Chapter 35 - That Which is Hardest to Forget
The silence in the air could have been cut by a blade. Almost deafening in its totality, it is broken only by a faint scratching sound coming from the feathered quill of the Death God's scribe, as Jergal impassively makes a note of Alya's ominous decision for posterity.
No...
Bishop's feeling of despair and concern for the monk is quickly replaced by an irrational anger.
You stupid half-caste, he thinks. Don't you remember all the trouble I had to go through to save your sorry hide the last time this happened?
The long hours of nursing, of watching over her, of lugging her lifeless body through the planes...the long, sleepless nights spent holding her limp hand, as he begged her to hang on, as he fervently prayed to any god who would listen, to spare her life.
How could she make him go through all that again?
He shudders at the memory of all the blood, blood that stained the red earth of the Nine Hells an even darker shade of crimson, all of it pouring forth from that one source in the middle of Alya's chest, a jagged, gaping hole that once held the shard, savagely ripped out of her by the githyanki.
Her wound was so severe, she should not have survived.
And yet she had.
But will she be as lucky this time?
How could you do this to me again?
How could you make me risk losing you again??
Kelemvor nods. "Step forth," he instructs, motioning Alya closer to the crystal basin before him. As if on cue, Jergal scurries forth, and sprinkles a handful of glittering powder into the bowl of silvery liquid. All at once, the mixture starts to bubble, sending up wisps of white smoke.
"Kneel," the scribe commands the woman in his chilling, disembodied voice.
Alya dutifully lowers herself onto her knees before the frothing dish, which by now is bubbling so vigorously the crystal basin itself appears to be shaking.
Without warning, Jergal flips up one end of the basin, throwing the fizzing and smoking liquid into the half-elf's face.
Both Alya and Bishop gasp at the sudden and unexpected action. Instinctively, the monk's hands fly up to her face, as she attempts to wipe the offending solution from her eyes.
"What in the Hells was that for?" Bishop yells threateningly at Jergal, who has resumed his position beside Kelemvor, his trusty quill and scroll ready for further documentation of events.
"What have you done to her?"
Neither the God of Death nor his assistant so much as acknowledge the ranger's outburst. Instead, both are watching the half-elf intently; still on her knees, the liquid drenching Alya begins to glow, emanating into a shimmering aura that completely surrounds the woman, bathing her in a brilliant white light. As the illuminated orb grows, trapping the monk in its centre, faint shapes begin to form amid the incandescence, taking on both form and colour. Alya herself also appears to be changing; her scarlet hair begins to shorten, and her cheeks are filling out.
As the landscape slowly materialises within the magic sphere, Bishop mentally prepares himself for seeing those infernal red plains of Baator once more.
But the images forming within the rippling globe are taking on different colours; in particular, greens and browns. Familiar shapes begin to materialise: trees, grass, a blue sky...
What is going on??
And Alya, dead in the centre of this enchanted circle, has changed, almost beyond recognition; in place of the petite half-elf is a little girl, skinny and freckled, but still with the unmistakable red hair, exotic green eyes and pointed ears.
This younger version of Alya is sitting in the middle of a wooded clearing beside a clear, gurgling brook. She looks around, seemingly confused. Lost within the spell, she appears unaware of the world outside her magic bubble, unaware that her every move is being observed by Kelemvor, Jergal and Bishop.
She is trapped within her own reality.
The sound of a snapping twig makes the half-elven girl turn. A group of three teenage boys appear from behind a copse of trees. They are laughing, but Bishop is unsettled by the predatory look in their eyes, as they approach the young Alya like a pack of hungry wolves circling their prey.
Run...he wills the young girl in the vision.
* * *
The shock of the cold, bubbling liquid hitting her face had made Alya shriek involuntarily. Dripping wet, she was ready with some choice words for the doom scribe when she noticed that the mysterious potion thrown on her had begun to glow where it touched her skin. Rays of white light radiated outwards from her body, brighter and brighter, so intense that it blotted out everything else around her; the Crystal Spire, the bland grey square, the God of Death and his creepy custodian, and Bishop, all of them were gone, and all she could see was this blinding expanse of whiteness.
But then the light began to change, to take on form and colour. From out of the glare materialised trees, grass, clouds.
With one final flash, the transformation is complete; she is no longer in the City of Death in the Outer Planes, but in a wooded clearing in the Prime Material Plane.
A very familiar wooded clearing.
The soothing rippling of the brook beside her does nothing to quell the dread growing in the pit of her stomach. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the cool clear waters: the same messy head of red hair, the same green eyes and freckled nose.
But more than ten years younger.
I'm back there, she thinks, her heart heavy with foreboding. By the gods, no...
A twig snaps behind her. She turns to find younger versions of the Mossfeld brothers, sniggering and looking smug at finding her secret sanctuary.
"So this is your little tree-huggin' haven," remarks Wyl, the leader amongst the trio.
Jumping up to her feet, the young Alya regards the boys warily.
"How'd you find me?" Her voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky, the voice of a scared ten-year-old girl.
"We followed you, that's how, you little slanty-eyed freak," says Ward. "Those pointy ears of yours ain't much good for hearin', is it? Even with Webb's clumsy trampin'."
"Hey!" Webb objects, punching the other boy in the shoulder. "My clumsy trampin'? You're the one who let rip like a bear with gas!"
All three boys laugh, but there is malice in their voices.
In a bid to get some distance between herself and the advancing youths, the young Alya leaps lightly over to the opposite side of the shallow stream. But the teenagers merely stomp carelessly through the ankle-deep brook to reach her, their muddy boots turning the crystal clear waters a sullied brown.
"Please," she entreats them, valiantly trying to mask the fear in her voice, "you don't belong here. Leave this place."
The leader of the pack regards her with a cocked eyebrow.
"We don't belong here?" He advances on the girl menacingly. "We don't belong here?" Planting both hands on the girl's chest, he pushes her roughly, sending her sprawling.
"It's you who don't belong here in West Harbour, you half-caste little freak!" he hisses, towering threateningly over the fallen girl. "You and that uptight pointy-eared ranger you call your father!"
He spits on her in disgust.
"Look at you. You're a cunt-eyed, ginger-haired weirdo. No wonder your own parents want nothing to do with you!"
Fighting back tears of shame and rage, the red-haired girl merely wipes the teenage boy's saliva off her face, but remains silent. The older Alya, trapped within the young girl's mind, is recalling every single detail before it happens; this is when he'll push me...then he'll call me a freak...now he'll spit in my face...every correct prediction is like a terrible omen, portending worse things to come.
"Hey, Wyl!" Webb runs up, clutching clumps of dirt and grass. "Lookit what Ward and I found!" He opens his soiled hands to reveal a soft green tree sapling, freshly tugged out from the earth.
Ward joins them with two other uprooted seedlings. "Looks like the little freak here was trying to grow trees! How crazy is that?"
"No!" Alya cries, distraught. "Don't harm them, please!"
"Ha!" laughs Wyl, ignoring the young girl's protests. "I wonder what other crazy things she gets up to here?"
With that, he runs off, thoughtlessly tearing up plants and leaves, negligently trampling on tender shoots and flowers. Her tears flowing freely now, the young girl remains knelt beside the stream, seemingly at a loss as to what to do, as the brothers tear through her sacred grove, ripping up the saplings she had so lovingly planted.
"Please, Wyl, please stop. You're hurting them!"
But her pleas are drowned out by the boisterous cheers of the rowdy boys, as they stampede recklessly through the small clearing, mindlessly destroying everything in their path.
Forget the silly grove...just get out of here...Alya tries to tell her younger self to run, tries to will those skinny legs to start moving.
She knows that if they stay, things will get much worse.
But she is not in control. She is merely an observer, trapped in the psyche of the little girl.
An observer who will see, hear and feel everything.
"Hey! I found something!" Ward shouts out, his head stuck in a bush. He emerges holding a tiny blue speckled egg.
"Looks like slanty-eyes was trying to play mommy."
"Leave it alone!" The distressed little girl tries to snatch the robin's egg from the taller boy's grasp, but he holds it above his head and out of her reach.
"You're gettin' freakier by the minute," Wyl comments with a sneer. Plucking the egg out of Ward's hand, he tosses it carelessly in the air, and pretends to fumble before catching it, completely unconcerned with the precious life nestled within the fragile turquoise shell.
With a nasty glint in his eye, he again holds the egg just out of the half-elf's reach.
"I'm hungry," he announces with cruel intent.
"Should I have it scrambled, or sunny side up?"
With a desperate cry, the girl brings her knee firmly up between Wyl's legs. Yowling in pain and surprise, the boy drops the egg, which Alya neatly catches, and returns safely to its nest in the bushes.
Despite the fact that the older Alya had been fully expecting it, the blow from behind still dazes her. Ward's vicious backhand sends her sprawling into the mud, and as she lies prone on the ground, struggling to see past the dancing stars in her vision, she feels calloused hands groping her, pinning her shoulders down. A knee pushes painfully into her side.
When her vision clears, she sees Wyl, still limping from the shot to the groin. His pudgy face red with pain and rage, he sits astride her, his full weight crushing down on her small frame. Growling menacingly, he slaps her in the face, snapping the half-elf's head to the side, and leaving a stinging, angry red handprint on her cheek.
"Crazy little freak," she hears him rage. "I'm gonna make you regret your sorry existence."
* * *
Bishop bristled as the scene unfolded before him.
Cowardly little slimebags, he seethed, gutless bullies, picking on a little girl. Wait'll I get my hands on your sorry necks...
Now, he winces as the leader of the boys straddles the restrained half-elf, and lashes out viciously at her.
"Crazy little freak," the boy is saying, "I'm gonna make you regret your sorry existence."
Bishop watches helplessly as the teenager picks up the young Alya by the collar. He braces himself for watching the terrible beating that is to come.
But then he sees the boys ripping the girl's clothes off her.
No....no no no no no...
"W-what are you doing? STOP IT!! Get off of her!" Kicking and screaming like a madman, he strains against the iron-like grip of his guards.
"LEAVE HER ALONE!!"
But the boys do not hear him. Grinning voraciously, they ogle at the now exposed and vulnerable girl.
As they descend on her, she begins to scream.
And so does Bishop.
***Note:The next chapter is an optional extension of this one. It is definitely rated as Mature/Restricted, and you should be 18 years or older before continuing on as adult themes are explored. Be warned that it contains some vivid and extreme imagery of violence, sexuality and nudity. I by no means condone rape, but I feel that describing it helps depict the horrors that Alya experienced. If you feel uncomfortable about any of this, please skip over and proceed to Chapter 36.***