Thanks for the reviews (tingle)! I've decided to dedicate this chapter entirely to our dear assassin friend, Tremath. Yes, I know, he is not exactly a likeable guy, but I wanted to give you all slightly different perspective on him. You are going to look into a window of his past. You are going to take a peek at a momentous chapter in his life's history, the possible root of his decision to enter the hitman trade. Hopefully this interlude will give you some new insight on his character. It will be longer than the usual length of my other chapters, so bear with me. I promise the next chapter will go back to Tidus and Yuna's story. Well, enjoy!
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Perched atop a massive sand dune with a telescope in hand, a dark cloaked figure surveyed the festivities going on in the Al Bhed encampment from a safe distance. Judging from what he could see and vaguely hear, there was some kind of party going on, most likely celebrating the presence of their distinguished guests.
Tremath grit his teeth. His side still ached terribly, no matter how many potions he had gulped down back at the Travel Agency against the Al Bhed Rin's advice while he had been forced to remain under his care. The medicine had given him a fuddled, light-headed feeling that made traveling difficult, but the assassin was loathe to waste more time. He was a professional, a hardy survivor. He had endured living as a slave nearly his whole life in the sweltering heat of the far south, and it would take much more than a few cracked ribs or bruised organs to slow him down. He had been strong enough to escape the slave quarters at only fifteen years old and travel all the way up north alone, leaving behind a dead mother. He had no living siblings to consider, as they had all died at birth or sometime in their early years, long before Tremath could remember. He had never known his father.
And she was just a dream that had once been a reality.
I damn well better be paid extra for this, he thought bitterly. Seymour has no idea what this kind of abuse costs me.
Now all he could do was wait. As usual, when his mind was left to its own devices away from devious plots or schemes, it began to wander into a particularly dark part of Tremath's history. He did not like to dwell on the past, but the past certainly liked to dwell on him . . .
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A pitifully thin and pale young man threw himself forward across the muddy plains, straining against the heavy wooden yoke around his scrawny shoulders. His unclean mouse brown hair was plastered against his head and neck, drenched with sweat and rain, causing his long bangs to fall into his translucent blue eyes. The uneven wood of the yoke chafed his skin brutally, but the teenager was by now fully accustomed to it. He was barely aware of the dry blood crusting all over him, both from old and new wounds he earned from the slave warden's whip. Behind him, all attached by chains and thick rope to the next person, trailed the rest of the slaves in his age group. The Warden usually placed him in the front, as he most often seemed to have more energy than the others, and it was his unofficial job to keep the line moving through the rows of the field.
Tremath was careful to keep his strides long and purposeful, but mercifully slow for the sake of the weaker ones behind him. At the very end of the line, which consisted of twenty young people, there was a large ploughing device used to rake through the soil. Of course, at this point, it was completely useless.
It had been raining for an unusually long stretch of time, long even by the South's standards. The elements poured down relentlessly for over a fortnight, soaking the already desperately humid land in a thick soupy fog. It made the fields almost impossible to plough, but Lord Ajhim was not known for his compassion. Oozing with cruel mirth, the fat middle-aged plantation owner commanded the slaves to continue their labour, regardless of the bitter rain or the unbearable field conditions. The slaves were once again forced outside, knee deep in slick wet dirt, barely clothed, and already starving from withheld meals the day before. Someone had been caught filching potatoes from the kitchen, thus every slave was punished. At the end of the day, the culprit had come forward and confessed the deed, only to have his throat slashed upon sight. He had been a twelve-year-old orphan boy.
So, since daybreak, Tremath and his comrades had been toiling under the monsoon-like rain. They were barely clothed to protect themselves from the weather, and in fact many of them had no choice but to work naked. Very little material could be spared for slaves to wear, so the few who were lucky enough to have some garments to conceal their modest places held onto them tightly. Now, the threadbare material was completely soaked through, and Tremath's body was coated in grime and sweat and rain. He may as well have been nude, for all the good his clothes provided.
Tremath's mother had been dead for nearly three hours. Her skeletally frail body was still lying motionless in the mud of Field Nine, her blue eyes shut as if she were simply sleeping. In reality, she had died in great pain. Her lungs had been infected for quite some time, but of course, no slave was worth an expensive trip to the medic. Her condition worsened as the year progressed, until her body simply could not take it anymore. Not too long after she fell, her harness had been unlocked, and several other slaves rooted through her clothes in hopes of finding a scrap of stolen food, or perhaps jewellery; anything worth stealing. Others, upon realizing that the malicious slave warden was going to do nothing about the corpse, gingerly stepped around her, muttering quick prayers for her safety to the next life. They at least had the decency not to go rifling through a dead woman's garments.
The fifteen-year-old Tremath felt a pull against the yoke, making his steps falter. He cast a quick look over his shoulder to find that the girl behind him had fallen to the ground. She voiced a quiet sob and tried to pull herself back up, desperate not to be caught on her knees should the Warden be watching. He happened to enjoy hurting her a great deal, in more ways than with a simple whipping.
"Come on Shula," Tremath whispered to her out the corner of his mouth. "Up on your feet."
"Trey, I can't!" she whimpered, collapsing once more. The poor girl, barely fourteen years old, was struggling against the mud and weight of the yoke around her delicate body. Behind her, the other slaves came to an ungraceful stop, throwing anxious looks over their shoulders to look out for the patrollers, or worse yet, the Warden. They feared and hated the Warden above all, even more than their master, Lord Ajhim. If they were caught standing still on the job, they would most certainly be thrashed to the point of near death.
Moving swiftly, Tremath (whose heart warmed at the sound of her pet name for him) turned his upper body as much as the bonds would allow and reached down to grab the back of Shula's yoke. Mustering as much strength as he could with one arm, Tremath hefted her upright, grateful as the half-Guado boy behind Shula offered his assistance as well.
Shula smiled at him weakly, her eyes glistening with tears of both fear and gratitude. Of all the young female slaves, Shula was perhaps one of the hardiest when it came to physical labour. Her naturally slender build was not much good for strength, but she certainly had a staggering amount of stamina. When the days seemed endless, when the workloads seemed unbearable and when the nights seemed unforgivingly cold, Shula was often the one who managed to bring up everyone's spirits with a song or simple kind words. When she of all people ended up falling because of fatigue or despair, Tremath knew that they needed to stop soon.
In spite of the fact that Shula had been a slave for her entire life, there was no possible way to deny that she was beautiful. She had elegant auburn hair that fell past her shoulders in whimsical curls, swaying and bouncing with every move she made. The colour was a rarity in the south, which made Shula the unfortunate target for nearly every male slave driver with an attraction to uniqueness. But best of all, she had brilliant jade eyes that seemed to glint with perpetual spirit; eyes that had long ago captured young Tremath's heart and refused to let go. She had a sweetly poignant singing voice that could enchant anyone within earshot, and a smile that was enough to melt butter.
But people also looked Tremath for strength on the job. Shula's bright, upbeat attitude was encouraging, no doubt, but Tremath's silent toughness was also a driving force. He was a slightly moody introverted person who rarely emerged from his carefully crafted rock solid shell, but perhaps this way the reason why his fellow captives were so drawn to him. In spite of his 'anti-hero' attitude, he was a never-ending source of inspiration, especially to the younger slaves. Without even trying to win such a title, Tremath became the accepted 'boss' of his age group. His word was apparently law among them.
His feet were completely numb; he began to wonder just how long he could stand this agonizing shift. Was the Warden purposefully prolonging the quitting time bell toll?
"Tremath . . . I heard about your mother," Shula panted behind him, resting a gentle but weary-worn hand on his drenched back. "Word just came up the line. I'm so sorry."
Tremath remained facing forward, clenching his jaw shut. No way had he forgotten about his mother's stiffening corpse, sprawling between the rows of Field Nine.
"She was a good woman. I'll sing for her tonight," Shula continued, removing her hand and shifting the yoke around her shoulders. She shook her saturated red hair out of her eyes, but the motion was in vain, as her long bangs kept swinging across her face.
"Don't bother yourself," Tremath replied gruffly, not even attempting to hide the edge in his voice. "Songs won't bring her back alive. You may as well save your breath."
Shula promptly closed her mouth and lowered her head, partly to shield herself from the rain's torrent and partly to ensure that Tremath would not feel her hurt eyes on the back of his neck.
But Tremath possessed uncanny perception, and had already sensed her injured look. He sighed heavily and threw his best friend an apologetic glance over his shoulder as the line continued its slow progress across the plain.
"Shu, I'm sorry," he said gently, also addressing her with an old pet name. "I'd be honoured if you would sing for Mum tonight."
Instantly the girl brightened. "I will, then. I will sing for as long and hard as I can."
Thankfully, the sound they had all been waiting for finally rang out around the plantation. The quitting bell tolled from the highest tower in the palace, echoing solemnly in spite of the fact that it was considered a blessed melody amongst the slaves.
Tremath came to a relieved halt, and waited for one of the slave drivers to come up the line and unlock the yoke from his body. As was part of his unofficial role as the 'boss', he made sure that all the other slaves in his line were cut free first before stepping forward to be released. The thirty-pound harness was taken away at last, and Tremath stretched his arms above his head almost luxuriously. He probably strained something else today.
"His lordship Ajhim says you're all doing a bang up job, maggots," the slave driver sneered, cracking his barbed whip tauntingly. His temper boiling, Tremath turned and fixed the man with a cold, nerve-wracking glare that was reserved only for the most contemptible life forms. Even for a slave, Tremath possessed a certain amount of pride, and he did not enjoy being mocked.
The slave driver, a man in his prime named Tajak, did not appreciate the insolent stare.
"Mind yourself, worm," he snarled, gripping the whip handle tightly. "I've a notion to teach you some manners if you don't watch that attitude of yours."
"I hardly think you of all people are fit to teach anything, let alone manners," Tremath shot back, before the rational part of his mind could tell him to shut up.
CRACK.
Before Tremath had time to even blink, the whip lashed out and tore across his face, catching him in the eye. Biting back a yelp of pain, Tremath sank to one knee as hot blood began streaming down his cheek, mingling with sweat and rain drops. He brought a shaking hand up to his eye, and was startled to feel a deep gash. Fortunately it just missed the eyeball, but it stung to touch and was bleeding quite profusely.
Tajak spat upon the kneeling boy and turned away, inwardly fuming at the insult that had earned the slave boy a reprimanding strike.
Tremath felt warm hands on his shoulders. He glanced up to see Shula leaning over him, biting her lip anxiously. She gasped when their eyes met, horrified at the slash in his face.
"Oh Trey, you must control your tongue!" she lamented, helping him to his feet as he had done for her not too long ago. "I swear, if you aren't careful with your words, the Warden might step in and deal with you himself."
"I'll try to be more careful," he mumbled, secretly pleased at her touch. She kept one hand on his arm as the two of them walked side by side behind the dispersing group of young slaves.
"I should hope so," Shula replied, giving him a disapproving look. "I certainly don't want to have to sing YOU into the next world."
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"Hold still!"
"I am, damn it."
"No you're not. I said stop fidgeting."
"Well, it hurts, Shula!"
"Give me a moment, would you? Yevon's beard, and I thought you were tough."
Tremath tried to glare at her for that comment, but it hurt his fresh wound too much to allow the change in expression. Shula stared him down before continuing to dab at his eye with a wet cloth, soaked in some strange healing chemical that was supposed to kill bacteria. It burned like a fiend, but Tremath's pride forbade him from complaining again.
Finally, Shula pulled away and smirked down at him, her verdant eyes crinkling ever so slightly.
"Infant," she teased.
"Scallywag," he retorted, reaching up to touch his newly cleaned cut. She slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch it, you silly creature. Give it time to heal," she ordered, turning away to crouch by the hearth. Next to the firelight, it was effortless to see through the still-damp clothing that barely covered her body. Tremath could easily see the numerous scars ribboning across her lightly muscled back. His heart clenched at the sight of it, even though his body had suffered the same abuse, worse in fact.
"Shula . . . sing for my mother. Please?" he asked suddenly, wanting to distract himself from seeing her old scars. It hurt too much, seeing such a lovely girl's body so brutally marred. Strangely, it was somewhat less painful to think about his mother's passing. He imagined her body was still out in the rain, and would soon be turned into a feast for the carrion fiends. His stomach clenched at the image. He had never been too close to his mother, but aside from Shula, she had been his one true human connection. She was senile and absent-minded, not to mention irritable because of her weakening condition, but she was Mum. She was the only living relative that he had ever known.
The others in the shack were either asleep on their little straw mattresses, or hunched by the fire, eating watery gruel from wooden bowls. Tremath had eaten his fill of the disgusting concoction not too long ago. There were over one hundred shacks in the slave quarter, each constructed of one room large enough to house about ten people.
Shula's face softened at the request and nodded, standing up once more. She wrapped a thin cotton shawl around her thin body for extra warmth before she began.
Tremath closed his eyes, lying down on his mattress in a foetal position as her lyrical voice washed over him. Around the shack, others sighed peacefully and settled themselves to listen, entranced as usual by Shula's gift of song.
She sang about sunshine and fields of wildflowers, full of birds and streams. She sang of freedom and love. She sang of Yevon and His love.
Tremath wept no tears for the mother he lost. How could he feel sadness when Shula's song was so moving, so tranquil?
The shack was hauntingly still when her voice faded into silence. Tremath opened his eyes a crack and gazed up at Shula's silhouette, mesmerized by the halo of red her hair made against the firelight.
"Thank you," he whispered to her. Everyone else was already asleep. Shula smiled and leaned down to him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.
"Anytime, my friend," she murmured back, her lips lingering near his ear. The young boy moved backwards slightly, making room for her on the mattress. He wanted her near him. He wanted to smell her hair and listen to her rhythmic breathing. He wanted to feel her small body in his arms.
Shula seemed to hesitate for a moment, but only out of surprise. Tremath rarely, if ever, showed any affection towards her, even though she was his best friend. This sudden act of tenderness took her off guard, although she welcomed it very much.
Eagerly she climbed in next to him, sighing almost inaudibly as he let the meagre blanket fall over them both. Shula snuggled closer to him, tucking her hands against his chest near her face as his arms closed in around her.
"We need to get out of here," he said quietly, after a long time had passed. "You and me. We need to escape, Shula." He knew she was still awake, her active mind unwilling to cooperate with her tired eyelids. At that moment he could have sworn he felt her heart skip a beat.
"Impossible," she whispered in response, frowning against him. "It's a wonderful idea, Trey, but . . . we could never make it. The Warden has guards posted everywhere. We'll be slain before we even reach the edge of the Quarter."
"I will not live the rest of my life in here, Shu," he insisted, tightening his hold on her. "And I won't let you either. It is not just a dream, or a fantasy. If we work together, we can find our way to freedom. Just like in your song. We can make your song real."
"What will we do?"
"Anything. Everything. Anything we want, just the both of us. I'd take care of you."
"We could die if they catch us."
"I would rather die breaking free than rot out in that damned field, and you cannot tell me you don't want to try as well. Do you trust me?"
There was a long breathless pause. Tremath was grateful that his other shackmates were asleep and could not overhear their conversation. He wouldn't put it past them to report him and Shula to the Warden for conspiracy to escape.
"Yes, Trey," Shula replied at long last. "I trust you. You know I do."
"Good. I'll get us out of here, Shu. I promise."
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Less than a week later, two small shadowy figures scrambled over the outer wall and dropped soundlessly to the ground below in the dead of night.
"Hurry!" Tremath whispered from behind his cloak mask, grabbing Shula's hand. He was extremely conscious of the kitchen knife concealed in his stolen robe. The pair of them sprinted into the thick surrounding forest, fear fuelling their speed. Not far behind, they could hear the ravenous snarls of tracking dogs and the shouts of their masters. The back gate, which was nearest to where the escapees had been spotted, was gradually swinging open on rusty hinges. Right on the other side, hunters would be waiting readily on horseback, prepared with nets and rope for slave catching.
Only the moonlight provided any visual aid. Yevon, fortunately, had blessed Tremath with excellent eyesight, and he led his friend through the lush tropical forest with greater ease than he had expected. It was still raining, so tracking would be very difficult for the hunters and their dogs.
They ran. They ran long and hard, not once stopping or wanting to stop. The adrenaline was too sweet, to strong to brush aside. It even drowned out the fear. Tremath had never felt so exhilarated in all his life. Until now he had never been so far from the plantation grounds. Hell, he'd never even been outside the main wall! He felt like he was flying.
At his side, Shula voiced a short, breathless laugh. They were so close. So close to freedom! In a matter of days the trackers would give up. Lord Ajhim would replace them with newer, younger slaves, and they would be forgotten in no time. Slaves had escaped before, and although most of them had ended up being caught and punished severely, a few lucky ones had managed to break away completely.
It was nearly dawn by the time the two of them felt safe enough to rest. They crawled into a hollow tree and slept nestled against each other, partly for warmth and partly for comfort. Indeed they were both scared and uncertain, having never been away from the plantation before. But the prospect of freedom was far too promising to give up now that they were almost safe from recapture.
Tremath and Shula slept throughout the morning and afternoon, when a hungry rumble in his stomach woke the young man up from his slumber. Moving carefully so as not to awaken his still snoring companion, Tremath slipped out into the forest, keeping his eyes open for any signs of ambush. The trees were silent, watchful in the fading light. Even the insects and birds seemed calm. Thankfully the rain had stopped some time last night
Venturing further into the underbrush, the escaped slave boy was overjoyed to find a ripe mango tree, laden with tender fruit for the picking. He was in the middle of gathering an armload to bring back and share with Shula when he heard a shrill scream.
Dropping the fruit and pulling out his small kitchen knife, Tremath dashed back towards the hollow tree. He realized with a sick jolt that Shula's cry had been cut short, as if something ominous had silenced her. What if she was dead, murdered on sight by angry trackers? What if they had shoved a gang into her mouth, a trademark indicator that they were about to violate her body?
'Why did I have to leave her?' he wondered desperately, fighting to calm his racing heart as the gnawing fear and anger swelled up in his stomach. 'I promised to keep her safe! I promised to protect her!' He pumped his legs furiously, cursing himself for having wandered so far out of sight. They had been safe. They had nearly been out of reach! How could he have let this happen?
When he at last reached the hollow tree after running for what seemed an eternity, Tremath felt his throat constrict with pain. Shula was gone, and in her wake there was nothing but cold, empty silence.
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He never saw her again.
Shula was gone forever. No doubt she had been killed, or brutally tortured for her attempts at escaping. Tremath knew this with grim certainty, and upon realizing that there was nothing he could do for her, he set his sights on freedom once again. He was smart enough to understand that he would virtually commit suicide should he try to avenge her. What good would it do to throw away his own life when he had a chance for something else? Shula would not want that for him, selfish as he felt for knowing this.
Other hunters would come for him, that much was obvious. They would not be completely satisfied with taking back only one slave. So, after a moment spent in quiet mourning for his friend, Tremath turned on his heels and marched away, blinking back unshed tears of helpless regret and guilt.
He was completely safe a week later, when he sensed that the hunters had finally given up on finding him. By this time, he had reached a small fishing village and crept aboard a ship as a stowaway. In the time before airships, it was incredibly difficult to withstand a month-long sail across the ocean without being noticed.
But stealth had become his gift. It was the sole talent he possessed that saved his life on more than one occasion.
When at last the ship docked in Kilika Island, Tremath experienced life as a free man. It was certainly more difficult than he had imagined, but he had known better than to assume it would be completely easy to earn one's way in the world. After a while of uncertain roaming, he managed to find a low-paying job working in a butcher shop under the apprenticeship of a square-jawed ox of a man named Barthello. Any other human being would have found the job tiresome and gruelling, but Tremath could have laughed at his good fortune, had his heart not been so heavy with remorse for Shula's fate. Barthello's temper was short and he was quick to deliver a swift kick in the rear for any of what he considered 'slacking off', but Tremath barely even noticed. After a lifetime of daily cruel beatings with a barbed whip, an occasional kick was practically nothing.
The wound on his face had healed, but it left a permanent scar in its stead. Tremath did not care. Most people found it intimidating, even a little admirable. That added with his tall height and wiry build ensured that folks stayed out of his way. Barthello let Tremath sleep in the storage room, where a small futon mattress had been rolled up and forgotten. The gruff man had even reluctantly agreed to let Tremath take lessons on how to read and write. In a matter of months, Tremath's education came along nicely.
Thus, a year passed, and then another. Near the end of Tremath's third year as a butcher's apprentice (Barthello insisted on keeping him under thumb for as long as humanly possible), the young man witnessed a sight that rekindled the hatred he had long ago buried.
"Clumsy, useless bitch! Get down and clean it up."
"Master, I'm sorry, I-"
"I SAID CLEAN IT UP!"
Tremath stiffened as he heard the distantly familiar sound of a whip cracking and a groan of pain. He wiped his bloodied hands on his apron, before grabbing a meat cleaver and heading towards the door. Nobody ever said handling freshly slaughtered animal carcasses was a clean job.
On the empty street just outside the door of the butcher shop, a tall powerfully built man dressed in bright orange robes was towering over a young woman who was on her knees, flinching as the man's whip came down on her back repeatedly. She had apparently dropped an expensive-looking vase, for the ceramic shards still littered the ground in front of her. It was clear that they were southern visitors to Kilika, judging by the foreign clothes they wore and the fact that the girl was obviously a slave. Slavery had been outlawed in the rest of Spira for over a thousand years, ever since the teachings of Yevon were introduced. Only the southern countries permitted the slave trade to continue.
Tremath felt his lips tighten into a thin line. He clenched his fists and squared his shoulders, taking a purposeful step towards the two. Oblivious to the enraged young man's presence, the slave owner continued to flail the helpless girl's back mercilessly.
He came to an abrupt halt when he felt a vice-like grip on his wrist, causing the lashing to cease immediately. Startled, the girl lifted her red-rimmed eyes to see what had happened.
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, you filthy peasant bastard?" the slave owner demanded, curling his lip with disgusted anger. Tremath tightened his hold, causing the man to blanche and drop the whip.
"I highly suggest you put an end to this brutality, sir," Tremath hissed dangerously through gritted teeth. "Leave the girl alone."
Briefly his eyes flickered over to the still-grovelling slave, who was gazing up at him with disbelief clearly marked on her face. Tremath felt his heart melt. Although she bore no resemblance to Shula, he could plainly see his old friend staring back at him through this hapless girl's teary eyes.
The orange-robed man snorted weakly. "I'd like to see you stop me, you little miscreant. She is my slave. Her welfare is my business."
"Let her go," Tremath persisted quietly.
"Unhand me," his opponent snarled. "I will tear her limb from limb should I see fit to do it, and it would be no concern of yours. She is a worthless whore whose life belongs to me."
Something seemed to have snap then. Perhaps it was memories of Shula's scream echoing in the recesses of his mind. Maybe it was because the smug, self-assured glint in the man's eye reminded him strongly of the Warden and Lord Ajhim. Maybe it was the recollection of a thousand scars criss-crossing over his back. Then again, perhaps it was a combination of all these and more.
Either way, the meat cleaver in his hand was raised high as if possessed by its own will, and drove its edge into the man's chest. Unable even to scream, the slave owner went limp, dropping the whip and sagging to his knees, gasping silently as the blood spurted from his mouth and gaping chest wound. Then he fell forward onto his stomach, twitching uncontrollably.
Tremath stood over the dying man with an impassive look on his face. His eyes contained an icy blankness devoid of emotion, a new emptiness where once there had been a glowing fierceness. The slave girl covered her mouth with one hand and scrambled away from her master's struggling body, a look of horror on her face. Her glance flickered between her owner and the young man who had struck him.
"Run," Tremath stated calmly, his eyes fixed on her. She gave a muffled cry and scrambled to her feet, dashing down the deserted street throwing fearful looks over her shoulder.
He stared down at the man's body, which had suddenly stopped moving. Blood pooled around the orange robes, oozing out slowly. Then, without even batting an eyelid, Tremath thrust the blade of the cleaver into the man's back and walked away, calmly removing his greasy bloodstained stained apron and letting it fall gracefully to the ground behind him.
It was the last thing anyone would ever find connected to an orphaned former slave boy who worked as a butcher's long-term apprentice. That boy died the instant the meat cleaver tasted human blood on its edge.
All that remained in the aftermath of that day on Kilika Island was Tremath, now a man. A man with no heart, no conscience, and Yevon willing, no memory of the life that drove him to madness.