Chapter 4: Mist, part two
By the age of twelve, Matthias had given up on praying. He did not stop believing though, that had come years later, but rather the kind, loving God and protective angels from his mother's stories had been replaced in his childish mind by an altogether different kind of divinity, one who reveled in twisting the mortals' most desperate prayers to grant the absolute opposite of their wishes and who laughed at their misery simply out of spite. He had prayed for the black death to spare his family, and yet he had to watch powerlessly as dark stains covered their skin and their flesh rotted away. When all hope was lost he had prayed for a quick, painless death, but one by one they had withered slowly away, choking on their own blood after fevered days of endless agony. And at the very end, after the thin layer of earth of the common grave had closed over the lifeless body of his eldest sister, and he had nothing left to return to but a deserted house and grim memories, he had prayed harder than ever before for the sickness to take him too. He was spared.
He had survived on whatever scraps he could forage when the pangs of hunger became too hard to endure, too weak-willed to allow starvation to run its course and yet hating himself for every life-saving morsel, until the contagion died down and the few surviving monks rounded up all the orphaned children. For most of them, it meant salvation; for Matthias, it was a prison of the cruelest kind. With their hair shaven off and their scrawny bodies dressed in roughly spun yarn, perfect little monks behind latched gates, their days went by in a monotonous succession of chores and prayers. And, while his companions' eyes slowly dulled in resignation or began to shine in religious rapture, Matthias rebelled. He fought, he cursed, he blasphemed and neither beatings, nor threats, nor the cold, grey confines of the church walls could make him cower. When the cane hit his naked back, he would laugh; when the priest menaced him with the torments of Hell, he would smirk and spit in his face, for the eternal fires held no meaning when his soul was already burning in anger and resentment.
Many months had to go by until he learned to pretend that he did not care, and years until his anger was quenched to embers, smoldering yet subdued. Only his laughter remained, often mocking, sometimes sincere, his weapon and armor, his mask, his most constant companion. And now, as his steps carried him unwillingly into the crowded church for the first time in a long while, his lips failed to quirk in the dismissive smile meant to hide an unwanted shudder. The stone walls loomed over him like an elaborate tomb, and stern-faced saints glared down from their towering perches, the dull light of the clouded morning piercing gloomily through their glass eyes, chastening everyone who met their gazes into sullen submission.
Everyone, apart from Gilbert.
The albino sprawled on a wooden bench, safely afar from the yet deserted altar, and his eyes darted mockingly up and down the walls, and then skimmed over the assembled congregation, his mouth curling in a knowing grin, until he caught sight of the bespectacled nobleman sitting obliviously in the front row. His eyes rounded in surprise and, turning to Matthias, he gestured frantically for his friend to join him. Matthias shrugged and sat down next to him, wondering idly what new mischief had crossed his troublesome companion's mind.
"See that prig over at the front?" Gilbert hissed in his ear, struggling in a hopeless fight against a crippling burst of laughter.
Matthias craned his neck until he spotted the man who, judging by the overly prim way in which he was wiping his glasses with a seemingly silk handkerchief, was the only one who could match his friend's rather vague description.
"I believe so," he admitted.
"That, my friend," Gilbert announced triumphantly, "is none other than my stuck-up cousin Roddy. I'd recognize that sour face anywhere. Father forced me once to spend an entire summer at that bastard's family mansion hoping that his oh-so-proper manners might rub off on me."
"And his plan failed, I assume," Matthias smirked in his companion's direction.
Gilbert remained unfazed. "Laugh all you want, but know that in that chair sits the answer to our unsolved mystery about who would be so pretentious as to use a carriage in a town where most streets can barely fit a cart."
Matthias snorted. Earlier that morning, their small group had been trudging down the street, or more precisely both he and Gilbert were dragging their feet as slowly as they dared in the vain hope that they might find the church gates bolted shut against latecomers, while Arthur and Elizaveta glared daggers from the sides and Feliks sauntered ahead, unperturbed by his companions' moodiness, when the unexpected sound of large wheels hitting against cobblestones had literally flattened them against the walls to make room for a carriage altogether too wide to ensure the safety of any pedestrian who might have the misfortune to happen by.
A shadow fell over them and both men looked up to meet Elizaveta's unforgiving green glare.
"Move," she ordered, and when Matthias dragged himself to the end of the bench, she stepped around his legs and took the seat left free between them, sitting down with her arms crossed.
"But Liz," Gilbert pouted, "I've just found a long-lost relative of mine!"
"Sit straight and for the love of God, stop talking, Gil," Elizaveta hissed through clenched teeth, wary of the curious looks they were receiving from the townspeople nearby. "This is neither the time nor the place for your stories and frankly, hearing how you ran away from home after your father disowned you began to lose its appeal after the twenty-fifth time or so."
"That's mean even for you, Liz," Gilbert whined in false grief, but making a half-hearted attempt at straightening up from his slouch. "That's an epic tale worthy of one of Arthur's plays."
"As if," Arthur scoffed from the seat behind the trio. "And if you three can bear to live without listening to your own voices for at least a minute, you might want to see this."
Matthias turned his head towards the door and his breath hitched when the uncanny feeling he'd been struggling to suppress, part pity, part outrage and part longing, came back tenfold. He did not know himself why he had allowed a cold and strange man, with whom he had exchanged not even a single glance, let alone words, to haunt his thoughts so. And yet, as he watched the prisoner pass by, so close that he could barely refrain himself from reaching out to stop him and force those fathomless eyes to meet his own, Matthias' brow creased with concern. Surely, the narrow shoulders were still set in a posture of dignity, and the proud features were still frozen in the unyielding mask that had kept Matthias so intrigued, but the first signs of decay were already plain for him to see in the dark shades under the prisoner's eyes and the rigid line of his mouth, and Matthias found helplessness overwhelm him as he wondered how much more the other man could endure before letting his spirit be crushed.
Lukas had felt the persistent pull against his chain from the beginning, but his body refused to obey and unfold from the rigid posture he had only managed to keep through desperate will. Unknown forces had been playing his senses like the overly taut strings of a violin, and the only barrier that protected his mind from shattering in a million pieces as it struggled to keep up with the assault was the growing apprehension of letting anyone else understand what he was going through. It had been a strangely disjointed sensation, the fight to prevent his body from keeling over on the stone steps while the outside world crumbled around him in an avalanche of sounds and colors and his lungs became suffused with a cloying, heavy scent. He had never conceived blindness as anything else than an absence of light, a black and yet neutral void, so nothing had prepared him for the pulsing vortex of colors that his surroundings were melting into, shrouding his vision as surely as the deepest darkness. The hues shone painfully sharp, twisting and turning sickeningly even behind closed eyelids, so when a mass of black suddenly slid in front of his eyes, covering everything else from sight, Lukas embraced gladly the reassuring shadows. And yet, too soon for his liking, the black shield was somehow pushed away, and a whimper escaped his lips before he understood that the world was now twisting back into solid contours and his tormented eyes distinguished a familiar blue uniform amidst the retreating chaos.
"What's wrong with you?"
The sound of Berwald's deep voice made Lukas jump in surprise, for the relief of being freed from his blinding nightmare had kept him from realizing that the constant humming in his ears had also died down, and the not so subtle attempt at forcing him to stand up had ceased.
"There was... something in the incense... suffocating..." Lukas let his voice trail off, not sure himself of what he was trying to explain, nor of how much it was safe to reveal.
Berwald glanced briefly at the incense burner, now extinguished, and nodded. "Can you stand up and walk?" he asked.
"I have to," Lukas sighed, and swallowing his pride he took Berwald's outstretched hand and willed his numb body to move. His legs were shaking and his head began to swim again from the exertion, but he pulled himself upright and took a few faltering steps past the disgruntled, black-robed monk who must have been the unaware cause of his temporary relief. As his steps became surer he let go of Berwald's supporting arm, but Berwald placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him further through the retreating assembly and into the courtyard. Lukas felt grateful in spite of himself, for now that the service was over the courtyard teemed with townsfolk, all too eager to catch another glimpse of his face, and yet too intimidated by the imposing man next to him to come any closer. Somewhere in the crowd he caught sight of Tino, who was watching him with worried eyes from the side of his overbearing father. When their gazes met the boy began to mouth something, but Lukas jerked his head away before he could decipher the soundless words. Better hurt the boy, better estrange him than allow him to do something reckless and endanger himself for the sake of a doomed friendship.
The iron shackles weighed heavily around Lukas' wrists, sliding down his slender hands, not quite wide enough to slip off but tantalizingly close, and the back of his eyes still pulsed with the last remnants of pain, yet the morning felt strangely serene, a surreal distortion of the flood of raging faces and tearing grips that had harrowed his dreams for the better part of the past nine years, jolting him awake in a pool of his own sweat as he reached out frantically for the child sleeping at his side. His anger had fled into hiding, burnt away while the arcane assault was holding him powerless on the altar steps, leaving nothing but cold reasoning in its stead. In another time and place he would have laughed out bitterly at his own blindness, at the fear of human ignorance and cruelty twisted so deeply within the confines of his mind that it had made him oblivious to any and all other threats. Whatever creature was hunting them had woven its net unhindered thrice over, and even from afar it held them thoroughly in its clutches, for how could they even hope to fight back from behind stone walls and locked doors, amidst all those eyes watching, waiting for the one false step that might betray their true nature?
Even his hate for those men who held them captive had weakened now that he saw them for what they really were, deluded pawns who believed themselves safe while watching others suffer, unaware that something far more dangerous lurked in the shadows, luring them into its schemes like puppets on a string. He allowed his gaze to wander once more over their faces, in an idle search for a sign that someone might hide more than it seemed, and his eyes fell on eyes blue like the ice under a clear sky that hid no trace of malice or fear. And, as their gazes locked, the other man's mouth moved to shape something so unexpected that for a fleeting moment Lukas let his carefully constructed mask crumble in disbelief - a warm, comforting smile.
"Confess your crimes and your punishment will be lenient."
Lukas narrowed his eyes as he studied Roderich's seemingly neutral countenance that allowed only the barest trace of interest to escape from the bespectacled gaze.
"You are surely taking me for a fool, Magistrate," he replied coldly, paying no heed to the faint groan that escaped Berwald's lips. "You know as well as I do that the only lenience we can expect for crimes such as those we're blamed for is a less painful death, and I do not intend to squander my life, let alone my brother's, on false accusations."
For a long moment, the only noise filling the small room was the muted drone of voices drifting in from the adjoining hall.
"So be it," Roderich finally broke the uneasy silence, "but know that only the high regard I have for Commander Oxenstierna, whose sense of justice extends even to the vilest of lawbreakers, keeps me from allowing the Church alone to decide your fate, so you'd better learn to show respect for your betters, and learn it fast. You two," he turned to the guards who lingered by the door pretending not to have heard the affront, "are to bring the prisoners in when I call for them, and Commander," he added in a less haughty voice, "please remember that you agreed not to interfere and wait here until the trial is over."
Lukas watched blankly as the Magistrate turned on his heel and strode out leaving the door ajar, and held his arms out for Emil, who had been standing quietly next to the tall Commander, his fear-clouded eyes the only specks of color on his wan face. The boy rushed into the open arms and Lukas held his brother as tightly as his chains allowed him, while all sounds died down to make room for Roderich's voice.
"Friends and fellow townsmen," he began, "I've been called upon to conduct the trial of the foreigner we know as Lukas and his brother Emil, who stand accused of witchcraft and devil worship, and of using their unholy arts to lure the innocent citizens of our town into the clutches of Satan. But, although these are crimes of the most heinous nature, I believe that justice should be always upheld in our small community, therefore the accused will be allowed to try and redeem themselves. However, should they be proven guilty, they will be surrendered to the Church for whatever punishment is deemed suitable to save their immortal souls.
"The good Prior Tobias is here on behalf of Abbot Olav to bring proof of their guilt, but before he begins, let the prisoners come forward."
In the next room, Lukas let go of his brother before rough hands could pry him forcefully away, only to cringe when a guard took hold of his arm in an unnecessarily tight grasp and pushed him towards the door.
"Wait," Berwald's voice sounded unexpectedly, and Lukas turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. "Be very careful of what you say and do, your lives lie in the Magistrate's hands now and you have already angered him."
Lukas exhaled sharply. "Believe me, I am aware of our situation, more than you could ever imagine."
Another push brought him over the threshold and he found himself standing on the edge of a wooden dais, wide enough to support a heavy, polished table surrounded by several chairs on one side, out of which only two were occupied by the Magistrate and the short monk with a cunning face who had officiated the earlier service, both deep in quiet conversation. He had steeled himself to endure the indignity of a public trial, yet the sheer number of people crowded together in a hall that had clearly not been built for such a large audience made him stop in his tracks. Townsfolk were filling every inch of the narrow benches and the less lucky ones who had arrived too late to find a seat stood in closely packed groups next to the entrance and along the walls, all of them sharing the same look of barely suppressed curiosity tinged with a hint of apprehension.
At the Magistrate's sign, the guards guided the two brothers to stand on either side of the platform, and Lukas sighed inwardly at everyone's insistence to keep them separated, as if once left together they might share something more sinister than just a small degree of consolation. The monk nodded once as Roderich settled back in his chair with his arms crossed, then got up and placed himself in the middle, half facing the audience and half the Magistrate, but with his eyes trained on Lukas' face. He coughed several times and then spoke.
"As fellow Christians, we all know that the Devil likes to hide in the most unlikely of places, behind the masks of goodness and virtue, of youth and beauty, for if he revealed himself in all his foulness we would without doubt fear and shun him. An ordinary man can thus fall pray easily to the Devil's tricks, and it is upon us, the men of the cloth, that the duty falls to uproot the enemies of God from their most hidden lairs and bring them forth for judgment."
The monk turned fully to his audience, taking in the entranced faces.
"Look at those two!" he cried out, his arms rising to point at the prisoners standing at his either side. "Both endowed with the innocence of youth, one of them but a child, yet both corrupted to the very core of their being. They are witches, Satan's beloved, and though you may not see it I am here to make you understand, and rest assured that my brethren and I were not hasty in our judgment, oh no, we pondered each sign carefully before denouncing them.
"This man earns his bread by preying on his neighbours' misfortune and selling them his accursed herbs and potions, all in the name of healing and compassion..."
"He cured my cough, he did," a voice cut in, "and made me an ointment when my youngest got himself a nasty burn."
The monk pinned the perpetrator with a glacial stare. "And if I told you that those medicines were tainted by the Devil to increase their worth tenfold, and those who take benefit from the Devil's work, even unbeknownst, are doomed to burn forever in the fires of hell?"
As the audience gasped in dismay, Lukas stared at the monk in disbelief. "For the love of..." he muttered under his breath.
It only took two quick steps for the Prior to be at his side. "Did you say anything, young man?" he asked dangerously.
Lukas drew in a deep, calming breath. "I grow and mix herbs. In the right amounts they help an injured body heal faster. That's all there is, nothing more, nothing less."
"This is not what our healer seems to believe. He assured us repeatedly that your so-called medicines are too unnaturally powerful for something created by human hands."
"And you would take the word of a decrepit old man for it, one who thinks that bleeding his patients dry is the best way of drawing out their sickness?" Lukas snapped back.
"I would take the word of a respected member of our community who saved numerous men, women and children from their death bed during the past few years over that of two strangers who turned up in our town from only God knows where," the monk replied with a meaningful look, leaving Lukas nothing else to do than bite his lip and seethe in silence.
"And even then," the Prior went on as he stepped back to his place, "we bid our time and observed, for we did not want to lay such a heavy blame on the shoulders of innocent beings. And we saw how every Sunday they would come to Mass and yet keep themselves apart, away from the altar and the holy relics, and our suspicion grew. Today we had them kneel at the altar, in the presence of God, and I believe there is no soul here in this room who did not see how this man writhed and bowed and suffered under the might of our prayers."
The assembly began to murmur in acknowledgment, their eyes growing hard as they stared at the captives with newly found unease, but Roderich coughed and bent forward in his chair.
"Perhaps we should allow the young man to explain himself, Prior Tobias," he said, and Lukas began to think very fast while the monk looked at him challengingly. He tried to lift his hand but the guard pinned it down in an iron grasp, making him raise an exasperated eyebrow in the Magistrate's direction, who frowned but nodded at the watchman to let go.
Lukas brushed away the long strands of hair obscuring the side of his face to fully reveal the swollen gash stretched in a red, angry line along his forehead.
"Your men have not exactly been gentle," he shrugged. "This wound is deep and painful enough to make me feel faint, all the more when the air is stale and heavy with incense smoke."
"Nonsense!" the healer's voice could be heard in an indignant cry, but the Prior raised his arm appeasingly.
"Let us witness then," he said, removing a long chain from around his neck, "how the witch behaves in the presence of the holy cross." He strode resolutely to Lukas' side and seized a handful of his hair, holding his head motionless to press the heavy iron crucifix against his forehead, and Lukas was ready to laugh in the monk's face when his lungs began to burn like searing embers and smoke coalesced out of nowhere in his chest. He tried to exhale and nothing came out but a choked wheeze, and his fingers clutched desperately at his throat as he coughed and coughed until the world went dark.
The air seemed filled with strange whispers as he stood on the thin strip of ground under a grey, clouded sky. Shadows and smoke rose from the chasm around him, swaying and shifting in grotesque silhouettes that drifted in and out of sight, watching with unseen eyes. Lukas reached out and thin tendrils uncoiled from the twisting mass, winding tightly around his wrist. They felt warm and fragile, but when he tried to snatch his hand away they held fast, growing hot against his skin, and gossamer threads of wan light began to glow within, spreading like pulsing veins through the amassing shadows. And as the lines advanced eyes opened in their wake, narrow slits of cyan flickering like moorland mist, circling, observing, guarding. Lukas remained oddly calm, almost sedate, his body pliant like a puppet's as he followed the soft tug at his wrist to stand on the edge of the abyss. The glowing strands had roamed deep, entwining in arcane patterns, and Lukas wondered idly how it would feel if he gave in to their call and let himself go, to glide forever down shrouds of light and shades under the scrutiny of ever-wakeful eyes.
"What are you," he murmured, and his words traveled through the shadows like arrows, bounding and resounding in twisted echoes.
"Wouldn't you like to know, little one," a voice susurrated in his ear, and Lukas turned his head, suddenly alarmed though somehow doubting there would be anything for him to see, yet a figure loomed over him, tall and ominous, coils of dark steam knotting and winding in wavering human contours underneath a tattered cloak. He gasped in shock but did not recoil, mindful of the chasm under his feet; instead he lashed out in a fast blow and his fist passed through empty air as the figure twisted in a whirling vortex that darted deftly away, hovering just out of reach.
Laughter echoed mockingly and Lukas pulled again at the tendrils that held his hand captive.
"Coward," he hissed. "I'll tell you what you are, you're nothing but smoke and mirrors, you lurk inside illusions and hide behind your human pawns. Whatever trick you're trying to pull, I do not care, for we're in my mind now and here you are powerless."
Lukas seized the shadowy strands with his free hand, twisting and tearing, and they shattered apart like glass under his fingers. Cold, opalescent light broke through the clouds in shimmering veils, scattering them into nothingness as stars shone into being, and the shadows stilled suddenly under the lit up sky. Spidery cracks wove along the frozen contours with a grating whir and, as the fissures deepened, the shades exploded into countless shards, flowing up with an unearthly wail to writhe and shrivel and decay within the cage of light. A thick curtain of dust began to fall and Lukas dropped to his knees, shielding his eyes against the onslaught.
His body grew heavy under the downpour and Lukas sank slowly to the ground, his eyelids fluttering weakly under the shelter of his arm as he fell asleep, while black, glimmering dust kept raining down over the narrow stretch of land that wound on and on like a never ending trail across the abyss.
Lukas' eyes opened again to soft daylight and motionless figures, men and women trapped in time like ivory statues, their colors faded, their gestures unfinished and their gazes transfixed. He was still standing on the wooden dais as if only the blink of an eye had gone by, the hall almost the same as he remembered it, almost real but for the shroud of stillness enveloping it. The monk was gone though, nowhere to be seen, and only his cross remained behind, fallen on the ground, the long iron chain coiled at Lukas' feet.
Lukas felt strangely vulnerable in spite of the seeming absence of danger. Strong grips around both his arms kept him in place, the two guards now on his either side, leaving Emil to stand alone and ignored. Lukas smiled bitterly. Had the boy not become as much of a statue as everyone else, he could have walked away so easily, unhindered by restraining hands, out of the door and far from the nightmare that their lives had become. But this frozen rag doll cast so perfectly in Emil's likeness was not his brother; his brother was left to fend for himself in the real world while Lukas was trapped in a pointless game of hide and seek.
This had to end.
"Show yourself!" Lukas cried out, but nothing moved in the absolute silence that followed. Even the specks of dust floating in the air were still, scattering only when they got caught in the soft flow of air that took shape with his every breath.
"Show yourself or get the hell out of my mind!" Lukas yelled again, and this time shadows shifted slowly in the corners and the board creaked under invisible steps.
"Why are you so sure," the same voice as before whispered mockingly from behind him, "that we are in your mind right now? We could be in mine, or in your sweet little brother's, or even," the voice paused as shadows began to amass around Emil's feet and crept in thick ropes up to his shoulders, "all of this could be real, and your brother is really here with us, and I will be carving my mark in his real flesh..."
Doubt shot through Lukas' mind as the shadows sharpened in pointed claws and crawled over Emil's chest, leaving five deep, bloody lines in their wake.
"No! Get away, damn it!" he hollered, struggling against his restrains but his arms felt as if encased in stone and the claws kept to their trail, pausing right above Emil's heart.
"I shall have so much fun playing with you, little one," the disembodied voice taunted again, and the claws plunged deep in the boy's heart.
Lukas' lips parted in a desperate scream and the shadows fell back like tumbling waves, seeping away through the cracks in the floor. Long, papery strips began to peel off the motionless bodies like withered skin, and as their true colors began to show underneath, so did their movements resume, jerky and faltering, but Lukas' gaze was only on his brother who remained rooted on his place, immobile, bleeding, purple eyes wide and glazed.
"Enough," he whispered, "enough..."
He let his body sag in his guards' grasp and closed his eyes in surrender, while voices rose around him, faint and distorted, then stronger and stronger, until distinct words emerged from the din.
"... heard him... scream... holy cross... pleading for me to get away... witches..."
Lukas opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. His body felt weak, barely upright in the guards' hold, and the hall was in an uproar as the monk finished his speech, but Emil was there, trembling and in tears yet alive, and Lukas breathed out in relief, but tensed again when the boy tried to speak.
"Please," Emil blurted out and the room went silent, "please, my brother was hurt, he is not well..."
"Is that so, child?" the monk turned to him. "Then perhaps you might be better suited to answer my next question."
Lukas tried to speak, to draw the monk away from his brother, but his throat felt raw and swollen and nothing but a low moan made its way past his lips. Instead he looked at Emil, his eyes demanding, pleading with him to keep quiet, but the boy avoided his gaze and nodded.
If the monk felt any satisfaction, he did not show it. With a blank face, he retrieved a small, leather bound case that had so far rested forgotten on the table. "Do you know what this is, child?" he asked.
Emil swallowed. "Y-yes, these are my brother's medicine supplies, but..."
The monk raised a hand to stop him. He fumbled with the latch and lifted the lid; rows of carefully corked vials stood neatly inside, and when he removed one and held it out for everyone to see, it shone a vivid green in the daylight. The monk shook the vial gently and tiny, golden spirals twirled inside the clear liquid.
"Does this look like anything he ever sold you?" he asked, turning to the audience.
The townsfolk shook their heads silently.
"Then take a moment and think - for what purpose were these concoctions brewed? Are they poisons? Potions to be used in foul rituals?"
"No!" Emil cried out, before the audience could explode in another outburst. "It's just medicine, it does no harm..."
The monk put down the case and approached the boy with a predatory look in his eyes. He uncorked the vial and balanced it carefully between his fingers. "Would you vouch for that, child? Would you be willing to prove it?"
The audience held their breath as Emil reached out and took the vial with a shaking hand. The liquid inside was unfamiliar but he knew he could not back out, not anymore. Hesitatingly, he approached the vial to his lips and let a drop fall on his tongue, then swallowed. It tasted sour, with a tinge of something acrid, and he closed his eyes and held his breath waiting for something to happen, yet to his relief no strange effects followed. But when he tried to give the vial back, the monk's hands took hold of his nape and wrist and forced him to down most of the contents, and just as the man released him, his stomach constricted and his body began to spasm as he fell to the floor, retching violently.
The vilest curses he knew flashed through Lukas' mind as he struggled in his captors' grasp, mute and powerless, watching his brother play right into the accursed monk's trap, and, in his fury, he did not hear the familiar, commanding voice bark at the guards to let him go as soon as the boy had collapsed. The guards' hands released him and he stumbled forward and fell hard on his knees next to his brother. Mindless of his own pain, he cradled the boy's convulsing body while heavy steps followed behind him as Berwald approached the table and bent to speak quietly to the Magistrate.
The townsfolk had risen to their feet and were whispering to each other, throwing uneasy looks at the sick child. As minutes passed by, Emil was left nothing more to heave and he grew still in his brother's arms, but his eyes were closed and his breath came out in wheezes, his chest rising and falling fitfully under Lukas' hands, and Lukas lifted his head and took in the assembly, his eyes burning hatefully in his blank face.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, his voice nothing but a coarse rasp. "Did you get what you came here for? Do you feel proud for watching that god damned bastard poison a child without lifting a finger to stop him? And you," he turned to the monk who stood smugly on the side, "what the hell did you think you could prove? Any blithering idiot knows that too much of a medicine, too much of anything can only do more harm than good."
"You'd better cease your blaspheming, witch," the Prior hissed, taking a step forward menacingly, "and start praying that your punishment in Hell will be easier than you deserve."
The scraping of wood on wood made everyone turn their eyes to the Magistrate, who pushed his chair back noisily and stood up. "Now, let none of us get ahead of ourselves," he spoke firmly and, stepping around the pool of vomit that stained the wooden boards, he knelt next to the brothers. "Stay still," he warned, and he prodded the wound on Lukas' forehead with light fingers. Lukas bit back a hiss of pain and stared back with a look of unadulterated hatred.
Roderich shook his head and straightened up. "I thank Prior Tobias for bringing forth proof of the prisoners' guilt, but," he announced, "for now I believe that much of it could also have more... mundane roots."
A brief look of surprise passed over the monk's face and he tried to speak, but the Magistrate silenced him with a raised hand.
"Yes, Prior Tobias, I know that this was hardly all the evidence you had, however I would rather not make a hasty decision and decided to resume this trial once both prisoners are in a better shape to attend. Still," he continued, turning to face Lukas, "there is one matter that needs to be taken care of right now. Young man, barely a word came out of your mouth today that was anything else than either defiance or disrespect. Clearly you need to be taught some humility, thus you will spend the remainder of the day and the entire night under guard in the town square, for public disgrace."
Lukas' eyes widened as he tightened his hold on his brother. "This cannot be," he whispered. "My brother is sick, he needs me. Let me cure him, and then I can endure any punishment you consider fit, and more." He swallowed thickly. "Please."
"It defies the purpose of a punishment if it is carried out only when the one at fault sees fit," Roderich answered coldly. "We have a healer who can tend your brother just as well as you."
"I beg your pardon, Magistrate," the healer countered from his seat in the front row, "but I will have nothing to do with these accursed creatures. If the boy cannot make it through the night, so much the better, there will be one witch less in this world."
"You despicable wretch..." Lukas gasped, but the remainder of his words was drowned when a voice, timid yet resolute, cut in.
"Sir, if I may, I could look after Emil."
Lukas turned his head abruptly to watch Tino shake his father's hand from his shoulder and stand up from his seat. The determined violet gaze locked with his own despairing eyes as the Magistrate coughed beside him, obviously baffled.
"And who might you be, boy?" he asked.
"I am, or rather," Tino added sheepishly, seeing the old man's furious stare, "it seems that I was the healer's apprentice. I will take care of Emil if you allow me."
The Magistrate measured him up and down, and then nodded. "I don't see why not. I consider this matter closed, then. Commander, make sure my orders are carried out." Turning on his heel, he left the hall by the same side door he had entered, and the monk followed him hurriedly with a swish of black robes.
Berwald sighed and moved to the two guards who were standing at attention, while Tino pushed his way through the retreating townsfolk and climbed on the dais. He sat down on the floor and placed his hand on Emil's brow next to Lukas'. The boy's skin was hot and moist with sweat, and the two exchanged a tense look. Tino reached out and picked up the discarded vial.
"Do you remember what this was and what plants you used?" he asked.
Lukas took the vial and twirled it in his fingers, then swallowed to relieve his broken voice.
"It was an antidote. Snakeroot, mostly. But the common dose is three drops..." He let the vial fall and grasped Tino's wrist with a quick motion, and the boy flinched under the intensity of his stare. "You put yourself in danger, Tino, more than you think. Promise me that from tomorrow on you will stay away from us, no matter what."
Tino freed his wrist gently and entwined his fingers with Lukas' trembling ones. "I will be fine," he smiled. "Emil will be safe. Do not worry for us."
Lukas jerked his hand away. "Don't do that," he hissed, and turned his head from Tino's bewildered gaze.
"We can go," Berwald's voice cut in, making Tino jump in surprise. "Let me take your brother."
Lukas gritted his teeth and released his hold on Emil, allowing Berwald to hoist the unconscious child in his arms. With a last reassuring nod, Berwald walked away, carrying the silver-haired boy with a gentleness unexpected in a man so fearsome, and Tino got to his feet and followed, pausing before the door to throw one more glance back. Lukas was still down on his knees, his empty hands lying listlessly at his side, his slender frame inert but for the soft rise and fall of his chest, and looking so unbelievably fragile, like a hollow statue carelessly put together out of thin slivers of tarnished glass.
His body felt like a worthless shell, drained of everything that mattered. Drained of will, drained of strength, drained of thoughts, drained even of life. When the guards prodded him upright, he stood up. When they pushed him forward, he walked, step after step out of the door and down the road, oblivious to all but the rough edges of the cobblestones under the soles of his boots. When they moved through crowds, hands tore at his clothes and hair with hungry claws until the guards had to threaten the assaulters away, but he could have stood still and let them rip him apart, limb from limb, for all he cared. And when they reached the pillory that waited like a gaped maw to clasp around his hands and neck but he was forced to his knees and only his chain was secured to the wooden contraption, up above his head, he was too lost for the world to feel any sort of relief for the small kindness. The taunts and insults carried no more weight than the rumble of distant ocean waves and when a lump of mud flew to smear his face and hair he was hanging limp in his shackles, halfway sunken into a swoon mercifully devoid of visions and spectres.
Matthias stood silently in the midst of the jeering crowd, his fists clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his coat, aching to feel flesh and bones smash under his knuckles. A menacing growl took shape at the back of his throat as a second chunk of dirt crushed against the prisoner's exposed neck, making his head reel disjointedly, and Elizaveta's hold tightened on his forearm.
"This is beyond cruel," he snarled, looking down at the woman next to him, and she stared back, her green eyes equally outraged but cold.
"And what would you do? Break his chains and fight for him to the death?" she snapped. "This is not a play, Matthias, pain is real and death is real and you need to learn when to fight and when to back away because here the odds are almost never in your favour."
Matthias' eyebrows shot up. "Ah. You are a genius, Liz," he smirked, extricating his arm with ease from her grasp and bowing to place a kiss on her cheek. "Help me, will you?"
The woman shot him a deadly glare. "What idiocy has crossed your mind this time?"
"These people are here for entertainment," Matthias stated grimly, "and I will give them entertainment."
His eyes found a deserted spot at the edge of the square, well away from the scaffold, and he strode off resolutely, pushing the townsfolk out of his way somewhat more roughly than it was really needed. Elizaveta drew herself closer to her remaining companions and together they watched with identically resigned expression on their faces as Matthias recomposed his features almost effortlessly into a cheerful mask and began to shout from the top of his lungs.
"My friends! Gather around to witness a tale of bravery, love and betrayal unravel right before your eyes!"
Elizaveta and Arthur exchanged nonplussed looks as Matthias launched into the prologue of a play and the townsfolk began to edge closer curiously, forgetting about the previous object of their amusement.
"We should go and join that idiot before the crowd flays him alive, I guess," Elizaveta sighed. "Come, Gil, and don't you dare take off that wig, we're in enough trouble as it is."
"You do that," Arthur muttered, still staring incredulously, "and I will run to the inn and send you Feliks. You will forgive me if I don't rejoin you, but I will need to watch my brat of a brother and I've had more than my share of insanity for today."
"Traitor," Elizaveta hissed back, and made her way through an audience already entranced, dragging a madly grinning albino after her, while Matthias watched their progress with a badly disguised look of triumph on his face.
Rhythmic inflexions coaxed Lukas awake, playing a hypnotic tune against the closed barriers of his mind, but when at last he opened his eyes to narrow indigo slits, the soothing refrain was lost to a loud voice pounding irritatingly in his ears. The light was too bright and the voices too strong and he retreated again within the confines of his dormant consciousness, wondering why the deafening accents had seemed so oddly familiar.
The second time he came to, a hand was brushing through his hair, scraping away the flecks of dried mud that had sealed the long strands uncomfortably against his skin, and he pulled back with a jolt, his vision still clouded but his body instantly alert for danger. A low hiss escaped his lips when his restrained wrists kept him in place.
"Easy, I won't hurt you," Berwald's deep voice murmured, and Lukas blinked the fog away from his eyes. The large man was leaning over him, his expression unreadable and his right hand still outstretched.
"Emil?.." Lukas croaked, his throat still dry and throbbing.
"He's no worse," Berwald answered, picking up a flask of water from the ground and holding it to Lukas' lips, waiting patiently for the other man to drink with slow, tentative swallows. "I took him back to his cell and Tino has not left his side since."
Lukas shook his head to push the flask away and looked Berwald straight in the eyes, his gaze so piercing that Berwald felt the urge to look away.
"If you still want to help, don't leave them alone in that prison. Don't let them spend the night alone and unprotected. Something... somebody is going to great lengths to get their hands on us no matter what and there's no certainty that a handful of easily corrupted guards or some locked doors will stop them."
Berwald frowned. "I would be in a better position to help you," he retorted sternly, "if you trusted me enough to tell me what you did to make the Church single you and your brother out of everyone else as their target."
Lukas kept his mouth shut and stared back stubbornly and Berwald shook his head in disapproval.
"Fine," he said, standing up to leave. "I will remain by your brother tonight, this much I can promise."
"Wait!" Lukas called, another piece of memory falling back into place. "What happened with my case of medicines?"
Berwald paused and searched his mind. "I believe," he said at last, "I saw Prior Tobias give it to that old man, the healer, on my way out."
"Oh for fuck's sake," Lukas cursed. "Whatever you do, don't allow that old fraud to keep it. He's too much of a fool to have the faintest idea what to do with it and he'll end up killing someone with the wrong medicine." And put the blame on us for sure, if we're still here to take it.
Berwald nodded, but his lips were drawn in a thin line. "I hope you understand before it's too late," he said warningly, "that everything you've done so far only makes this predicament more difficult for yourself."
"Yes, I need to understand," Lukas whispered as the other man turned away. "I need to understand so I know how to fight back."
His reasoning had broken free from the bonds of lethargy and despair during his unwilling rest, and he had no words to describe the relief he felt to have his mind once again as his own and ablaze with thoughts. He had to think, he had to plan and raise his defenses, and with his body thrall to the will of his captors, a clear mind was the sole weapon he possessed.
The sun was still high up, shining dully from behind the layer of clouds that had concealed the sky for the better part of the week, and Lukas counted with an involuntary shudder the number of hours still left of his ordeal. His arms were fastened at an awkward angle high above his head and a painful pressure was building down his arms and into his shoulders, and he pulled sharply at his chains, but all he earned was a reprimand and a curse from the guards who had kept themselves out of his sight and now saw fit to approach and take up their position at the edge of the scaffold. Lukas sighed and dismissed them from his attention, grudgingly thankful to know them by his side as his only shield against the mob gathered just a few steps away and bound to turn back on him at a moment's whim. Wave after wave of cruel faces and jeering calls emerged nauseatingly from his memory and he wondered tensely what sort of miracle could be keeping them so enthralled. The wall of their bodies covered whatever was going on in their midst and all he could hear was a soft woman's voice, reciting - or chanting - something unintelligible. The woman paused and men's voices followed, seemingly locked in a fight, both loud and jarring in their intonation, one disturbingly familiar, and Lukas winced when he recognized the raucous tones that had grated so on his half-awoken mind. A man's head and torso came into view above the crowd - he must have climbed on a bench or some other sort of support, Lukas reasoned - and when he spoke the same obnoxious voice came out of his mouth. The man turned around but his gaze flew over his audience and trained unerringly on the chained prisoner, and seeing him awake and watching, his expression faltered for a brief moment into something similar to relief, quickly disguised by a wide smile. Lukas stared back into the icy blue eyes he remembered only too well, and his breath hitched in disbelief when the other man grinned and winked at him openly, as if they were two old friends, accomplices in the same prank.
"This must be a sick joke," Lukas groaned and closed his eyes, willing the outside world away.
Berwald pushed the heavy cell door open and his strained posture loosened when his gaze fell on the violet-eyed boy, pale and tense but thankfully unharmed, and he stepped in, carefully closing the door behind him. He had left the cell unlocked to allow Tino to call for help should the child's condition worsen, and he had regretted his decision as soon as the elder prisoner's warning had wormed its way into his mind, making him hasten his pace as much as he could without running. Earlier that day he had brought in two chairs, and he pulled one over by the wall, sitting down heavily and unbuckling his sword to place it next to him on the floor.
Tino looked up and smiled sadly from his place next to the bed, where he had been wiping Emil's brow with a wet cloth, and Berwald's heart ached as he watched them, both so young and innocent, so out of place in the middle of the dingy cell lit by the flame of a single candle.
"Is he better?" he asked, and Tino shrugged.
"It's too early to tell. If Lukas remembered well, Emil was given some sort of snakeroot brew, that's an herb, a few drops are an antidote, in larger quantities it's a poison itself, quite a contradiction, I don't think I've ever seen Lukas use it, he must have been keeping it as a last resort, and Emil swallowed quite a lot but he threw most of it up right away so he should be fine in the end, and I will need you to bring me some more water soon, oh and I'm babbling again, I'm so sorry," he added hastily at the sight of Berwald's confused expression. "How is Lukas faring? Did they harm him? He seemed so... so lost, I've never seen him like this, ever."
Berwald frowned again. "He's fine now. As foul-mouthed and obstinate as before. It's a miracle that he did not receive a worse punishment or that the crowd did not hurt him in some way."
Tino's face grew hard and he threw the cloth forcefully in the bowl he kept at hand, splashing water over the edge. "Please don't say this. He's not had an easy life, not by any stretch of the imagination and though I may not like it, I understand why he acts like he does. You must rescue them if you can, Berwald, please."
As unwilling as Berwald was to pry and chance losing the trust of the one person who in such short a time had seen beyond his unwelcoming appearance and accepted him for what he was, he sensed something strange and, given the circumstances, downright dangerous in this unlikely alliance between the jaded prisoner accused of such heavy crimes and Tino, so kind and trusting, a connection strong enough to turn both of them so fiercely protective.
"I will do everything in my power for the child, but," he said warily, "how can I save someone who does not know how to accept help? That man is hiding something, and as long as he will not speak to me nor heed my warnings there is not much I can do to protect him."
Tino lowered his eyes and took hold again of the drenched cloth, wringing it out and placing it neatly on the silver-haired boy's brow. The silence that followed was only broken by Emil's uneven breathing and seemed to drag on forever as Tino combed his fingers through the other boy's tangled locks. Finally he sighed and his violet gaze turned back to Berwald, equally pleading and challenging.
"I will tell you something I've never shared with anyone before, and I trust you will not use this against my friends. Six years ago," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "a disease of the lungs spread through our town, and my mother and I caught it somehow. We were both growing weaker day after day and the healer was at a loss of what to do, he kept giving us worthless medicine, until one evening he decided to bleed us. I was lying in that bed and I didn't even know I was dying, that my life was seeping away with every drop of blood, everything felt like a twisted dream. And then Lukas came. I don't know why, I don't know how, but he brought me back, Berwald, one moment I was knocking at death's gates, the following I was awake and healed. And I could not let him go. My mother had died that night and I was but a child and I clang to him. I did not know it back then, but he was on the run, hiding from something, and yet he came back for me and never moved on.
"It is true that he is different than the rest of us, and probably Emil is as well, but I promise they are not the monsters they make them out to be. I cannot tell you more for Lukas never speaks much about himself, at least not about anything that matters, and I never asked. Maybe something from their past caught up with them, or maybe they made new enemies. But they are my only friends and now I feel guilty for asking them to stay."
Tears glistened in Tino's eyes, ready to be shed, and Berwald reached out and brushed his fingers along the boy's face. "I understand," he said softly, and to his amazement, Tino did not draw away but pressed his warm cheek against his hand.
As the evening came near, mist drifted through the streets, in the beginning nothing more than a dampness in the air that soon condensed in a thin veil floating about like humid smoke and consuming all remnants of the feeble warmth that still lingered in the wake of the setting sun. It was getting colder and colder by the hour and not long after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon the mist thickened to an opaque wall that tried to squeeze its way through the tiniest cracks in doors or windows.
There was just a window open on the tall facade of the inn, all the others having been bolted shut against the cold for quite some time, and anyone passing underneath would have shuddered at the sight of the albino man peering through the mist like a colourless ghost. He was leaning out dangerously, trying to make out shapes in the darkened fog, but even the nearest houses were nothing more than faint stretches of black behind the murky shroud.
"This fog is as weird as they come, it's almost like it had a mind of its own and was prowling around to seize unsuspecting travellers," he turned his head to smirk towards his yet unseen companions.
"Do we have to wait for it to snatch you away as well before we can close that bloody window?" Arthur's sullen voice retorted and Gilbert rolled his eyes but slammed the window shut. Several vapory tendrils floated past him and dissipated in the indoor warmth.
"There was nothing to see anyway, it's getting too damn cold for anyone to go outside in this weather," the albino huffed and, throwing himself face down on his bed, he reached into the knapsack that stood wide open on the other side with pieces of clothing poking out haphazardly.
"Yes, yes, whatever keeps you happy and quiet," Arthur mumbled absent-mindedly. He had taken possession of the room's only table and turned it into a mess of scribbled paper, and he was tracing a neat path across a fresh sheet with an ink-stained quill held tightly in his equally stained fingers.
"It's still beyond my understanding," Gilbert said, his voice muffled, "why you could not stay and work in your own room." He had finished ransacking his bag without coming across the object of his search, and was now reaching under the bed with his face buried in the coverlet.
"Because, as much as it pains me to admit it," Arthur answered, lifting his gaze briefly from his papers, "putting my brother in the same room as Feliks ends up in more chaos than you two twits combined could ever conjure."
"We are getting old," Gilbert sighed theatrically, "and must contend ourselves with more peaceful pastimes." He emerged triumphantly with a deck of cards in his hand. "What do you say mate, do you want to try and win your money back?"
The target of his question was lying on his own bed, fully dressed and with his long, booted legs dangling over the edge. There was distant look in his eyes, and his once cheerful face was set in hard lines. "As far as I remember it was the other way around, and no," he said, and lifting himself on his elbows he stood up and reached for the coat hanging carelessly on the bedstead.
"Where do you think you're going in this weather?" Gilbert asked, but Matthias ignored him and buttoned up his coat.
"Not everyone is allowed to take shelter tonight," he answered finally, heading for the door. His two companions exchanged a worried look.
"Matthias," the albino said carefully, and the other man turned his head with his hand on the door handle. "I think you are simply deprived. In a few days we reach a larger town and you'll find plenty of company to warm your bed for a pittance, both women and men, a dime a dozen. He is handsome, I'll grant him that, but even if he were not... what they say he is, it's not worth it to put your life even more on the line for the sake of a pretty face."
Matthias stared back with a blank face but his knuckles were white on the handle. "I'm not expecting any of you to understand," he said dryly and, stepping over the threshold, he closed the door firmly behind him.
The fog embraced Matthias like a long-lost possession as he paced silently down the empty streets. The hour was late and nothing stirred behind the tightly sealed shutters but for flickering lamplights shining timidly here and there, at the edge of a world of swerving obscurity. He had no choice but to feel his way around the corners in slow progression, and for a short while he believed himself hopelessly lost, the streets he had come to know now disguised into a tortuous labyrinth. A wrong turn, and then another carried him into a narrow back alley and he paused under a long, unplastered stone wall to consider his choices. Even if he were to retrace his steps, he was under no illusion he would find the right way so easily, so he kicked at the wall in annoyance and slid down on the cobblestones. The stirred up mist settled back around his body, but as he sat still he became aware of a slow shift in the vapors against his exposed palms, like an undercurrent following a separate path. Intrigued, he pulled his right sleeve up and reached out, holding his arm perfectly motionless and a soft, damp breeze brushed against his skin. It seemed to float steadily to his right along the wall, and he stood up and edged forward carefully, keeping his eyes on the ground. Not far away, a darker patch stood out against the stones and Matthias came closer and crouched in front of it. He had come across an opening in the wall, blocked by thick iron bars, through which the mist poured down in dense waves. It was pitch black inside and as much as Matthias squinted he could only make out a rectangular outline vaguely luminescent in the darkness, surely the contours of a door lit up from the outside by a distant glow, and yet he needed nothing more to understand that he had strayed as far as a yet unfamiliar side of the Watch House. His whereabouts were now plain and he dismissed the strange vapory phenomenon, skimming along the wall in search of a breach that would lead him around the building and into known territory.
By the time Matthias reached the wide street leading up to the town square, his lungs were drawing breath sluggishly, unwilling to take in any more of the air suffused with freezing moisture, and he paused to rest against a tree trunk. The road lay straight in front of him and at the very end a faint light seemed to glow, nearly concealed behind thick veils of haze. It shone close to the ground, flickering elusively in and out of sight, and Matthias smiled, half-forgotten tales of wayfarers led astray by mischievous marsh lights crossing his mind for the first time in so many years. He still loved those bittersweet stories with their ghosts and fairies carrying their everburning lanterns through the mist to lure unwary travellers, sometimes to buried treasure, often to death and, as he resumed his strides, he found himself wishing the legends were real, just for one night, so he could tempt his fate and join in that magical game of unfair odds and irresistible rewards.
And yet it was a mere oil lamp that had guided his steps, with the flame encased in tall glass against the humidity. It had been left on the scaffold to throw a narrow circle of light around the chained prisoner, and Matthias approached slowly, mesmerized by the shadows dancing on the captive's finely carved features, endlessly reshaping them into a shifting mask of sharpened curves and deepened angles of an almost otherworldly allure.
Lukas' eyes were closed but he was clearly awake, his back too straight and his head too high and his fingers clenching and unclenching weakly against his shackles, and yet he seemed oblivious to the other's man presence, even as Matthias drew ever so close, until nothing more than an arm's length separated them. Matthias faltered. He had left the warmth of his room driven solely by instinct, without any plan or expectation, and now he felt certain that no amount of thinking would have helped him cope with such an unnatural apathy. For too long had he thrived on chaos, on action and reaction, and he no longer knew how to act in the presence of silence. He hated how this strange man with his strange ways had made him question his every thought and deed hundreds of times in the span of only three days, yet for Lukas himself he felt nothing but the purest awe and fascination. It was his own hesitation he loathed, so unlike anything else in his nature, that kept him even now paralyzed though there was nothing he wanted more than to shake that living statue awake and to rend his shield of impassivity apart, piece by piece, until he reached the fierce core of which he had only caught too brief a glimpse.
Still he needed to quench somehow the inescapable longing to feel the touch of that snowy skin under his fingertips and slowly, reverently he reached out and brushed his fingers against the other man's pale face. His skin was soft but cold, so cold that Matthias' warm hands felt as hot as embers next to it, and he drew back hastily, as if afraid he might leave a burning trail on the flawless ivory.
And it was then that Lukas' eyes finally snapped open, pushing Matthias another step back with the simple weight of their unwavering gaze, and for a long moment Matthias forgot how to breathe, trapped in the indigo deepened by shadows into fathomless pools of darkness. But then Lukas blinked once, twice, breaking the spell and Matthias drew a deep breath into his empty lungs.
"You… you startled me," he spoke, his voice out of place in the lingering silence. "I am Matthias," he added, holding out his hand by force of habit, and then dropped it guiltily at the sight of the prisoner's bound arms, silently cursing his clumsiness.
Lukas raised an elegant eyebrow in mock amazement. "So incredibly fortunate that out of all who could have tried to assault me tonight I end up with the one who's so considerate that he takes the time to introduce himself beforehand."
Matthias' eyes widened, horrified at the implication. "No, no, you've got me all wrong, I've not come to hurt you," he blurted out, waving his arms in denial.
"Then why are you here?" Lukas retorted, watching him through narrowed eyelids. "I don't believe anyone would bother to come here at this time of the night unless he means some harm, or," he added as an afterthought, "unless he's a complete idiot."
"I must be an idiot then," Matthias laughed, his confidence restored by means of the familiar banter, and he approached again to sit down on the edge of the scaffold. It brought him even closer to the prisoner than before, and small details hidden by distance and shadows were now uncovered to his probing gaze. Lukas' lips were tinged with a bluish hue, and when he fell silent he held his jaw rigidly tight, as if to keep his teeth from clattering, and all of a sudden Matthias understood why the captive's skin had been so cold to his touch.
"You're freezing," he stated matter-of-factly and without wasting time to consider it, he jumped to his feet on the scaffold and took Lukas' hands in his own. They felt as icy as he had expected, and disturbingly unpliant, and he clutched the frozen fingers, trying to coax some warmth back into them. Lukas hissed angrily and struggled to pull his hands away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped, glaring upwards at the other man, but for once Matthias remained unfazed.
"Do you really want to lose your fingers to frostbite?" he scolded, and when Lukas stopped moving he resumed rubbing his hands unhindered. Lukas inhaled sharply from pain as blood began to flow back with a vengeance through his frozen limbs and Matthias bent his head to breathe warm air soothingly on his fingers. He only let go when Lukas was finally able to bend his fingers again freely, and he dropped to his knees on the wooden boards, looking the other man straight in the eyes.
"I have not given you any reason to mistrust me," he said, his expression stern, "so please believe me when I say that I only mean to help you. If I leave you like this you will most likely freeze to death until morning and there's only one way in which I can keep you warm."
Lukas did not answer back, watching warily as Matthias began to unbutton his coat. Matthias sighed heavily, for the prisoner looked as if only his restrains were keeping him from punching him in the guts or running away or both. And, before the other man could react, Matthias pulled him tightly into his arms, closing his coat as closely as it allowed over both of them. Lukas stiffened in his embrace, and his chains clattered with a short, ugly sound, but Matthias kept his arms perfectly still on his back.
"It's all right, I won't hurt you, I promise," he whispered, and Lukas began to give in to the warmth in spite of himself.
"You're not as frightening as you think," he muttered grudgingly, "I just don't like to be touched, is all."
Matthias laughed softly. "Oh, shut up and try to rest of you can," he said and smiled in relief when Lukas sighed and let his head fall on his shoulder. Lukas' long, golden strands felt soft against his neck and when he looked down he could see those mystifying eyes, half-concealed behind thick eyelashes, staring thoughtfully into nowhere.
The light of dawn was breaking feebly through the clouds and the fog had dissipated to a translucent haze when Matthias felt the other man stir in his arms.
"You should leave now, they will come to take me away soon," he heard Lukas whisper, and Matthias unfolded his arms reluctantly from around the slender form. His limbs were numb and his eyes were burning from the fatigue of spending the entire night awake, trying to support Lukas' body in the hope that the other man might sleep, and as he staggered up a thousand needles stabbed at his legs.
"Be safe," he murmured, fighting the urge to draw his fingers through Lukas' hair.
Lukas stared back with blank eyes. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.
Matthias scoured his mind frantically. There were dozens of answers he could give, but he chose the one that at that moment seemed to be the most sincere. "I don't really know," he sighed.
Lukas turned away, the shade of a feeling flashing through his eyes, gone before the other man could even recognize it. "Thank you," he whispered almost indistinctly. As Matthias' steps moved slowly away he looked up, yet his gaze did not follow the retreating figure but the shadows slithering back into dark corners, chased away by the light of the morning sun.
Author's note: This chapter got out of hand to such an extent that it ended up about two times longer and ten times more difficult to write than I first believed. And on top of everything I did not like how the last part turned out so I slept on it... for about two weeks, and without changing much to it either. Sorry.
I thank you all for reading and reviewing and adding my story to your favs and alerts even though I take so long to update, and my special thanks go to Dalasport for listening to my rants about chapters that drag on forever and other plot-related insecurities.
For the Anonymous reviewer to whom I could not answer by PM: I'm sorry about the cliffhanger, I was not happy with it either... but I promise I wrote a little almost every day, it's just that I'm slow and I did not want to cut this part in two as well. I can only hope that this chapter was worth the wait.
If you want to ask me something or point out things that I'm doing wrong, please do - it would be a great help, and even though I'm only able to write depressing prose, I'm actually quite friendly.