure a new site, how they could camouflage the damage they'd done to this one so that Escobar's men wouldn't know they'd been here… how long he had to convince the bruja to spill her secrets.
He gestured for the man at the radio to follow him, leading him out of the comms area and into the strategic operations tent. It held a much bigger table with maps, lists of supplies, and other paperwork strewn across it. The large man rifled through the papers, latching onto the one he needed and sweeping everything else off with one move of his thick arm. One of the two men who had already been in the tent immediately dropped down to clean up the mess and reorganize the documents into their proper piles.
Santos rolled out the map he'd chosen and quickly began outlining the route his men would take to their next settlement. Most of the paper was unlabeled, unexplored territory. He'd been hoping for a few more days of recon, allowing his scouts to find a prime location, but there was no time for that. He would simply have to choose a passable path and find a camp along the way. He would travel south, and perhaps a bit east, as far away from Columbia as possible. As he worked, he started shouting orders to his men to pack up non-essentials. With any luck they could be ready and moving out within a day. He admitted to himself he could be quicker if not for the problem of the witch. But he needed some more time with her, and knew that his men were equally fascinated. They could make up for lost time on their march.
Santos shook his head, frustrated at his fixation on the fey. His men were simple soldiers, versed in brutality and violence, not strategy and planning. If they saw his focus wavering, they would start to flounder. Doubt could kill a leader as well as any bullet.
Out of the corner of his eyes he could see his men standing tense with apprehension, wondering why their leader was so silent. Santos suddenly banged his fist on the table, making his men snap to attention.
"Get a move on, you dogs!" he yelled. "Did I not order you to inventory the food supplies?"
Three men nodded gruffly and left the room. One stayed behind.
"Juan." Santos nodded his acknowledgment of the small man with the sunken face. If a brown skinned man could be called sallow, Juan would be. The man chose to wear black as much as possible, despite the heat it soaked up. It only increased his pallor, and made the numerous scars on his face stand out. Santos knew he wore them as a sign of pride and intimidation. Juan, of all his men, would be the one to take over if Santos died. He was a master of weaponry, and despite the fact he rarely spoke, his mind was sharp and aware. When he did speak, his words were clear, cold and concise. Santos had been working with him for a long time and trusted him like no other.
"Tell me if I get off track," Santos commanded him. Juan nodded, knowing exactly what his leader meant.
"Start with the weapons," Santos continued. "I'm going to get something to eat." He started to leave the tent, but paused in the doorway. He spoke over his shoulder.
"Prepare Mauno."
Juan's listless eyes followed him out, curling up into a grin when he had left.
The bruja was getting under Santos' skin. He hid it well, but Juan had never seen Santos so suddenly attached to an interrogation. He was already getting off track, and Juan had no intention of putting him back in line.
Outside, Santos headed straight for the "canteen" tent. No matter how consumed with an interrogation he became, he never forgot to eat. His body and mind needed to be properly fueled to work at maximum efficiency. The canteen, as with all the other tents, seemed too crowded, hot, and smelled bad. With no refrigeration, all supplies had to be dried, cooked by hot water or fire, or eaten quickly. The soldiers mainly subsisted off of various dried meats, breads, beans, coffee, and a few dried fruits or pickled vegetables. It seemed silly that in such a lush, abundant forest they should be lacking fresh fruit and vegetables, but unless the men found some food they thought wasn't poisonous on route, they were simply too delicate to pack, and went bad too quickly. It was a special occasion when the cooks made a fresh stew. As Santos grabbed some rations, he took a moment to breathe, and his mind immediately landed back on the witch. He ripped off a piece of jerky and chewed on it while he walked back outside to where she was still unconscious, tied to the pole.
She was slumped against the thick beam, cheek and a bit of her forehead resting against it, and her arms were pulled tight as she hung from the ropes. Her back was a vivid red, shimmering and glossy in the bright sunlight. Scattered throughout the deep, intersecting trenches, pockets of blood were oozing. Her dark hair was mostly hung forwards, but a few long strands fell down to her back and were sticking to the topmost wounds, by her shoulders. The back of her shirt had dissolved. The only remnants left were bits and pieces that couldn't be distinguished from flesh, as bloodied as they were.
It was beautiful.
He relished the hunt for information in her. He was a patient man who liked to draw interrogations out as long as possible. He hated being rushed, as he now was. He had been planning on letting the bruja simmer for a few days, let the pain of his work start to digest, then begin letting her sample some of his specialty wares. Could a faerie even be affected by cocaine? He longed to find out, and cursed the fact that this witch would not be the one to answer that question. When would he ever have the chance to work with such a perfect specimen again? Through all his years as a soldier, by his upbringing itself, Santos had been inundated with the unfortunate need for prioritizing. As much as he wanted to break this "woman", as desperately as he craved her submission, he knew his life and the lives of his men came first. He had to step things up in his questioning; there was simply no time to toy with her anymore.
She would confess her secrets, or die.
Santos was still eating his meal when Magnus regained consciousness. One of the first things she registered was the smell of cured meat, and she gagged. She then heard the sound of deep, rumbling laughter, and she gritted her teeth together, commanding her stomach to settle and not heave its contents as it wished.
Several men around the clearing, though packing up, noticed her struggles, and slowed what they were doing. When they saw Santos intently focus on her, they stopped completely and moved into a circle around the two people. They knew Santos enjoyed an audience.
Santos watched as Magnus' body shook slightly, wishing he could see her face through her hair as she worked to control herself. He suddenly wanted her to throw up. He leaned in close, putting his cheek against the hair that covered her. He angled his face in so his breath rattled her hair and got through to her nose.
"Would you like a snack, bruja?" he whispered. She couldn't stand the smell of his breath, an indefinable meat and something like old bread, and opened her mouth to try breathe instead, but her stomach immediately realized it had an opening through which to eject its nausea. She clamped her mouth shut again and tried to deal with the breath instead.
"You must be hungry by now, my dear," Santos continued. "I don't know how much you need to eat, but surely no creature can survive without some kind of sustenance?"
Magnus was thankful for her terrible eating habits as of late. How many days would she sometimes go without food? She normally didn't have the exertion of jungle climates and torture burning away the calories, but still. She could handle it. Eating was the last thing on her mind anyways. She'd much rather kill Santos and get out of this hell hole.
"I'm sure your friends would be very upset if they found you wasted away to nothing." As he spoke, Santos trailed his fingers along her side, under the torn edge of her shirt and down to her stomach. She didn't flinch at his dirty fingers soiling her skin, and she didn't think of her friends back home who hadn't wanted her to go on this mission.
He took a while stroking her, but his hand never strayed to inappropriate places. She was trying to think of how she could take advantage of his closeness to strike at him, maybe get him to drop a weapon or a tool of some sort that she could grab and hide, but never got the chance to formulate a plan. His hand left its place under her shirt, and he rocked back on his heels, shaking his head at her.
"You are a wonder," he admitted, letting his awe leak through into his voice. His heart clenched a bit as he thought about Escobar closing in on them. He had to do this now. Damnit. He looked over his shoulder and nodded at a few men. Juan would have told them what to do.
He leaned in close to her again.
"What," he said very softly, "were you doing with the boy, Mauno?"
Magnus hadn't noticed that several men had left the circle around her, ducking into a tent, but now she could hear them struggling with something, Spanish curses floated to her ears. Two men emerged carrying something between them, while two others kept their guns trained on it. They hauled the creature over to her, forcing it onto its knees when they were a few feet away. A rope was secured around its neck, the end held tightly in hand by the strongest soldier in the compound.
Even through her foggy eyes, Magnus could tell whatever it was was not normal, not human. It had two arms and legs, but most similarities stopped there. Its hair was wild, growing up and out, a charred black colour, like it'd been electrified. Instead of eyes, its eye sockets were filled with a putrid, green-coloured fluid with no pupils or irises. The liquid mass seemed to shift and undulate in a dizzying, chaotic manner. It had no teeth, just a black, gaping hole that emitted strange noises and a disfigured black tongue that looked more like a snake than anything else. Its dark skin, pulled taut over its frame, was crackled in a pattern that resembled scales. The creature's whole body was thin, emaciated, his skin too tight, like he had been stretched and pulled, unnaturally, its limbs too long for its small body. Magnus felt sick looking at it. Was this Mauno? She was saddened and horrified by the thought that this may have once been a young boy. What had happened to him? What had the Fey been meaning to do?
"What did you do to him?" Santos hissed.
"It wasn't us," she insisted.
"I can see the grief in your face, the guilt. I will not hold you responsible for the crimes of your people. Give me your magic so that I may heal this innocent boy!" he demanded.
"I can't do that."
Santos swore under his breath. A stubborn species. He stood up and moved to the creature. He bent down, whispering into its head where its ears used to be, knowing it could still hear him somehow. He told it that this was the thing that had done this to him. This is who had taken his life from him. Would he like to show her what she'd done? Would he like to take his revenge?
Santos stood up and backed away, looking to the handlers, and blinking once. The men nodded grimly, each taking a deep breath. In unison, they released their grip on the creature and swiftly backed away. With a feral cry, it leapt forward, hands outstretched.
It grabbed Magnus' face and neck, holding tight, and her eyes went round with shock before she started to scream. One hand felt like fire while the other was ice. She felt like she was being dipped into a pool of lava then doused in pure liquid nitrogen. It held her tight, its empty stare gazing into her eyes, and she found herself unable to tear herself away, though the roiling, green light seemed to pierce into her head, making her nauseous, sick with a pounding head pain. It moved Its hands to her shoulders, down her arms, sharp nails digging in, and she tried to move her body, jerk it away from its excruciating touch. She had to get it to stop, but she couldn't, bound and unable to stand as she was. After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, the creature pulled its hands off of her and she took a great, gasping breath. Her head swam, and the noises around her were oddly disjointed, distant. Mauno reached up to the ropes tying her to the pole and cut through them with one swift pass of his claws. Her arms suddenly freed, the unsuspecting Magnus wasn't ready to keep herself steady on her knees and fell to the side.
Through the chaos in her mind, she still somehow knew it would be bad to land on her back, so she forced herself into an awkward side position, ignoring the flares shooting out of her destroyed knee. Her efforts were in vain, for in the next second Mauno was upon her, grabbing her shoulders with his searing grip and forcing her onto her back. She felt dirt, grass, twigs, maybe even a few empty gun shells sink into her gaping wounds and thought she would pass out. Blood continued to ooze out of her, coating the ground underneath until the patchy grass was warm and slippery. She hazily wondered if his touch left burns in its wake when she felt a cool, soft caress on her face. She forced her eyes to open. Mauno was licking her.
What the hell?
His black, twisted tongue was lapping at her, but in its wake was numbness and comfort. If there were burns, he was healing them.
What the hell?
He flipped her onto her stomach, and she let tears silently leak onto the ground. Her back was… it was unimaginable. She secretly hoped he would offer her some modicum of relief, but Santos' deep voice commanded him to stop. She heard scuffling, and soon the same deep voice was right beside her, speaking softly.
"I can let him continue," he offered. "You at least did something right for him. An amazing ability he has, no?"
She didn't reply.
"I know you must hurt. I guess you don't have any protective spells after all?" He was disappointed. So much for his dreams of walking up to Escobar and murdering him on the spot, unafraid of retaliation from his guards and servants. "I can make it all go away. There is no need for more suffering. Someone so beautiful should never experience what you have."
He unwittingly triggered memories of times past, memories of pain and anguish, both emotional and physical. When Amelia's plane had disappeared…the icy grip of certain death as she floundered in the cold water, the unsinkable ship already out of sight….when John had left… No, she shouldn't have gone through all that. Everyone in the world suffered these pains, but what had she done to deserve this unceasing supply of them?
Santos saw her thinking, and knew he was finally getting through to her.
"You must have seen so much in your life… so much pain, hatred, shameful actions. Maybe you tried to help those you saw who were suffering?"
He didn't know how close to the truth he was hitting. Though she wasn't the ancient Faerie he thought she was, the same issues still applied.
"You won't be able to help anyone if you die today. All your years of sacrifice and toil will be for nothing."
He reached out to stroke her dirty cheek, gently. This would be his final attempt to reason with her; he was on a strict time table. Escobar's lackeys were getting closer with every hour. If he couldn't get what he needed out of her…. He certainly couldn't haul her along with him while he and his men moved to a new location.
"Is it really so terrible a thing to share with me just a bit of your power? I want the same thing as you – to help my people! We can stop your pain and mine, together."
He could certainly be smooth.
Magnus gritted her teeth and moved her head so she was looking at him. She was sure she looked as undignified as possible, but her eyes still pierced him as she spoke. She spoke in a dialect of Usbeki Arabic. It was only spoken by a few hundred people in the Bukhara province of Uzbekistan. She had spent a few months there once, working with the population of the small village on a problem they had had with odd, ground dwelling abnormals that were upsetting the land. There was no way any of these men would know the language.
She spoke in a half hushed whisper, sometimes growing louder before going down to a whisper again. The words she spoke meant nothing, simple phrases, bits of scientific babble, whatever came to her mind, but to the ears of Santos and his men, ignorant of any language but their own, the words were their worst fears come to life. The witch had finally awoken and was casting her evil spells. The superstition ingrained in them took hold of their hearts, squeezing fear and panic into their minds, adrenaline surging through their veins.
For the first few moments Santos was transfixed by her lilting voice, but all too soon he snapped out of it. His own voice barely shook, a testament to his strength of mind, as he shouted orders to his men. They rushed forward with ropes in hand. Several knelt down beside her, hauling her upwards, heedless of her blood on their hands as they quickly stuffed a dirty, dusty rag into her mouth to shut her up. She started to gag, coughing at the dryness, but they ignored her as they hurried to tie her up again. Something struck her head from behind, and her world went black once more.
To Be Continued…
Has anyone been keeping count of how many times Magnus has been knocked unconcious this fic...? Because I sure haven't. Yeesh. *shakes head at self* Poor girl! Will she get a break in the next chapter, I wonder? MSam