Chapter 23
Once Upon a Time in the West
Part 5
Untouchables
Atchison, Kansas
1868
On the stagecoach trail, Aaron had often contemplated the freedom that he thought being alone would have bestowed upon him. The boy had always considered the prospect to be full of choices, and he never was able to settle on just one plan for his future. Every one of them had been full of promise, full of adventure and the silent guarantee of liberation from the invisible shackles he felt around his ankles and hands. On his own, there would have been no soldiers to scold him or Zachariah to reprimand him for his mere existence, and no Abraham to be nothing but a constant disappoint to him.
Yes, the choices before him were endless, and he would have been able to have all of them at his fingertips, except for one important detail he had gravely overlooked. Aaron had unknowingly enlisted himself to be an outcast the moment he pulled the trigger.
He was only 7-years old, and the whole town knew he murdered his own father.
It turned out that the men who he had shown him fear and resentment during his stay in the jail were only a peek behind the curtain of what the gentle folk of Atchison thought about their latest bout of deadly spectacle to occur in their town. Aaron hadn't cared, nor thought about, what the townspeople outside of the jury opinion of him was. In truth, he hadn't even cared until rejection and uneasiness became the most dominant expressions on the adults of Atchison.
It was a week of torturous and disheartening experimentation that only granted him with few reprieves; small gestures of pity from the more Christian folk of Atchison. A warm meal here, an apple there, and one woman he would never know the name of or recognize in public, had given him a blue blanket in the middle of the night while he had been asleep outside the Livery. The boy wished he knew who it had been, because even though it was a kind gesture, it still made him feel more like a vagabond. At least if he knew who she was, he could pay her for it.
Funny enough, his biggest concern about being on his own was always money. He had been raised to believe that it was every man's amenity or downfall— just depended on the character of the owner. Whether they wanted to gain coin by traditional, hard working means, or covet it through the use of deplorable schemes. Worst case scenario, Aaron had always figured he would have to learn how to pick-pocket. However, his own trouser pockets weren't as hungry as he thought they would have been after a week on his own.
Except for a few dollars, he still had most of Abraham's charity tucked inside the pocket of his coat. Foolishly, he had never thought his age would have been a problem and it was beginning to become aggravating. Children were either treated with either repugnance or hospitality from his past observations and usually, it was the latter whenever it was anyone besides him. Perhaps it was because the older folk didn't see a child when they looked at him.
Sitting on a thick branch high in an elm tree that overlooked the schoolhouse and main center of Atchison not too far in the distance, the boy watched as kids his age exited the green door of the white building. Camouflaged by the emerald leaves, he frowned heavily as he leaned the back of his head against the tree's base. Even before Abraham and the town he couldn't even remember the name of, he seldom got along with any of the other children. The banker's boy, who was younger than him, called him a 'whore's carpetbag' and the banker's brat ended up with a broken nose and a black eye after that comment. The girls, who belonged to more respectable families, shuffled away from him like he was going to pull out a pistol and plug them all. Still, they all had the gull to mutter something inaudible, but certainly spiteful about him under their breath as they walked away.
Using his deer antler knife, he whittled lazily at the twig he broke off as they passed by his tree. They didn't see him, and he was glad, because if they had, they would have thought twice before uttering what they said.
"Ma' said she still sees him around."
"Who?" asked the blonde haired girl as her braids bounced against both of her shoulder-blades.
"The coach boy," answered the brown haired boy who stood taller than all of them.
The third child of the small group, a skinny red-haired runt, chuckled and added in a heavy accent: "Do you think if I pay 'em, he'll shoot my Da'? Drunken sod, could use it!"
"Don't be stupid, William," the girl snapped at the Irish lad. "You don't have any money."
"I can get some. My Ma' keeps a stash under the mattress," William shrugged.
Aaron rolled his eyes as he began shaving the stick into a spear tip; each stroke fast and heated as they walked out of range. Despite their mocking conversation, it didn't bother him as much as it used to anymore. At least, that was what he preferred to think.
Deep down, he knew it was yet another cut at his self-pride; a meager one in comparison to the lashes the adults gave him, but still pained nonetheless. He wasn't sure what was different about this time; if it was because he was in a different city, if the circumstances were different, or because he was alone. Or maybe it was all those reasons balled up into one. However, the heaviest weight in that conglomeration was the fact that he was alone.
His mother was the only one he needed to listen to, and not the harsh and ignorant remarks of others— that was what she had always told him. For the first time, she was not around to remind him of that, and it only made it easier for the people of Atchison's words to bury in deeper.
Using the back of his sleeve, he wiped away the stubborn tear that fell unwanted from his eye and tried to forget the melancholy thoughts regarding his mother. Bitterly, he focused on the wood in his hand, what was present in the moment, and tried to wander his mind away from the ghosts that still haunted him. Still, the boy couldn't exorcise them all away, and he stopped carving to let his tears from his frustrating week fall out.
His mother was not here to tell him that the hotel owner was wrong to deny him a room to stay him…
"I ain't renting outta room to some fuckin' little back-shootin' killer. Go sleep with the horses if they'll take ya'..."
She was not there to console him when the man wouldn't sell him a horse even though he had the money...
"Get out of my sight before anyone sees you. You're bad for business— especially with money that don't belong to you."
And she would never be there again to remind him that he was not alone…
"Why are you crying?"
Aaron paused when he heard the small, feminine voice from below. Looking down and between the branches, he frowned when he saw a pair of cobalt eyes gazing up at him from below. The girl looked around his age, but he could tell mentally she was years younger than him based on her doe-eyed expression. There was no timidity in her eyes, just curiosity, as she looked up at him from the ground.
Dressed in a long-sleeved white dress that was paired with black stockings and shoes that were as dark and clean as her curly hair, she gave off the appearance of a picturesque child that any mother would coddle to death, and a father would love to dote on. Aaron knew nothing about her, but could tell that she was everything he would never be, and the thought alone made him scowl at her. Her company only reminded him once again of his loneliness.
"What are you doing up in the tree?" she questioned. Aaron had never seen the ocean, but he figure that the waters on both sides of the continent were as wide and blue as her's were; it made her look so childish, and it annoyed him.
Aaron rolled his eyes at her. It didn't escape his notice that she also carried a small white sack with her that she lifted up in his direction. "Do you like peppermint sticks?"
He stared at the bag as if she was offering him a bag full of grasshoppers. After the week he had endured, this offering was perplexing. Even when the other people of Atchison were giving him sympathetic gifts, he could still tell they were apprehensive. There was something slightly different with her, and he couldn't place it, but it made his stomach worm.
Aaron also had never seen this girl in the schoolhouse, nor in any other part of town. He paused and thought about why that was. Perhaps that was the reason she was so kind to him—maybe she was new. Still, it was an odd change of pace that he was having a difficult time adjusting to regardless of the other times he had gotten lucky. She didn't seem afraid of him, and he figured it was because she was ignorant of what he was, but she was still projecting an overly-kind-hearted smile like the others who had been aware of his crime and that made her distrust her innocent and ignorant look even more.
When she didn't receive an answer, her blue eyes dimmed behind her dark eyelashes the same time she touched the pink ribbon tied in a bow that kept her hair together. Her fingers smoothed over the tails of the ribbon, brushing it until it was smooth as the wind softly tossed the black mop of curls sitting upon her crown. The sudden concern for her bow was strange, and Aaron wondered if it was a nervous habit or if she truly thought his words had ruffled her bow off her head.
Her naivety only made it worse. "Did I do something wrong?" she whispered with fearfulness. In all honesty, Aaron couldn't see why she should be.
"Was it because I saw you crying?"
"I wasn't crying," he lied with a gruff response. Even on his ears, he knew it sounded unconvincing.
"It's alright to cry," the girl with the ribbon informed. A subtle sadness clouded over her azure eyes. "My momma always said that."
At the mention of her mother, produced an image of his own and even though the little girl hadn't meant to conjure up his old ghosts, he still found himself gritting his teeth in anger.
"My momma always said that crying helps to make you feel better," the blue-eyed girl continued; her voice was solemn as she whispered out her words. For a moment, Aaron thought that maybe she was talking to herself until she looked back up at him. "Even if things are real bad, not everything always stays bad."
A flare of anger ignited in the pit of his stomach. She had no idea what she was talking about! Even if they seemed to be the same age, her callow outlook on life and his harsh experience clashed like gladiators in an arena. She didn't know a goddamn thing about him or how bad things could get!
"Then why don't you run back to yer Ma' and let her know I said thanks for her permission!" he shouted with ire, glaring at her furiously from his branch. More than anything, he wanted her gone as much as he wanted something to fire his anger towards. He got both of those things but soon discovered that his outburst didn't reward him with the result he wanted even if it had worked as he had intended.
She blinked rapidly and gasped at him the same time she took a step back; as if she had been physically pushed. Her eyes gazed up in fear at him, and looked at him as if Aaron decided to leap out of the tree and attack her. Her lapis colored eyes panned down to stare at her shoes and even though her face pointed to the dirt, Aaron could see dejection envelope on her face.
"My momma is dead. So is my daddy… I think… he was in the war…"
The blonde haired boy in the tree felt a splinter of guilt start to prick at his skin when he heard her despondent words. He gulped the lump down in his throat as if trying to swallow the regret he felt for his careless ignorance. He saw her lift her hands past her face and rapidly stroke the pink bow in her hair; it must have been something of her parents —or at least he suspected— and touching it made her feel better. Aaron had seen her do it twice, and that must of meant he had hurt her twice.
He wanted to say something, but the words weren't coming to mind, and when Aaron did work up the courage to admit an apology, she looked up at him and scowled: "I don't care what he says! I wish I never gave you that blanket!"
However, before he could reply, she was already running away from the tree.
Now he felt even worse.
"Wait!" he called out as he began descending from the tree. After placing his knife back into the leather sheath on his belt, he began to climb down as fast as he could. Her white figure began to grow smaller the longer it took him to go from branch to branch and he quickened his pace. On top of an apology for his outburst, he also wanted to thank and pay her for the gift in the middle of the night. He hoped he would be able to catch up with her—
He let out a frightened gasp when his shoe slipped on one of the tree's limbs and felt himself plummeting towards the ground. It was terrifying to be surrounded by sudden weightlessness that he didn't even have a chance to scream. Aaron watched the leaves and sky pull away from him in a massive tornado of discombobulated color before his left arm struck something hard and he cried out.
At first, he thought what he had heard was the tree branch snapping, but when the force of hitting the branch flipped him over, he knew that it was his forearm that had made that dreadful sound. The 7-year old hit the dirt and felt the wind ripped out of him so fast that it left his lungs burning. The boy rolled over on his back and pulled his injured arm to his chest. For a moment he felt nothing until he tried to move his arm.
Pain, like he had never felt before, traveled up his arm as if he had been pierced by miniature bolts of lightning. Frightened and pained tears escaped out of his closed eyes and Aaron felt them roll against his cheeks and pool into his ears before wetting the dirt underneath. He whimpered and sniffled as he pulled himself to his feet. By the time he managed to stand up, he heard the pitter-patter of small feet against the dirt.
The girl in white gasped at his arm that he held against his chest. "Are you alright? Your arm!" she exclaimed, her eyes unable to steer away from his forearm that was already beginning to swell underneath his coat sleeve.
Aaron tried his best to move it as if hoping that if he could like normal, it would erase his fears that he may have broken it. However, every movement was as agonizing as the next, and every effort only further confirmed the truth that he had stupidly broken it while falling out of the tree.
Aaron began to breathe heavily as panic began to seep in and flood and drown out every reservoir of rationality. He broke his arm! He was going to die! He would never be able to use the arm again! He would be crippled! How was he going to do anything with just one arm?!
The blonde haired boy saw her gulp as if she was readying herself for some perilous endeavor that required all of her courage. Even though most of his attention was fixated on his broken limb, and only fear and pain the only things going through his mind, he could tell that she was just as afraid for him. Aaron looked at her with brief hopelessness, as if silently pleading for advice since she was the only one around… and the only one that showed him anything that resembled worry for him out of the entire week.
"Wait here," she suddenly piped up. Her voice wavered with a nervous tremor. "I-I… I'll go get him— he will help."
"I can walk…" the injured boy groaned as he came towards her. "Can I follow you?"
There was a moment of deep contemplation in her eyes, and he watched as they shifted from his arm and back to his face. She gave him her back, and Aaron was about to go by her until she touched the ribbon, as if checking would give her an answer. Although she had her back to him, he could almost see her frowning. What was she getting so worked up about?
"I… I don't know if I should… he's a doctor… but," the girl turned around and because he bristled with annoyance at her hesitation.
"I'll find 'em myself then," Aaron huffed as stormed past her.
The girl with the pink ribbon wrung her hands nervously together as he winced his way past her. Aaron heard the small, timid steps following behind him and looked over his shoulder with a grimace at her. The girl gulped nervously but still trotted behind him. As they neared the town, the boy realized he had no idea where he was supposed to be going. Aaron paused and looked back at her, managed to give a placid expression, and she took that as an invitation to come closer to him. Shyly, she marched by him and kept a close but respectful distance to him that allowed Aaron to follow her, but still gave him his space.
There was a heavy silence that settled between them that was only interrupted by the small hisses of pain that escaped out of Aaron's lips each time a twinge erupted in his arm. The tails of the girls pink ribbon constantly swayed back and forth each time she looked over her shoulder, inspecting his condition each time he winced or groaned. Aaron was unsure what to make of her and frankly each display of concern — that grew more and more uneasy as they neared the town — did nothing but confuse him more.
"Mr. Bauchau is a good man… and he likes boys, so he'll be nice to you…" she informed, her sentence trailing off. Aaron narrowed his eyes, even though the girl was attempting to reassure him, he felt no emotion carried in the words. Almost as if she had not been saying them at all, but was told to.
There a was a pause and then with a frown she added with genuine concern: "Did… did you break your arm because of me?"
Aaron didn't reply, but they both knew the answer even if he didn't voice it.
No. Breaking his arm was just as big as a mistake as yelling at her, and she had no hand in either. They continued on their way in silence as they made their way deeper into the Atchison neighborhood near the town's center. As they passed by a plot of land where a wooden skeleton of a house stood and a large white canvas tent next to it, Aaron turned his attention back to the girl with a question on his mind.
"Who is Mr. Bauchau? I have never heard of him, and I don't know who you are."
Her face twitched with alarm and he caught her holding her breath. The tiny, but revealing actions would have gone unnoticed if Aaron hadn't been staring right at her when she had done it. The girl must have been afraid of him if the mere mention of his name made her shiver.
"He…adopted me… we just moved here from—"
Aaron watched as she cut herself off to grab the outside of her bicep and squeezed her fingers around the white cloth. Unintentionally, it reminded him of a similar thing that Zachariah had done to him. He had called him a name— Aaron couldn't remember which one— and Zachariah had roughly grabbed him the same way. He had a nice couple of bruises from the shotgun driver's grip because of that.
She grimaced slightly as if just grazing her fingertips on her arm caused her pain. It didn't take him long to figure out that her adopted father had probably handled her the same way, but why was the girl in the white doing it to herself?
"Why are you doing that?" he asked with a tone flat with suspicion.
Her hand suddenly left her arm and frantically moved to touch her ribbon. The hasty change was too outlandish to be natural; it was almost as if she was reacting to being caught and was hiding it by fidgeting with something else for his eyes to focus on. For a moment, he forgot about his arm and stopped walking. Something did not feel right. Why had she gave him a blanket? Why did she offer him candy and why was she behaving so bizarrely?
The girl looked back at him when he stopped, and this time, all he saw was sadness. The ribbon-haired girl didn't try and hide it. In fact, she finally disposed of the benign charade entirely. Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry, and he realized that maybe he had been wrong about her before. Aaron's instincts had warned him that her odd mannerisms had been false display, but he had no idea of how much until she stared into the blue eyed girl's pensive, glossy stare.
Aaron wanted to ask if she was alright, even though it was apparent that Mr. Bauchau was depriving her of anything close to the feeling. Hell, even with the broken arm, he still wanted to lend her hand. Help her or say something to snap her out of her wistful mien.
The one question he did want to ask, more than any other running through his head, was why she couldn't cry even though she wanted to. There was nothing, except the desire to do so and that was probably more painful than if she had started weeping. Recalling her words from before, Aaron understood what the root of the problem was.
The girl that had offered him candy from the ground had been speaking from experience about how terrible things could be — there was a chance that she may have even envied him for being able to cry.
"It's alright to cry because even if things are real bad, they don't always stay bad."
Aaron stared at her and studied her with quiet and almost guilty empathy. How bad did life have to get for you to never to be able to cry again? Maybe he was the one that didn't know a damn thing.
Aaron had been sleeping in the dirt, ridiculed, cursed and treated as if he wasn't worth a stranger's glance, and because of his past, looking at her raised a very troubling question he was too afraid to know the answer.
"Why'd you give me the blanket and why you'd come lookin' for me?"
Aaron had remembered what she had shouted at him earlier— it was the reason he had given chase. She was the one that had given him the blue blanket secretly in the night. That was at the beginning of his tribulations and a week had passed since then. It could have been that she had come into town and noticed him that night since she was new, but he knew damn sure that gossip about what he had done would have reached her ears eventually— it had reached everyone's ears.
So why was she looking for him now knowing what kind of person he was?
The dark haired girl gave him a tight-lipped, almost defeated look. It was disconcerting, and at that moment, he wished the cheery phantasm would come back.
"Do you want a peppermint stick?"
This time, she didn't ask with enthusiasm, more of a listless whisper of words. She didn't even look at him when she asked the question. Aaron took a step back from her as if letting her know that he silently refused. Aaron hadn't realized he had until a moment later; he couldn't help it.
Although he didn't think she was of any threat to him even with the broken arm, the young orphan boy still thought she was too ominous to continue to be in the presence of.
Aaron shook his head at her. It seemed as if she was just murmuring to herself; regardless he firmly declined.
"You little ones alright, there?" came a male voice from behind them.
As both children turned, they watched as a man stood at the entrance of the canvas tent. Aaron could tell that the man was accustomed to a more opulent lifestyle, but even with his living conditions reduced to living in a tent, he didn't convey that where he was staying was even on his mind. He was lithe, clean-shaven and poised in a town that was filled with people that either had a chip on their shoulder or a part of the minority that stuck their noses up. He was neither of those things, but the boy could see despite being in the middle, he was his own separate entity.
Except for his arm, which the tall thin man looked at with concern, he was indifferent; they were strangers after all, even if they were children. His dark hair, that the Aaron suspected sat normally groomed except for today was tasseled. Smooth waves of ebony hair, hung with sweat and dirt in front of his face, paying testimony to the hard work he was putting into the incomplete house. His white shirt was soiled brown with dirt, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Even if he was a dandy, he did not shy away from hard work.
He was wiping his hands with a tattered red rag as his eyes grazed over the pair as if silently trying to figure the both of them out. There was apprehension in the gentleman's gray, gentle eyes and only because he was afraid that his presence would scare them away. Aaron could see that he wanted to help since he laid eyes on his broken arm, but what was keeping the adult's feet rooted to the ground was the girl next to him that was seconds from running.
"I won't hurt you," he said calmly, holding his hands up at them as if he was showing a nervous dog he didn't have anything to hurt them with.
Both of the males stared at her and Aaron almost wanted to say something heavy to vouch that the older man didn't mean any harm; that was the least Aaron could tell just by the brief, first impression. Still, her expression whitened to the same shade as her dress, and she trembled like the last leaf of autumn.
"Son, can I take a look at your arm?" he asked, addressing Aaron. "I'm a doctor and I may be of some help to you if you oblige me."
There was a sigh of relief on Aaron's part hearing the word 'doctor' despite the natural hesitance that he didn't know the man. The girl had been leading him to a doctor, her surrogate father. Unlike Mr. Bauchau, Aaron believed that the man in front of him was the real article even if he had known him for less than a minute.
Perhaps he felt that way because his only other option was to follow the girl. Her seemingly good intentions were muddled by her anxious demeanor and lack of clarity about Mr. Bauchau.
Aaron took the option that unnerved him the least and took a step towards the stranger from the tent. The man flashed him with a brief benevolent smile that assured the boy even more that he had made the right decision. As he moved closer to him, and watched as he inspected his arm, he saw the man's eyes dance with a studious expression, as if he was already trying to work out how to heal him without even being able to see it.
The blonde haired boy reached to roll up his sleeve to let him have a better look, but the doctor held up a hand to stop him. "Don't touch it for now. Let's get you seated so we can take a look at it."
The injured boy nodded at his instruction and timidly followed him towards the tent. The doctor lifted the flap of the tent up, peeling it to the side and allowing Aaron to get a better look at what was inside as well as assist him in.
His small footsteps shuffled across the wooden floorboards of his tent until the rug in the middle muted them completely. There wasn't much in the tent as far as medical supplies went; on the table across from the cot he saw a couple of small bottles that Aaron figured was probably laudanum, a blue jar that was chloroform, and several medical tools kept in a neat row. He also noticed gauze and a bone saw that he gulped at the sight.
His tent smelled strange as well, and the boy figured that it came from the different aroma of dried herbs that hung sporadically from the wooden poles of the tent. Mostly, Aaron saw personal belongings: photographs, luggage with the lid open that displayed his neatly folded clothes and thick, worn books he couldn't see the titles of. Other than that, there was a cot and some scattered hardware equipment near the corner of the room; a box of nails and some tools that weren't in any organized pattern.
The boy made his way towards the cot, but hesitated and looked back at the man for permission. He nodded and Aaron climbed as carefully on to it as he could without causing his arm more pain.
When he sat upon it, his weight sinking it down, he placed his legs over the side. After doing so, he noticed that the girl had vanished since he climbed on the doctor's bed. The man closed the tent's cloth door and gave him his attention.
"My name is Dr. Finney," he introduced warmly. "What's your name?"
Aaron slumped his shoulders and tucked his chin in; it was always so awkward when people were friendly to him, especially when he had grown accustomed to being treated with nothing but malice. The boy didn't want to be rude; he just didn't know how to respond, as if the concept of returning a greeting was a completely alien mannerism.
If the doctor was offended, he didn't show it. Instead, all he did was give an understanding nod. "You don't have to worry about friendly babbling if you don't want to, son, but I do need you to answer my questions when I ask them."
Aaron looked at him uneasily. "My name is— "
The man shook his head and chuckled. "I mean about fixing your arm, and you can tell me your name whenever you feel like it."
Confusion shadowed over the orphan's face, but it only remained there for a moment as he gave him a slight nod in acknowledgment. Although he was appreciative that Dr. Finney was more receptive to him, and doing his best to make him feel comfortable in a strangers tent, Aaron's thoughts were still elsewhere.
The encounter with the girl was like a dream; it was too perplexing to be real and for that reason, he simply couldn't dismiss it. Dr. Finney came in front of him and very carefully, helped Aaron remove his jacket and shirt so he could better examine the severity of his broken bone. The boy winced with every movement, especially when he pulled down his sleeve and hung the other half of his dirty white shirt off his uninjured shoulder. With only part of his torso and his arm naked to him, Finney inspected him in silence as Aaron watched him at work.
His face was as serious as a statue, but he knew that his mind was buzzing. The doctor looked at his arm with sympathy, feeling sorry for Aaron that he was in pain, but there was no concern. Aaron wondered if maybe it was because he thought his arm was worse than it was, or if Mr. Finney was purposefully staying calm so he wouldn't worry.
"How did it happen?" he asked.
Aaron told him that it was the elm's branch, and Finney smiled lightly. "You are not the first one to tell me that story."
That gave the child a small sigh of relief on his part and instilled more confidence that the man knew what he was doing. Finney's hand touched his arm, prodding for where the break was with professional care. The boy couldn't help but wonder if the doctor was new to town as well and didn't know who he was. Was that the reason he was being so kind to him?
"Your sister is welcome into the tent if she wishes," he said, catching Aaron's attention. "She did not have to run off so soon."
"She ain't my sister," he corrected. Aaron winced when he touched the outside of his forearm and began to set the bone. His eyes shut from the pain and he saw white dots dancing behind his eyelids in a drunken waltz.
Dr. Finney said something, but he didn't catch it. The man seemed to understand that he had missed what he had asked him and repeated the question. "Relation of any sort?"
Aaron shook his head. "She just walked on up to me and started jawin'."
There was more that he wanted to say— mainly to get a second opinion. Even with her gone, he still felt unnerved. Not by her, but by her manner. The boy wanted to ask the adult if it was normal for girls of his age to act that way. As much as Aaron wanted to convince himself of that, he could not wash away the malaise feelings she exhibited that still stuck to him like stench to clothes. There was something wrong with her.
"Did she tell you her name?" the doctor asked.
The orphan boy looked at him and the instant he did, he could tell that the man had a similar opinion even though Aaron hadn't said anything.
Aaron felt the doctor twist his arm suddenly, and he faintly heard the bone inside crack over his whimper. Aaron blinked - stunned. He barely felt a thing.
"Like I said, you're not the first one to of fallen out of a tree," Dr. Finney chuckled as he slung his arm. He used a piece of blue fabric that he ripped from his blanket nearby since there was no gauze suitable enough to support his limb, he could feel his eyes pierce behind Aaron's veil, the same one trying to hide that he was worried about the girl he didn't know. In their quiet moment, he heard the man sigh despondently and could see that whatever thoughts were running through his mind, he would share with Aaron soon.
"Do brave deeds and endure…" the older male whispered. Aaron heard it, but the Dr. Finnery didn't seem to mind that he had. Even if Finney meant to say it to himself, he didn't mind the audience. On the contrary, the boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat when the doctor looked at him as if he just finished drawing plans that somehow included him.
"I can pay you," Aaron mumbled. He hoped that changing the subject, and distracting the doctor with money would make him forget whatever scheme this stranger wanted to put to use that included him.
"A favor will do instead," Finney smiled. The corner of Aaron's mouth lifted briefly to the side in a disapproving grimace. It felt as if he had walked into a trap and didn't appreciate being cornered. The doctor had fixed his arm, had been decent and though he was nobody to Aaron, he knew he would feel guilty if he refused.
Finney sat next to him on the cot and placed a hand on his thigh. At first, he thought it was too invasive, and even though Aaron hated being touched, he didn't sense that the simple gesture was anything more than that.
"Do you think you can help me find her?" The posh doctor gave him a timid smile as if he was subtlety letting him know that he could decline if Aaron wanted to.
Aaron had a feeling that it was going to have to something involving the girl in the white dress. The request made him instantly nervous. In all honesty, he did want to help her, but he was also worried about his own self-preservation. At least the doctor would be there to help him, but it still didn't erase the fact that he felt somewhat angry that this was being imposed on him; that the doctor wasn't giving him a choice even though he stated he had one.
Aaron wondered if it would have been easier to say no if Finney had ordered him to like Zachariah. Unlike the Shotgun Messenger, he was neither cruel or authoritative. He had never experienced that before from an adult that didn't know him.
A heavy stone of guilt sank to the bottom of his stomach. In fact, the only one that treated him with respect had been Abraham until he had thrown the bottle and disappeared from Atchison.
"I know you're the coach boy," Finney suddenly said. Aaron closed his eyes with regret, the memory of killing his father still fresh in his mind every time those words were spoken around him. When he went to glance at Finney, and prepared to see a look of hostility on the thin doctor's face, he didn't see a single change. There was no difference. The good man looked down at him as if Aaron had never committed the crime in the first place. Instead, he found understanding. There was also a sympathetic strangeness the glossed over in his eyes as if the man was letting the boy know that he was not exempt from forgiveness even though what he did was terrible.
"Fac fortia et patere. Repentance can be erased by completing good deeds," Finney told him. "It is up to you if you wish to undergo them and how you wish to judge yourself in the end."
Aaron blinked up in confusion up at him but absorbed his words attentively as if he was sitting in a church. The metaphorical priest looked down at him, gave a small breathy chuckle and clarified: "Do brave deeds and endure."
The blonde haired boy understood what he was telling him, and even though Finney was letting him know that he could obtain redemption by changing. Still, it all felt so daunting, and ironically, made him not want to move from the cot any faster even if the doctor's words were philosophical and held some truth. Perhaps, what was keeping him rooted, though, was a good reason to venture voluntarily in the lion's den.
The girl's adopted father, who Aaron couldn't help but picture as a demon awaiting souls to snatch, was someone he did not want to meet even with an escort. Although, after this past week, and seeing for the first time, an example that his situation was not as rough as he had thought, the boy knew that he would at least have to try. For himself and because of what Finney had mentioned.
Still, he wanted a reason before he lifted from the cot.
"Why?"
Finney lowered his head in his direction like a teacher to a student, an air of seriousness around them that seemed only to press down on him. "Because," he began. "We do not pull our hand away when someone reaches out with their own."
It made sense, and again, Aaron had no choice but to agree with his morality. He knew the feeling all too well, of not having anyone extend a hand to him. The girl needed it - and desperately.
He had to ask though, since Finney and the little girl only had seconds of introduction with each other. "How do you know she needs help?"
Finney lifted his hand from Aaron's thigh, sighed heavily and stared at the table across from him. As if he was watching a memory play before him that Aaron was excluded from witnessing, a melancholy expression molded on his face and seemed to stay there for eternity although it was only for a few seconds.
The doctor's shoulders slumped, and still staring at the tent's wall, he answered quietly: "People are better at others at hiding what they're feeling, but you can always tell by the eyes if you look close enough."
The doctor looked at him with a frown. "Her eyes were screaming for help."
After traveling through a series of dark stone passageways with a guard accompanying him, Erron Black lowered the brim of his hat towards the dirt until his eyes adjusted to the sun. Even with the kohl around his eyes and his hat providing a protective shadow around his face, it did little to shield his cobalt eyes from the burning golden glow of the sun. The rain clouds dissipated, almost as if they had been evaporated and returned Z'unkaharah to its natural, miserable normalcy.
When the trial ended, Tama, Hulin, Norah and the guard that had accompanied her had left the room. Jan Fai, who had held onto his hat and mask during the trial, had returned the items back him before Erron had been escorted out by another tribunal guard.
There hadn't been much to look at while Erron and the guard made their way through the underground corridors, and Black had spent it buckling his mask back into place using the torches on the wall for light. The gunslinger was still somewhat sour that his guns were still in the possession of the front desk, but he had been assured with indifference by the guard next to him that after the whipping, they would be returned to him. They had better because lashed or not, he was getting back his goddamn guns.
The sand layered floor of the Coliseum strained his eyes the more he continued across the arena. His leather boots sank and warmed his feet with each step, as if each grain had been turned into individual specks of embers by the sun's heat. Every so often, he would catch dark blotches that he recognized immediately as dry blood, and they speckled the ground with fresh, brighter pools.
As they walked across the Coliseum, and he roamed his eyes over the different machines of torture scattered around the arena— some that were in use at the moment — the mercenary looked towards the bleachers to take a gander at his audience.
Any free person could spectate the punishments that happened daily in the Coliseum, whenever they wished, and it was one of the traditions of Shao Kahn's rule that survived Kotal's rise to the throne. Despite how medieval it was, it did its purpose well and reminded the citizens that although they had the courts, the punishments were as severe as they had always ever been.
There weren't many people spectating since the rain had driven most of the citizens indoors, but there was enough for a decent audience. Mostly men occupied the seats, varying in social status and for the most part, kept in groups and away from others despite there were no seat assignments. The Coliseum was one of the many places in Outworld that occupation and social class were not regulated, however, old habits died hard and even though they didn't need to, kept to old traditions.
In the front row, overlooking the ledge that provided the closest and best view, were a couple of Barristers watching a hanging that was taking place at the gallows. There was only one man watching the beheading station. The elder gentlemen watched with interest until he eventually got up and joined the Barristers watching without sympathy as the raggedy Outworlder on the end of the rope kicked out his last bits of life. The lithe dirty man went slack, and the rope lowered down so the guard could lift the noose from his broken neck, and place it around the next guilty man waiting in line. Erron caught the eyes of the other men waiting in line and as he passed by them, they looked at him with perplexed curiosity before the strangled groan of the man being hung stole their attention again.
At the other side, across from where the hanging was taking place, a boy was cringing at the sight of man being torn to shreds in the iron cage— the same one he was sharing with the saber-toothed feline. The father, leaned over and whispered something to his son, and he could see the boy nodded as the older man reassured him; most likely reminding the child that he was a criminal and deserved it. Still, the youngster looked on the scene with a queasy frown.
There were also a small collective of rough looking men near the pair, and unlike the father and son, were laughing. The fattest of the group of repulsive, dirty men, slapped his knee and simultaneously spilled alcohol out of his leather flask when the cat pounced, tore out the man's throat.
The cat's dinner didn't even have a chance to scream, although Erron doubted he would have heard it over their laughter. The beast laid its massive paws on his victim's lifeless body, fur matted with caked blood and wet with the man's fresh blood. The gunslinger would have thought that with the amount of blood on his coat, that the saber-tooth would be full by now, but still he chewed and swallowed parts of his latest easy meal.
Erron glanced beyond the cage and grimaced in pity at the men too scared to move behind the iron fenced door. The only thing that separated them from the teeth of oblivion was a small door connected to the cage. It both barricaded them and kept them prisoner at the same time. The animal had nowhere to go either and was too small to fit through the door, but unlike the men beyond the iron, was content were it was.
For a moment, Black felt sorry for them— being eaten alive was a shitty way to go. His sentimentality lasted briefly when he reconsidered that they probably deserved what they had coming if they were on the other side of the bars in the first place.
He watched the beast chew on a chunk of meat like a dog with a steak, but Black's thoughts fluttered away when he saw where he was being lead to. The fourth and last station of Outworld justice he saw, had the longest line out of them all, but not nearly as big of a crowd watching; that was reserved for the saber-tooth.
However, seated all along the stone bowl's pews that overlooked the area, he couldn't help but notice how every set of eyes shifted towards his direction. He didn't care about the Coliseum's other visitors. Erron would forget them much faster than they would him. Still, he only cared for the small audience of people he did know watching him as he approached.
They were in the first row, as close as they could be. Norah sat next to Hulin, who in Erron's own opinion, was sitting too close than what seemed necessary or appropriate. The baker, who watched him from her seat, also seemed to silently agree with him as well. The Edenian wasn't physically keeping her by his side by holding her in any way; the only contact between the two was that they were thigh to thigh. However, Hulin's proximity alone was enough to keep her at bay if she dared to move away. It was obvious she was terrified of him.
Still, she sat stiff and reticent next to him while Tama breathed down her neck from the seat behind. Erron could just make out the older woman's head over Norah's, and even though he was sure Tama could feel his eyes on her, derived more enjoyment from making Norah as uncomfortable as she could.
Black wasn't sure who she was scared of more— Tama or Hulin. Regardless of who it was, the mercenary could tell she hated them just about as equally. As he approached towards the whipping post, which was nothing but an old tree trunk with iron manacles nailed high into the tree's flesh, he glanced her direction once more.
Her green eyes were red underneath the glassy surface of tears that were bubbling up. The marksman could see, even from this distance, that though her eyes burned, she refused to let tears escape. Erron wasn't sure if perhaps she just didn't want to give herself away — although she was failing poorly with her body language— or if she just had nothing left to spill.
The latter thought made him sincerely sorry for her. Turning her stare away from him, she looked down at her folded hands in her lap and his eyes followed; they trembled, and he could see the tips of her fingertips turning red from how hard she was trying to steady them. Black wondered what she was thinking because he knew that she wasn't worried about him being whipped. It only left two possibilities: Norah was nervous of Hulin's presence, or what the future held for her.
The Edenian caught him looking and narrowed his eyes at him. With a smirk in the Kahn's guard direction, he lifted his hand and reached out for a section of her hair that hung in front of her face. Norah visibly shuddered and turned her face away as his fingers tucked the dirty strands of hair delicately behind her ear. With his smirk still present, he turned back to Black.
There was a possessive, almost neurotic gleam in his eyes and even though Norah and Black were not on the best of terms, still made him angry for her at how she was treated. Her green eyes burned, but she still did not cry. Black understood the hopelessness she felt, especially since the simple, dominating act directed at him answered his previous question. The gunslinger had been correct about both assumptions, especially when he saw Tama's grin and her deviant eyes twinkling with a nefarious gleam. Erron would bet that the reason she was so nervous of Hulin and the future, was because Tama sold Norah's contract to Hulin. Maybe not officially, but it was clear who the older woman intended to sell it to in the future, and the baker knew that as well.
She was as good as dead.
One of the guards that occupied the arena barked an order for him to get in line and Black used the opportunity as an excuse to steer his eyes away from the small ensemble who were responsible for his forced attendance in the Coliseum.
The Emperor's bodyguard could feel the eyes of the other prisoners in line as he passed. As Black walked by each glare, his spine straightened and he sauntered by with arrogance. He may have had to stand in line like the rest of them, but he was not one of them.
A guard, a lanky but muscled man who had a scar running from the top of his forehead, over a moonstone colored eye and down his cheek, jabbed him in the side with his club.
"Shirt off like the rest," he ordered. The guard nodded towards the line that had every man and woman standing bare-chested. Black raised an eyebrow as he looked over his shoulder and into the man's dead eye. The gunslinger wasn't offended in any way and thought of it more of a persistent annoyance that ever since he arrived at the People's Tribunal, he was forced to remove things.
The greasy dark ponytail on the Outworld guard swayed harshly as he jerked his head to the side and towards the pile of clothes that laid in a dirty, mountainous pile to the side of the line. With a roll of his eyes, and in no hurry as he walked towards the cotton hill, he began to unbuckle and remove his vest. By the time he reached the stack of clothing, he dropped his vest next to it with a thud. The metal plates caused the vest to stand upright as if he had stuck a shield into the ground. Next came his black sleeveless undershirt. Erron felt the sun already start to warm his chest and back the moment he removed it. He narrowed his eyes at the mass gathered by the tiger's cage that mockingly hooted and whistled at him. Black simply tossed it gently on top of his vest.
He tried to make his way back to the line until the same gangly guard with the white eye stopped. "Hat and mask too, Earthrealmer."
Erron couldn't help but glare at the xenophobic way he snarled 'Earthrealmer' at him. It was a constant barb he had heard countless times, and he wasn't sure why it bothered him now. While Black removed his hat and mask as well, he felt the corner of his mouth tug up disdain when he understood why he hated being reminded of what he was now. Before, anyone that uttered that were bounties that he personally dragged in for punishment. Now he was being punished, and due to that, it was able to prick at his skin.
With his torso bared just like the others, he took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn. Every Outworld face in line turned towards him and looked at him like a museum piece from a different culture. Unlike the other untouchables in line, his chest wasn't olive toned and didn't have any pre-existing scars besides the ones he had put on his strong, tanned biceps. The woman near the front of the line, attractive and young, with her hands folded over her naked chest looked at him up and down with almost a disgusted curl of her lip. He winked at her mockingly and she rolled her eyes and faced the front again. Unlike the other men in line, and even some of the guards, his physique was broader and stronger and it made him relax more at the thought. Once again, he may have been an Earthrealmer but he was not to be messed with.
"What are these, bounty hunter?" one-eyed guard questioned, pointing a finger towards his tally marks.
"My resumé," was Black's menacing response.
The guard snorted, glared and spat at his boots before he walked away, leaving Erron with a grin on his face. Too bad he didn't know his name, he had an urge to carve one on a bullet at the moment. At least it would have been something to do while he was waiting his turn.
The whipping post was currently occupied with an Outworld teenager who was already bawling even though his flesh hadn't been touched by the whip yet. The tall boy sniffled as he looked up at his chained hands, and then down at the pool of fresh blood at his feet he was standing in; knowing that he would be contributing to the crimson pond like the rest of them.
Already, Erron could hear indecipherable whispers— musings— about him all throughout the Coliseum. More people began to crowd near the spectating pews for the whipping section, and he didn't have to guess very hard why. There was a smugness amongst all of them, mixed with mostly curiosity, but it was the satisfaction of seeing the Earthrealm guard in line was what lured them away from the tiger's cage.
The Flogger looked his way once, and he was the only one that Erron gave a glance back to since he was the one that would scar his back soon. The first word that came to mind was conceited. The athletically built man swaggered in his step and wiped the blood from his face — splattered on him from his last victim— and gave a grin. Erron through it odd that he wore a white tunic giving his dirty profession, but then scoffed when he realized the reason for whip handler's choice of color.
The boy was lucky considering the arsenal of various whips — some more wicked than others — that laid on the table. All he had was a simple cat-o-nine tails, but he could see metal barbs gleaming in the sun at the end of each tail. The individual cords were thin, but the knives at the end would do their job sufficiently.
The teenager cried out in pain as soon as the first lashing hit his back and the other Outworld prisoners in line grimaced. Blood eventually began to run down the boy's back and painted the Flogger's white shirt and face with even more blood. The Whipper's rhythm was as quick as the second hand on a clock, but brutal and hard with each stroke. Erron caught a grin on the Flogger's face with each spray of blood and Erron scoffed. The guard with the whip was a sadist and loved his job. Black was certain that the Flogger's shirt was picked from his closet and not a standard uniform. He enjoyed wearing their blood like a badge.
A woman down the line turned away and began to weep quietly as the boy's punishment carried on. Her hands cupped each of her breasts, unlike the only other woman in line that held her chin up with defiance as she kept her arms folded over her own. The more modest of the women shed a tear and watched it sink into the sand.
By the time the Flogger was finished, and the other guards removed the boy from the chains; the teenager's back cut to ribbons. Blood poured out of cuts, soaked the back of his pants and wetted the sand beneath his sandals. Not even the beast in the cage left such brutal marks with its claws. Every inch of his skin was either red from lashes or from blood. Erron could even see red bits of flesh still trying to cling on to his skin.
The Flogger walked away, satisfied with his work. He threw the whip on the table next to the others and moved over to grab a pen. Erron hadn't noticed the stack of papers on the desk and he lifted his chin for a better look at what he was scribbling.
The guard tallied something with a pen stroke, handed it to a fellow guardsman who tucked the paper in a leather envelope. The paper collector handed him some more documents and the Flogger browsed through them rather quickly until he stopped at one. Erron saw him lift his head towards his direction, smile crookedly and then place the papers on the desk.
They must have been from the court, Erron assumed; information on the person's crime and how many lashes they should receive. The bounty hunter had his doubts that the man that carried out the sentences adhered to what was ever written on those papers. With that in mind, and because he lost count of how many times the teenager got whipped, Erron had the feeling that he was going to receive more than just 16 lashes.
"Next!" he gruffly hollered as the other guards dragged the boy away by each arm. The gunslinger couldn't tell from the back of the line if he was conscious or not as they carried him away.
The unashamed woman stepped towards the tree as he looked over the paper, and picked up his whip of choice. Black glanced at Norah and grimaced. She was also looking his direction as well, and he could tell by the abashed look on her face, that she was thinking the same as him. Norah would have been the third woman in line, naked and castigated for the entire arena to see before even getting flogged. There was a softness in her eyes as she looked towards him and the Outworld woman being chained. At first, Erron thought it was a hallucination, and perhaps it was, but her expression became stoic for the quickest of seconds, and she tipped her head at him in a thankful nod.
Black nodded back. It was a small admission, but it was a large stepping stone. Silently, and finally, she had thanked him for something that he had done.
The rattle of chains forced his attention back towards the brash woman. They were turning her so her chest faced the whip and in Outworld that only happened when one particular crime was committed.
"Adulterer!" The Flogger announced to the crowd, his voice echoing all across the walls. Hisses and colorful words from the male patrons watching came from the stands from the accusation.
When he had first arrived in Outworld and had nothing but a few coins in his pocket and time to kill, he had visited a brothel; both out of curiosity and to satiate his carnal needs. Earthrealm discrimination was as strong 100 years ago as it was today, although nobody had the gull to refuse him as much anymore due to his reputation. He had been given a woman, an Outworld female he could no longer picture in his head. Her scars he did remember, however. The scars of an adulterer were only placed on the chest and torso as a way to repel any new suitors away.
Women became pariah after that and if her secret was known, was lucky to secure a position as a prostitute. The marked doves were the cheapest you could purchase and from gossip he had heard, were always taken from behind, since their scars were too unsettling to look at.
Black remembered he had the money to buy an unmarked woman, but because he was an Earthrealmer, was given a dead-eyed, hollow vessel. He left without touching her because of the scarred 'X's over her breasts and waist. It was only later did he find out the meaning behind them. Now that he was seeing how they received them and thinking back to that day in the brothel, he should have at least paid her even if they didn't do anything.
The mercenary kept his eyes on the Flogger, and he swore despite the man's impassive attitude that was presented in nothing more than a tight-lipped line, he might as well have been smiling from ear to ear. The cowboy scoffed internally. Apparently, he didn't seem to take kindly to adulterers as much as the crowd did.
The white-shirted guard approached her, his shirt coated with fresh blood and wore it proudly. The whip he plucked from the table was more of a thin stick with one rope at the end. It appeared dainty, but the Black knew from how the horses reacted to Abraham's stagecoach whip, that it had just as bad of a bite.
The ruthless guard said something to her Black couldn't make out, and she scowled and spat at him. With the back of his hand, he wiped away her spit before his palm came across her face.
The woman didn't even get the opportunity to recover before the rope hit her flesh. She only let out a choked sob of pain at first, but as more and more red lines appeared and blood began to cover her nakedness with a thin red colored sheet, her screams got louder. The guard didn't only keep his brutality reserved for just her chest. There were lines down her face as well, across her cheeks and nose and it made the others in line cringe even more.
Erron looked at back of the man's head that was in front of him; he had no interest in watching the cruel outcome of her condemnation. The man in front of him shifted from one foot to the other as if he was extremely intoxicated. It confused him until he watched as he teetered over and hit the dirt face first. Apparently, he had no stomach to watch anymore either.
Soon, there wasn't any noise coming out of her mouth, and the only sound of female sobbing came from the other woman standing in line. After the guard was finished, and he shook the muscle soreness out of his arm, did the other Coliseum guards come over and peel her from the tree. The heels of her feet left trails as they pulled her unconscious body away from the tree. A door opened, courtesy of another guard stationed by the door. With a heave, they threw her body in the room and walked back to their positions.
Another man was whipped, his crime wasn't announced to the crowd though, and his whipping was the same as the teenage boys. Gruesome and longer than what was probably needed. The sound of the whip hitting flesh was so precisely timed that he could have danced to its quick rhythm if he wanted to.
The next man was not as fortunate and when the Flogger grabbed a whip from the table that basically just a crude chain with a handle, Erron was surprised that the man was still alive.
Unconscious or not it seemed, everybody visited the room when they were done and Black wondered how many passed out bodies he would find when he passed through the door.
The crying woman was next, and like the girl before her, was also an adulterer— the guard certainly liked to make sure everyone in the stands knew that. Since the man in front of him had fainted and moved him up the line, Black was able to make out now what Flogger was saying.
"You remind me of my late wife," he told her. There was a malicious undertone in the way he scorned her as if he was chuckling his words out. "She was a pretty whore once too."
More men and women had entered the Coliseum since he arrived and he heard them cringe and hiss from behind him as the woman's punishment was carried out.
Erron, being the next in line, had a front row seat. Blood splattered across his face now and then, and each time he rubbed away the droplets off his face with his hand.
He swore that the entire arena would go deaf from her screams of agony, and the man with the whip was no less kind to her as he was with the other woman probably still lying unconscious in the room. It wasn't an enjoyable thing to see, and every time the rope hit her, he could see her skin split and blood boil up and pour down her body. Erron knew that he was a selfish man, but in the back of his mind, he felt somewhat regretful that he didn't volunteer to take her spot as well and spare her.
The marksman looked to the pews in the direction of the baker. He frowned at the large group of people that were only paying little attention to the woman manacled to the trunk and wailing at the top of her lungs. Their eyes were on him, and he could sense the dark anticipation for his turn in each of their faces. The only one that did not look at him in that way was the person he thought months ago would have wanted to witness nothing else.
Despite the company of people around her, and Hulin's hand now resting on top of her thigh, she regarded him with a look of guarded remorse. Now she felt guilty, but her stubborn personality hated admitting it—especially to him. She blinked rapidly at him with red eyes and breathed raggedly with nervousness; he wasn't sure if because Hulin was touching her or if she truly did feel ashamed for letting him volunteer to take her place.
The irons clicked open, and the women dropped into a heap on the ground before them. If not for the slow rise of her chest from her labored breathing, Erron would have thought that maybe she had bled to death already.
Erron didn't step forward, and the Flogger passed by him with a small, insidious grin on his face. The mercenary glanced at the table the same time that the guard made his way over to it. Black scowled as his eyes landed on the most heinous of the instruments to choose from. There was a metal whip, much like the one used on one of the men before him, but had metal barbs scattered along the length of the chain. Much to his surprise, his hand grasped the handle of one of the more innocent of tools to pick from.
It was a brown leather bull-whip, and Erron stared at with nothing but suspicion. Unlike the other whips, it was clean of blood or bits of skin; as if it had been handcrafted on just today. Another peculiarity that Black did not like was that there were small, salmon-colored orbs scattered along the length of the bull's tail. They were smaller than a drop of rain and he would have missed them completely if not for the sun highlighting them. They seemed to catch fire the more he tried to figure out what they were and already the enigma of it all made him grind his teeth in irritation. No doubt… he was in for yet another surprise besides how many hits he would get.
His blue eyes went back to the crowd and he glared at each of them waiting to see it carve marks into a Kahn's guard—an Earthrealm bounty hunter's—flesh. They did not care anymore for the tiger, or any other torture taking place, they just wanted to see him ridiculed. Arrogance and pride mixed, sending his nerves ablaze with angry determination to make sure the son of a bitches in the stands didn't get the show they craved.
The guards dressed in black tunics grabbed him by his bare arms and with a small shove he threw them off. At first, they were ready to fight him to the chains if necessary but stood back in stunned surprise at what he did.
Cooly, he walked towards the chains at the trunk as if he was strolling through the marketplace without a care. He lifted his head towards the chains as if they were something on display for him and grabbed the chain above the open cuffs. Even with his face towards the blood-soaked tree, ignoring the pungent taste of copper that hit his tongue, he raised a single haughty eyebrow when he heard a complete silence descend upon the arena. It didn't last long.
"Rip the flesh off that Earthrealm dog!" slurred a loud an inebriated, gruff voice that he assumed was the fat man watching the cage earlier. Erron rolled his eyes with annoyance, even though more shouting and words of agreement buzzed throughout the Coliseum.
The guards didn't come to shackle him, and he straightened his posture, making sure that the Flogger had a big enough target. His shoulder blades began to ache slightly even though the irons were not too high over his head, but holding them up without support was making them strain. The gunslinger looked over his shoulder and met the Flogger's poisonous glare with indifference
"You just gonna hold it in your hand, or are you gonna use it sometime today?" Erron challenged, his tone straightforward with a small sprinkle of mocking impatience.
The ex-Earthrealmer heard a small huff of air come angrily out of the guard's nose before his hand came up and the first lash of the whip came down on his back. The force and sting of the bullwhip made him cave in his back and send his face into the tree. Black didn't cry out, or groan; the only noise came from the chains clanking together. Warm fluid rained down his back and the top of his right shoulder blade burned until it reached the opposite side of his left ribcage.
Ow. He thought to himself. Although he was being sarcastic, he failed to find the humor in it when the second lash came down. The blood from the other prisoners before him on the tree warmed his face, and its stickiness clung to his stubble like a gentle hand upon the side of his face. This time, there was a wound on the back of neck and running in a perfect line down his spine.
"Think you can write my name?" Erron quipped, craning over his shoulder to look at the Flogger.
He didn't like that, but his frown turned into a furious expression. His lip curled up and to the cowboy's surprise, he let out a small chuckle.
"Patience. The whip is not what you should be worrying about, mercenary," he warned with an ominous whisper and gave him a brief, malicious smile.
Another crack and another future scar on his body. The crowd began to cheer in approval with each blow. However, between beatings, he could see that some of them were more anxious to hear him cry out. Black counted 10 licks of the whip before he started to groan, and began to feel that something was very wrong.
As if someone was digging thousands of individual needles all along his back, he felt each one of them grow in intensity. It wasn't from the whip; this was something entirely different and surprisingly took his attention off the lacerations burning his skin and weeping blood. The tree trunk in front of him, the only visage he had this entire session, blurred in his vision. All he saw was a massive blob of ruby colored droplets slowly inching their way down the tree.
Suddenly, his hands began to shake, and the metal chains sounded like crystal glasses in an earthquake. Every muscle in his body clenched painfully, and no matter how much he commanded it, he could not release himself from the agonizing stiffness that ran through his body. Black was faintly aware that he was still shaking, and it wasn't long until his world darkened when he shut his eyes. His teeth clenched, and he began to crush the chains in his hands as he felt each needle start to burrow and claw its way deeper into his skin. They almost felt… alive.
Very faintly, as if there were ghosts grazing his skin, he felt crawling all along his skin and the pain only intensified when felt the pinching. He groaned and felt his lungs burn when he began to hold in his breath, and swallow the pain. His hands gripped the chains harder, and stars swarmed his vision. Still, Erron Black refused to give them the pleasure of hearing him cry out. He wasn't allowed to—he was an Emperor's guard.
"You can scream if you like," the guard behind him taunted. "Lactroquin are hungry when they leave their eggs, but their lifespans are short. They'll die inside of you, but not before they have their fill of a meal. They're venomous as well, but they won't kill you. Possibly. This is only my first time using this whip. I was waiting for the right occasion."
There was chortle from the crowd, but on his ears it sounded like nothing more than a dense muffled mess; as if it was one demon laughing at him. The pain in his back became excruciating, and he was beginning to wonder if it was the worst he had ever endured. The venom seemed to intensify the pain from the lesions on his back even more, and at the same time dampened the damage that the whip had done. It allowed him somen insight on the bugs crawling on his back with such clarity that he could conjure a mental picture of what they looked like despite the fogginess from the poison that made him groggy. His head pounded and his blurry vision began to grow, but still he could feel twinge of pain on his back.
Each one of the insects pulled and scratched at the edges of his cuts; gathering around them like locusts on a stalk of wheat. There were too many bites to count, and their small tugging as they used their pincers to chew skin off of him was unbearable. Erron wanted to scream for just the bugs alone, but it was not the worst of it. They tunneled into his flesh and pulled at muscle underneath the layers. What made it worse was they were ravenous and took as many bits of flesh as they could. These bugs felt like the size of common house flies, but every one of the six-legged beetle-like pests were relentless.
Black felt himself start to shiver, and his skin became cold as his body continued to quiver. The sun did nothing to warm him, and slowly he began to feel his feet slipping beneath the sand. He stomped them into the dirt and tried pulling himself up with the chains. The gunslinger felt weaker than a newborn calf and sleep beckoned him like a siren's song. Still, he continued to cling on to the chains as if they were the only thing saving him from death.
The whip hit him again, and for the first time he let out a grunt. Blood went down his back and soaked the back of his pants. With his eyes closed, and the bugs biting and clawing at his skin, he pressed his forehead against the tree trunk and endured it.
Erron stopped counting after 29 strikes, only because the pricking at his skin from the Lactroquin itched with such intensity he thought he was going to go blind from the pain alone. The mercenary could also feel his body grow numb, and knew with the combination of his blurred vision and that he couldn't feel much anymore meant that he would lose consciousness regardless if he wanted to or not.
Black didn't even have any strength to cry out if he wanted to and the only strength he possessed left was to hang on to the chains. He still rebelled against the spectators watching and laughing from the crowd, and he straightened his posture as best as he could. Every time he moved intense waves of fire rolled over his body and he was sent into the tree as another whip pierced his back.
He could feel the cuts stretch as he flexed the muscles of his back. Black hissed through is teeth each time and every time he moved, he could feel the bugs reposition and move along his back. Furiously, he pictured the fat little ticks with full bellies and gleefully cleaning his blood from their legs, drinking in more of him. Erron began to wonder if they would only stop feasting until their stomachs exploded—explaining why they lived short lives.
Choke on me you filthy little critters.
The marksman didn't know how many beatings from the whip he received, but after he felt the rope raze across the top of his shoulder towards the center of his back, his knees buckled and his hands slipped from the chain.
Erron didn't even feel himself hit the dirt before he passed out.
He dreamed that he was in dark grotto, stumbling in the dark as bats attacked him and sunk their pointed teeth into his back for trespassing. His gun had been lost, and he had been searching for them in the pit for what seemed like an apathetic eternity. No matter how many bats he grabbed from his back, and no matter how long he ventured, he could not find daylight...
Water rushed in all around him, invisible and choking him before he even felt it at his boots and he began to sputter...
Erron woke up from his dream and immediately spewed out the vomit that had briskly worked its way up his throat. He felt a hand at his scarred back rolling him on his side and he grunted in pain and retch on to the stone floor of the dark room he was in. The gunslinger coughed painfully, his eyes watering as his chest burned as if he had swallowed a cupful of acid.
It took him a moment to scan his surroundings, his head felt swollen with sickness and his eyes still adjusting to the dark lighting inside the stone dungeon. His question if he would be joining other past out whip victims was answered. On several tables, much like the one he was one, he saw the women being treated with their wounds. They had gauze, covered over their slashes. They were asleep. The man that had been carved with the metal whip had not been as fortunate, and his lifeless body was currently being carried towards the door that led to the Coliseum; probably another meal for the saber-tooth.
The hand that had been on his back helped roll him back to his back, which surprisingly did not feel as raw as he thought it would, but still hurt to move. He smiled weakly. Quick healing was always a gift of Shang Tsung's magic.
"You have bewildered the doctor that's for sure," came a voice he recognized. "They were almost concerned that they would hear from the Emperor. Your scars are still open. They don't want to heal you completely after all, otherwise you do not learn your lesson.
His eyebrow raised in the direction of Jan Fai, who sat in the wooden chair next to his table. The doctors were on the other side of the room, tending to others. Surprisingly, he found a face he did not expect to see sitting in the chair next to Tribunal guard.
Norah was asleep and the way her neck hung over the chair's back looked uncomfortable. She was dead and akimbo in her chair, as if she hadn't slept in days. It looked as if she had been given a new set of clothes as well. The green poncho was gone, and instead she sat in a blue long-sleeved dress. The baker was still dirty and her hair sat in a greasy bun on top of her head.
"Norah pulled most of the bugs out," Jan Fai admitted to him, almost hesitantly as if it wasn't his secret to tell. "There are still some in there trying to hide from us. I also have your weapons and clothes when you are ready to stand."
Black gave a simple nod. Jan Fai reached down under the table, picked up a small clay bowl and handed them over to him as Erron began to sit up. The gunslinger rubbed his eyes with his fingers before massaging his temple. Nausea still plagued him, but at least he could sit up unlike the other whipped prisoners that would need more time to recover.
"How long was I out?" he asked, grabbing the bowl that was handed to him. Black grimaced with disgust at the bulbous brown insects dead in the bowl. They looked like nothing more than common beetles, but had intricate lines of orange all along their shiny backs. He growled softly under his breath.
A hiss suddenly escaped him when he felt a twinge in his back.
"They're not eating, just nesting but every time we get close, they go in deeper," Jan Fai informed him with a frown. "Norah needed a break, but there's not many left. At least it gave them time for you to work out the venom in your system."
Erron looked at him pointedly. "You didn't answer my question. How long have I been out?"
Jan Fai cleared his throat uncomfortably. "2 days. Should be able to leave soon. Your scars are healing quickly but its best to get the insects out before going back to the palace."
The marksman huffed and rested his chin on the table, debating whether he wanted to sleep or not. Erron heard Jan Fai say something that he failed to catch, and with an annoyed sigh he lifted his head to look at him.
"She won't say it out loud—maybe not soon— but she's thankful for what you did for her," Jan Fai told him.
Black didn't really have a response to that and soon, Jan Fai left the room in silence. Erron looked back at the bowl of bugs and the woman dressed in blue. At first, he figured that the only reason she was even here was because according to the courts, he still had to escort her back because of Tama's request. Still, Jan Fai's words and the fact that she had offered to pull out the bugs herself made him stop and reconsider. It was a strange turn of the tables, and he would have chuckled at the irony of how coincidental it was.
It was as if the words were not known to either of them, and they were doing what they could to say thank you and apologize in their own way. He took the lash, and she pulled the bugs out— something that she wasn't obligated to from what Fai was implying.
For the first time in a long time, he was able to unearth that Latin phrase the doctor from Atchison had told him once.
fac fortia et patere...
Do good deeds and endure.
Erron frowned when he looked back at her sleeping form before eventually he allowed himself to rest, although the thought unsettled him.
Hulin owned her now and the last time he had thought of fac fortia et patere, the outcome hadn't ended pleasantly.
A/N: As much as I want to say that the whip with the eggs was my own idea. It wasn't. I was inspired by Tim Lebbon's Predator: Incursion story. The idea was so fascinating that I wanted to do it here as well. So, I will take hate mail via Carrier Pigeon for that as well.
Also, my medical expertise if limited to Operation so apologies for any inaccuracies I'm I screwed up on.