A/N: Another chapter! Writing is easy when the plot moves like this haha. What could have possibly happened to Portia? What was that flash of light?! Will Antonio ever get the antidepressants he needs?! All this and more... Read on! ;) (Oh and please drop me a review or a comment if you'd be so kind :D)
For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation.
~ William Shakespeare
Chapter Four – Three Thousand Gold
A usual morning for Bassanio began with the singing of the birds heralding the dawn, which is what usually woke him. However, on the night he proposed to Portia he went to bed with a head full of wine and love-struck happiness just as the birds were beginning to sing. He fell right asleep with his clothes still on and his dreams were convoluted, as often dreams influenced by wine are.
The sun was still low on the horizon when a knocking at his door woke him. Assuming it was the family's maid, he groaned, "Let me sleep, Gretchen." His head throbbed with a head ache and the light filtering through the drapes over the windows seemed blinding.
It wasn't Gretchen but Bassanio's father, Lord d'Firenze. The man was tall and slender and usually wore a jovial smile. Now his fair eyebrows were knit together and the lines around his mouth were deep. Something bad had happened.
"What is it, father?" Bassanio asked quietly.
"A servant from the Belmont manor arrived at our house just now," Marco d'Firenze said gravely. "Apparently Lady Portia did not return home last night. This was found stuck to their door… with a dagger."
Bassanio's father handed him a sealed envelope with his name written with a flourish across it. He cracked the seal and pulled out piece of parchment with fluid writing on it in dark red ink. It had to be ink… It couldn't be blood, it was too red…
If the return of your love is what you desire
Go you to Zeus' Pyre
Tell not soul, be wise
Lose lips spell a lady's demise
Bring three thousand gold
And before the moon is two fortnights* old
Come you to save fair Portia
Bassanio set the note down. He didn't understand; was this… was this a ransom? How could she have been kidnapped, he had just seen her a few hours ago! Who would do this? Why would they ask Bassanio for money- he didn't have any! Wouldn't it be wiser to demand money from her family? It made no sense…
"What does it say, son?" Marco asked.
He couldn't tell anyone, that's what the note said. Lose lips spell a lady's demise… Fear filled his heart. Dear God, not Portia, not Portia…
Keep it together, Bassanio.
But he didn't know what to do… His father would want to go to the authorities and wouldn't be persuaded otherwise. He needed to talk to someone who would examine this problem from every angle before making a decision; someone would could keep a cool head, someone like…
"It says I need to go see Antonio."
She was not sure which pain she was aware of first, the throbbing in her head or the cold metal cutting into the skin her wrists. Shackles, that's what the metal was. Whatever she was shackled to was hard and cold. It felt rough and dry against her bare feet. Rock? It was dark- or had she been blinded?! No, there was a weak orange light flickering to her left. It hurt to move her head.
Where is this place? Why am I here? I was… I was on my way…
Suddenly it all came rushing back: the carriage being attacked by a wolf or wolves, the coachmen… being killed, the hand, the flash of light-
"How rude of me, I've let the fire die down." The voice was a man's, and it came from behind her.
"Who are you?" she croaked, her voice rusty from lack of use. What did this person want from her?
The owner of the voice came out from behind the rock. She couldn't see much in the dim light, except that he was tall and wore robes that dragged along the ground. He stretched out a hand toward the flickering flame and uttered more words she didn't understand. An orb of blue light burst from his hand and shot into the flame. The fire burned high and blue for a moment, and then settled down to a steady roar and returned to its natural orange hue.
With the increase in light Portia could see her prison with more clarity. The room was circular and stone from the damp-looking floor to the low ceiling. Shelves had been carved into the stone walls all the way around the room. Upon these shelves sat tomes and volumes of all sizes, most of which sported mold and mildew spots. She was not an avid reader, but she could imagine that the sight of these abused books would make her sister very sad.
Alongside the books were jars of… things floating in liquid. A hand, an eye… Some she could place (to her horror and disgust) and others she could not. There were vials of powder and odd-looking instruments. The only decoration in the room besides a long, cluttered table was a large, comfortable-looking chair.
The room, the strange words, the flashes of light… It all pointed to one thing.
"Witchcraft," Portia whispered fearfully. Her nursemaid had told her stories of the Old Order, when magic ruled the land and the people worshiped the old Roman and Greek gods. It had been a dark time; and then the sorcerers and warlocks and magicians and witches and wizards had all been wiped out. Portia had assumed they were just stories to scare her into being a good girl because if she wasn't the sorcerers would return and snatch her up…
Oh my God…
"You are correct, my dear," the man intoned. Portia refused to look at him, but then he strode over to the chair and was in her line of sight. He was older, maybe thirty summers or so, with sharply chiseled features and sunken, shadowed eyes. His hair and beard were black as night and lines were etched deeply in the skin a round his mouth and eyes.
"Do you not recognize me, Portia of House Belmont?" the sorcerer asked. His voice was not the venomous snarl her imagination had associated with sorcerers and warlocks. It was cool and low, like he was speaking to an animal that he had no compassion for but did not wish to frighten.
Portia forced herself to study the man more closely. She wracked her brain for where she might have seen him. He did look a little familiar…
"Wait," she murmured, "you were at my engagement party last night… I remember you congratulating Bassanio and I! I have seen you at the Romano estate…"
"Naturally," the man offered her a thin, wane smile. "Lord Alvise Romano is my uncle. Shylock is my name."
"Why am I here?" she demanded, gaining some bravery in that she was dealing with a relative of Antonio. "What do you want from me?"
"My reasons are my own, and they shall remain as such for now. Oh don't worry, you are safe. It is not you I desire to hurt."
"I won't let you harm my Bassanio!" Portia declared. Shylock seemed to find this sentiment amusing, for he smiled again and brought his interlaced fingers up to his lips.
"Pray he doesn't get in my way then."
*fortnight – fourteen days