Chapter Seven
Blackness enveloped them completely. She could not see before her. To her disgust, she had to reach out to feel the walls. They felt cold and hard. Maybe, the assassin was made of the stones from this cave. Laelithra would not doubt it. He was cruel to her on many occasions; hard and cold.
Immediately, the assassin placed his arm around her shoulders. She felt the brush of his sash as it swayed against the worn, blood-stained cloth of her dress.
With each movement of the plain material, dread grew in the young girl. It washed over her, coating her with its ebony, viscous substance. Her heart hammered in her chest as they journeyed into the bowels of the cave. As they walked further, her stomach twisted into knots. Bile and lunch threatened to overcome her. If she could even call what they had earlier lunch. To Laelithra, no man could cook a decent meal.
When she traveled with her father, he would fix some version of sauerkraut. The yellow cabbage gave off a smell that reeked worse than when her father went tromping through sewers. It would rise and fall as if it was breathing. There was nothing she could have done about it. Sauerkraut was a traditional staple, and her father had insisted on it. One of the main reasons was the fermented cabbage kept while some of the other ingredients did not.
Yet, the sauerkraut did not matter to her. He had made her eat herbs and mosses until those in his garden had begun to run out. She knew what followed the ingestion of those herbs. Diarrhea. Upset Stomach. Vomiting.
On the other side, there was Geralt. Smiling, she remembered what kind of cook he was.
The stars started to emerge behind the mass of clouds overhead. One by one, they twinkled and reminded the young girl of the fireflies floating around the campfire. They illuminated Geralt, making him appear like a ghostly visage. He leaned against a stump, stretching out his legs. Slowly, he brought his finger up to the medallion and pushed it, causing the wolf's head to spin. The fire gleamed on the buckles and latches of his tall, leather boots and tight trousers and the rubied eyed wolf's head medallion.. Dark circles lined the bottom of his eyes, wrinkling the flesh and scars. Geralt had not slept well since he had known Laelithra. It was beginning to show. Her dreams in the light of day and night terrors in the blackness of night. She would never tell him what she dreamed or the cause of the hysteria. 'Make no mistake, child. He will die" was the only thing he could glean from her. Often, he would tell her it was just a dream before lapsing into silence while he held her. Laelithra had no reason not to believe it and would fall to sleep in his arms. The stars started to emerge from behind the mass of clouds overhead. One by one, they twinkled and reminded the young girl of the fireflies floating around the campfire. They illuminated Geralt, making him appear as a He leaned against a stump, stretching out his legs. Slowly, he brought his finger up to the medallion and pushed it, causing the wolf's head to spin. The fire gleamed on the buckles and latches of his tall, leather boots and tight trousers and the rubied eyed wolf's head medallion.. Dark circles lined the underside of his eyes, wrinkling the flesh and scars. Geralt had not slept well since he had known Laelithra. It was beginning to show: her dreams in the light of day and night terrors in the blackness of night. She would never tell him what she dreamed or the cause of the hysteria. 'Make no mistake, child. He will die" was the only thing he could glean from her. Often, he would tell her it was just a dream before lapsing into silence while he held her. Laelithra had no reason not to believe it and would fall asleep in his arms. Tearing her gaze away from Geralt, she bent and picked up a wooden spoon. A cool spring breeze surrounded both of them in its welcoming embrace. It made her platinum hair flutter in the wind. Her dress clung to her, revealing the lanky twig-like legs. Slowly, she dipped the spoon into the pot above of the fire. The grey lump of glutenous broth seethed, spreading thin bubbles across its surface. Occasionally, bits of uniform ashen-colored meat would surface and rest atop of the ooze. It was not long until the viscous material would swallow the bits of heart once more. As the spoon penetrated, the broth quivered all around it. With a grunt of effort, she began to stir the liquid. It protested. Laelithra wondered if the broth was alive. Raising the spoon to her lips, she stared at the portions of meat and liquid. She grimaced. As the smell of rancid meat wafted to her, she fought down the urge to gag. Coughing, she could feel bits of their breakfast rise in her throat.
Yet, she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and tasted the witcher's fetid meal. Instantly, a wave of revulsion came over her. Her body's reaction to the food was harsh. Laelithra's stomach heaved at the sensations. The broth seemed to bite at her taste buds. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tried not to throw up. "Ugh," she moaned, calling out across the camp to Geralt. His fingers stopped in motion, causing the medallion to twirl. Over the amulet and embers of fire, his eyes sparkled with an emotion he often tried to hide. One of the corner of his mouth tried to pull itself up into a crooked, ugly smile. "What?" he asked, innocently. "This is...its...ugh," she moaned again. "It's not good. It tastes like something that came out of the Roach's arse!" "How many times do I have to tell you not to swear?" he replied, seriously. His eyes did not harden as he spoke. "Cooking does not interest me like alchemy or creature lore. If I make the food, I don't care if it tastes good. I only care that it gives me what I need. If I wanted it to taste good, I would have someone else make it." "You bought saffron, did you not?" "Well, will you please hand me some and the bottle of that alcohol you always drink?" she asked, softly. At first, she thought he was going to refuse. Geralt of Rivia had her fetch things. It was part of her training. Then, she heard the creaking sound of leather in motion. Geralt walked to the little girl's side in a purposeful stride. He bent and gave her a few purple petaled flowers before taking the spoon. "I'm going to show you that food does not need to look, smell, and taste like some monster's corpse you sell for coin," she quipped. Instantly, she saw the scowl appear on his face. For a brief moment, she wondered why he always frowned. She took the bottle of rye from him and dumped some into the pot. "What are you doing?" he cried. Geralt snatched the bottle away from her and took a long pull from the bottle. "I'm trying to thin out this...I don't even know what to call it. Stir." Instantly, Geralt started to stir it. The alcohol merged with the oozing broth. They converged, thinning out and becoming a smoother liquid. Still, there were lumps of the gelatinous substance. One by one, she picked the stamens of the dried herb out between the petals. As she was doing so, a smell released from the flowers. Laelithra could only be reminded of her father's barn. She dropped one of the stamens into the broth as Geralt continued to stir. "It's already starting to smell good," he complimented. He took some of the broth and the spoon to his lips to taste it. "Stop!" she cried out, feigning concern. "Leave it alone, or you'll ruin it." Next, she did something unlikely. Quickly, she reached up and slapped his hand away. Geralt stared at her for a long moment. His eyes widened in surprise. Gold wreathed in flame. Of course, he had never expected her to actually hit him. For a long moment, he surveyed the girl. Geralt's thin lips quivered as if anger was washing over him. Laelithra held his gaze with her own dark one. How was he going to react? The young girl did not know of any time he lost himself in anger and beat her. Yet, the fear of what other men had done reared itself. To the surprise of Laelithra, the male witcher started to chuckle. It was a dry sounding laugh, but it was special in The two looked silly, standing there with each other while the witcher laughed. Laelithra came up to his side, and he resembled a man that could be old enough to be her grandfather. Despite Laelithra forcing him to take her with him, the two co-existed and were somewhat happy.
He nodded his reply, quickly. Instantly, he went back to spinning the medallion.
She was happy then, or she was happier than she was now. It was at that moment that she realized exactly what Geralt of Rivia was to her. He was her mentor and trainer. However, he was her friend. The assassin was not, and she feared him. Looking through the blackness, she watched his gleaming eyes nervously.
They passed cavern after cavern. The two traveled deeper into the bowels of Laelithra's personal hell until they came to the center room.
Three braziers lined each wall, casting an ominous glow. Thick lines of blood blanketed the walls, streaking down. Several had fingernails lodged in them as individuals tried to claw their way away from something. Strange colored stalactites hung low from the ceiling, shimmering silvery-red in the firelight. In the center, there was a throne carved from the living rock itself.
A woman sat on the throne with her legs crossed. Long, ashen hair covered her exposed breasts, curving around her sides. Clear eyes stared out of smooth, grey flesh. Tiny fangs glistened in the flickering light. As she saw them, she rose. In her right hand, her clawed fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass filled with a thick, crimson liquid. It slithered from her movement as if it was alive. Ah, Brother. You have returned, and you have brought your quarry. This pleases me.
The assassin dropped down to his knees in the presence of this woman. As he prostrated before her, his lips kissed the ground she walked on. He reminded Laelithra of an animal. Why doesn't he raise his eyes to her? She asked herself.
Child of Viktor, I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I am Ellarian Jhaer, and you- you will be very useful to me.
Laelithra felt the creature lift one of her arms. The air rushed past her cheek, caressing it like a mother's touch. As the bruxa brought her clawed hand down, buzzing sounded in her ears. The light flashed behind her eyes.
Blood. Terror. Darkness.
…...
The blood roared in her ears. A thick, dull pain started thumping at the center of her head before arcing across her entire brain like chain-lightning moving across the clouds. Light flashed behind her eyes, sparking with each pulse of throbbing agony. She moved. As she wormed on the dirty, rocky floor, flames of distress seared into her ankles and wrists. When she moaned softly, she found she could barely open her mouth. Her bottom lip resembled a leech, swelling with blood. It stung as she whimpered, throbbing with an incessant, stabbing sensation. Dirt and tiny fragments of rock and bone ground into the wound on her lips, reopening the split. Laelithra tried to spit out the debris and blood that stuck to her tongue and to the inside of her mouth. It was a futile effort because she lay face down on the floor. Every time she spit, more of the dirt, rock, and bone would cling to her bloody lips. Blood dripped in rhythmic plops on the floor beneath her.
She flipped onto her back. As her back hit the ground, a groan was pushed out of her lungs and quietly through her cracked, swollen lips. Her dirty hair soaked in the quarter sized puddles of blood on the floor. The platinum ends tinted red, and pieces of gore plastered strands of it together. Laelithra was laying next to the throne with her wrists and ankles bound by a thick, braided rope. Each strain of material cut deep within her ankles and wrists, making more of her blood rise to the surface. Plasma wet the twine. Beside her and the throne, a wooden table stood proudly. In the center, there was a silver tray with plump, violet and green grapes and a long, stemmed glass filled with a crimson liquid. Immediately, her stomach growled with hunger and revulsion. Because she had seen much in her young life, she knew the congealing liquid was blood.
Sniffling drifted from the front of the room to her. It surrounded her, burning deeply into her thoughts. The sound triggered a deep, buried memory. As it washed over her like a wave, she tried to bring her hands up to cover her ears. Her stomach contracted in distress. Sticky strains of rope forbade the movement, and her wrists burned in agony as a result.
The light from the braziers flickered, making skin and objects glow like rubies. Blood coated the walls in places, peeling off as it dried. It landed on the floor, adding to the small piles of blood flakes, bone chips, and strips of flesh that were already strewn about.
"Stop being a baby!" a masculine voice boomed from the entrance of the stone room. "It is an honor to become one with the Mistress. You shall see, little brother."
Lifting up her head, she stared into the dark entrance of the room. Occasionally, sunlight would filter through cracks in the high ceiling. Particles of dust and ore floated in the beams of light. She tried to see who the man was talking to. The recognition hammered in her heart. Anger and fear mixed deep within her. She closed her eyes. Perhaps, the images would leave her if she refused to look at them.
Opening her eyes, she refocused on the entrance of the cavernous room. Anxiety twisted her insides, making them feel like knotted ropes. Her stomach cramped and fluttered. She tried to ignore the feeling, to make it go away, but it stayed with her. The agony slammed into her chest like a battering ram. Once more, she squeezed her eyes shut.
It was a possibility that the creature and the assassin had given her whatever was in the goblet the female monster was holding. Any number of herbs would make her hallucinate. Snapping her lips, she tried to taste what they had given her.
A number of children would have reacted similarly. Once, she tried to find out what kind of ferns, mosses, and mushrooms her father fed her. Viktor locked those special herbs down in the cellar. Darkness ruled in that cellar, bathing all in its murkiness. Because Laelithra was a child, the herbs and mushrooms had to come from the forest and the cave's beyond her father's small cottage. One night, her father commanded her to run the trail passing through their woods and near the opening of the cave. Confidence flooded her veins as she was sure he gathered the plants there. Immediately, the young girl gathered all kinds of mushrooms: thick ones with wide caps, pale ones, and iridescent blue ones.
Much later, sickness and fever spread like wildfire throughout her body. Her father caught the poisoning in time, giving her an antidote to the various mushrooms she ate. His kindness was followed by a cruel warning: do not ingest plants when she did not know their properties. For trying to find out the herbs and eating ones she had no knowledge of, he had beaten her mercilessly. Despite the barbaric practice, Viktor had taught her a valuable lesson. Laelithra would never again look for the strange herbs.
As she licked her cracked, bloody lips, no distinct herbal taste sprang to her memory. Her lips stung, swelling to encompass most of the lower part of her face. She felt like someone punched her in her mouth. The young girl did not know how she injured her mouth. Once more, she smacked her lips. Tiny, sticky strains of ebony blood, dirt, and saliva stretched from her top lip to her bottom, making it appear like thin, gory spiderwebs.
Forcing her eyes open, she stared at the entrance of the room again. The light angled down, creating a blue aura around the man. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and drew up to his full height. His chest huffed out, creating the illusion that he was bigger. To Laelithra, she found the masculine display queer. Although she did not realize it at the time, the men she knew in her life did not have to show such a display of prowess. Women approached Geralt and her father. Laelithra was too young to understand what the women wanted from the two witchers. Much later, she would learn.
A movement caught her eyes, forcing her to concentrate through the blinding pain throbbing in her head. Surprise sucked the air from her body. Her eyes widened, and the pain caused a flash of light again. She knew it was no dream.
The sunlight streamed down, making the boy's face seem eerily pale. She recognized the ebony livery with gold and white swirl and half-loop embroidering. Half loops swirled up his dark tunic, twisting around his collar. Two tiny scabbards rubbed against the dark legs of his trousers. A dark leather baldric raced up, crisscrossing the boy's chest. Unlike the man before him and the assassin who abducted her, the boy made no effort to hide the strips of thick leather. Several metals were attached to the black leather. Platinum, straight hair framed his face, swept forward, and stopped at chin-length. Haunting, clear eyes stared out of his fair face. The eyes were so familiar, but so different. He was on her mind since that terrible time those many years ago. For as long as she could remember, she would not forget the look in his eyes.
eside her, Hare quivered and whined. He shook with fear and revulsion. Hare reacted like any toddler would in his situation. He was frightened, and she tried to comfort him. Even at such a tender age, Laelithra was uncomfortable showing her emotions. Her father beat them out of her. It would take another damaged soul eighteen years to repair the lasting damage wrought by her childhood. Closing her eyes, she could hear his sharp, frantic breathing.
A part of her resented her brother. He was the oldest. Hare should have been the one comforting her. Once more, she opened her eyes and pressed his head more tightly into her flat chest. The young girl chastised herself silently because she knew Hare could not help the way he was no more than she could help the way she was. Emotionless. Flat. Uncaring. Guilty.
A wheezing sound snapped her eyes to another body on the floor. She knew the woman. It was her mother's friend. Her lavish ivory robe turned crimson as the blood puddled from the deep wound to her stomach. Laelithra could see the long, grey intestines spill from the wound and roll over her side. They lay in a mass on the floor, soaking in their own fluids. Ebony, curly hair lay soaking in blood, springing tightly against the crown of her head and slender slope of her neck. She tried to pick up her guts and stuffed them back into the open wound. Yet, it was to no avail. Tumbling between her hands, they slipped from her grasp.
Hare continued to sob within her chest.
Shuffling sounded on the porch. It reminded Laelithra that they were not alone. Earlier that day, the man with strange eyes barged in during dinner. With fear, she and Hare watched him savagely murder them all. A part of her felt anguish over what he did to her father and her mother's friend. For the first time since she had seen what his razor-sharp sword could do, she shivered. Would he finish what he started?
As the noise on the porch sounded nearer, Hare's eyes widened. She could read the terror deep in his gaze. While she tried to deny her own, it coated her insides like a black sludge. In the end, the child was a defenseless, scared, little girl.
Suddenly, the door swung wide open and crashed into the wall with a loud thump. Bright sunlight filtered into the room. The blood on the floor shined crimson, reflecting the bodies laying on top of it. Sweet scent of June flowers-flowers their mother had planted early that season-wafted into the room. June Flowers. With anguish, Laelithra realized they would never grow there again. No one would plant them, and no one would care for them. Her mother's work would be forever gone.
The strange man she would later call Father stood framed against the door. His long, ivory ponytail rested on his right shoulder, traveling down to the middle of his breast. Wrinkles creased the corners of his clear, slitted eyes and betrayed his age. Thin lips scowled. Blood smeared on his dark jerkin and white linen shirt. It dotted several of the bottles of elixir strapped to the baldric crisscrossing his chest. "Both of you will come with me now," he growled, softly. His voice sounded metallic as if it was made from the very ore of the planet.
Whether it was bravado, the tiny wisp of a child stood up and stepped before Hare. She would protect him from the man. Crossing her arms, she glared at him. Neither child said a word.
"Gather supplies both of you think you will need. We will leave Rivia behind us tonight."
"I am not going anywhere with you," Hare squeaked from behind her. Laelithra did not need to see his eyes to know his fear. His voice was thick enough with it.
Viktor did not utter a word. Instead, he strolled to them in slow, deliberate steps. The young girl knew he meant to frightened them into submission. After all, it was what most men did. He reached his hand up and gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of a sharp sword. Quicker than she thought possible, the blade leaped into his waiting hand.
Laelithra shivered as he continued to walk towards them. She remembered the way the fire gleamed off of it as the blade sank deep within the stomach of the woman gasping like a fish on the floor. Her father was a tanner before his death. The young girl remembered all the knifes he had worked with. Once, she had cut herself on the blade. Yet, Viktor's sword was sharper than any her father used in his craft.
As he passed the woman writhing in her blood on the floor, she continued to try to stuff her entrails back into the wound caused by his weapon. The bundle lay thick in her arms, twisting as if it were snakes. Her mouth would widen in soundless gasps. Laelithra used to think death was a pretty thing. Most of the deceased she had seen had died in their sleep. They looked at peace with themselves and the world around them. Yet, the woman was different. No one writhed like the woman on the floor did. Her gasping reminded Laelithra of a fish on dry land. Lips circled in an eternal O-shape. One dying from a witcher's sword was a horrible thing to witness. It was a lesson that she would learn many times in her life.
Instantly, Viktor flipped the handle of his weapon in his hand. The end of it pointed downward, towards the blood-soaked wooden floor and the crimson neck of the woman. With a slight thrust and no sound from him, he jammed the sword down.
Her eyes bulged in pain. A loud, gurgling sound emitted from her. It sounded around the room, becoming one of those sounds that frightened Laelithra. As a loud popping sound erupted from the woman's neck, Laelithra forced herself to look. Instantly, the other woman stopped writhing on the floor. The intestines slid off of her side again as her hands went limp. Glassy eyes stared up into the cold, calculating eyes of the man. Viktor's sword was buried deep within the neck of the woman.
Viktor did not stop a moment. Jerking the sword free, blood sprayed in the movement. He continued towards the children as if nothing had happened.
"I will go with you," she said in a voice she did not recognize. At the same time, she heard Hare cry out, "I will not. You killed pappa and momma's friend."
"You are both mine. As such, you will come with me." The witcher should have known better than to force destiny by taking Hare with him. It would be a mistake that would haunt the boy, the girl, and the witcher for many years to come.
Laelithra turned and stared into the eyes of Hare. They were round with terror.
Once more, Laelithra blinked. Even as the images of the past faded away from her, she found herself staring into the eyes of Hare. She did not know when he had finished talking to the man from before or when he had approached her.
He stood inches from her, glaring into her eyes. There was a different glow to them. Shyness and fear were gone from his stance and body. For a brief moment, they reminded her of the cold and penetrating gaze of Viktor. How could a child of five have such a gaze? Yet, she knew she did not have the answer to that. She and Hare had been separated for three years.
Numerous scars dotted his face and neck. The most predominant one traveled from right beneath the young boy's eye to the corner of his mouth, making the flesh in a dark brown jagged line. Laelithra recognized the mark as one of the clawed fingers of the female creature. Sorrow hit her hard. "Why did he give me to them and keep you for himself?" the little boy, chirped. The tone was melodious, yet there was maliciousness around its edges. "Girls can not be what I am. They lack things."
"Hare?" she asked, quietly. Partly, she was silent because she did not want to call attention to herself to those around her. The other reason was because her throat and lips hurt when she talked. Laelithra felt like someone gripped her throat and clenched hard.
"Hare? I suppose you called me Hare. You made fun of me. No, I am not that rodent. My name's Leviticus," he snarled. The little girl had never seen her brother in such a fury. Their father would have been proud.
She did not answer him. Instead, she felt the anxiety grow deep within her belly. Fear ate at her heart. Misery for her brother coiled around her soul. What did they do to him?
He shook his head, causing his platinum hair to sway with the movement. Strains brushed along his cheekbone. "After Momma accepts me, my name's Dhudeith, the Black Flame."
"That thing is not momma," the young girl protested.
Leviticus balled his tiny hand into a fist, lifted it in the air, and punched her in the mouth.
Agony roared in her face. If she was not injured, it would not have hurt as much as it did. Instead, blood flowed freely from her lips and landed with thick, solid plops on the dirt floor. She was left wondering what they did to her brother.