The next day was only day two of freedom, and the house already felt as if the windows had vanished and left him in solitary confinement, so Dietfried went meandering around with no specific destination in mind. His feet took him to the bay, where the ferry went back and forth across the water. He found himself excited about the nostalgia of the water-tinged air dampening his hair, the wind whipping at his clothes and his sea legs holding him steady as the boat moved toward its destination. He bought a ticket to the other side, and leaned onto the railing as they took off. His excitement was almost as thorough as when he first set foot on a boat for the Navy: full of newness, wonder, and yet a twinge of fear… though not that he would ever admit that last to anyone.
...Maybe his after-Navy job should be a ferryman? He almost laughed aloud. The pay would be piteous in comparison. Why would he blockade off his time into yet another schedule that he could not dictate? No, he wanted to make better use of himself. Public service, although entirely necessary to the vitality of the town, wasn't for Dietfried. Although he was good with people, he wanted to accomplish something with his time away from the Navy.
He didn't want to admit it, but he missed it already.
With a heavy sigh, he found himself disappointed to realize his thoughts kept him occupied the entire ferry ride, and they were already at the other side, ready to dismount. He was one of the last off the boat, reluctant to come aground again. He hovered by the bay, even though the boat had long since re-boarded and took off again. It was not often he came to the far side of the bay, so he eventually decided to explore and see what was new.
The hour had become later than he realized, and Dietfried's stomach began to growl in a most unseemly way. The delicious scent of meat pies, freshly baked bread, and pungent odor of alcoholic beverages wafted to his nose, and his mouth watered. He followed it around the corner and found a tavern there. He stepped inside, and found the scene to be somewhat...different from the typical lively tavern. Everyone had food and drink, but the bartender's area was larger, with a microphone, and as he buzzed around the counter making drinks, he told a story. The man's hair was short and spiked, the color of the midnight sky, and his skin was golden brown, as if he'd spent many hours in the sun over his lifetime. Dietfried placed him somewhere around late 30's or so in age. His muscled upper body was stuffed into a form-hugging black shirt, which was almost mesh-like material, that he'd tucked into brown dress pants and secured with a brown leather belt.
Interested in the story, Dietfried sat down in one of the seats toward the back, where the quiet waitstaff took his order and scurried to the kitchen. His wine order, though, one of them wrote on a piece of paper and quietly attached it to a rotating metal piece near the bar. Without stopping his story or hesitating at all, the bartender twisted the metal piece, retrieved the order, opened a bottle of wine to pour his drink, then placed it on a conveyor belt for the waitstaff to retrieve and return to Dietfried.
The food, when it arrived, was delicious and perfectly cooked, but he hardly noticed it. Like all the others, he'd become immersed in the story. There was something about the manner of the bartender that ensared his attention. Dietfried was amazed as the bartender's expression, voice, and reaction styles literally changed with the character he attempted to portray, as if he were a one-man theater, or a bard of old times. The bartender's eyes met his, and only then did Dietfried realize that those eyes were the same shade as molten iron: a fiery orange-gold, the likes of which Dietfried had never seen before.
Dietfried's mind was racing during the last of the story, and before he knew it, the bartender had rolled into a new one about a beautiful courtesan who was married to a cruel man that frequently sold her body to gain free business favors.
"The courtesan was as intelligent as she was beautiful: she did his bookkeeping when she was permitted to spend time in the office," the bartender said as he cleaned a cup. "During all the time she did this, she was not permitted to be paid for her efforts, so she took small pieces of the profits from her husband's company and set it aside for herself, desperately hoping to earn her , over the course of time, she became impregnated by either the husband or one of the patrons he forced on her. "I'm pausing the story to recap: Do you recall the young chevalier servant from last week's story? If you recall, he was raised by his poor mother in a brothel, and when he reached eleven, he looked to be the age of consent – only 13 at the time, though now it's 16. As a result, his mother decided to sell him. A doctor who was passing by saw the boy playing the piano and singing. He fell instantly in love, and bought the boy. He renamed him to Kitoran, trained him to read and write, explained social etiquette, how to run his business, and made him into a medical assistant.
"And so, the meeting of these two stories: the husband was outraged to find that his courtesan was with child. He called the good doctor to confirm the pregnancy, and abort the child. Now, the doctor was livid to be commanded to do anything at all, and resented even the suggestion that he perform such a terrible act, especially against the mother's will. She wanted to give the child life and raise it with love. So, the doctor and Kitoran secretly started arrangements for her escape.
"They told the husband they completed the procedure, but would need to return for a check up in one week, as the process can cause internal bleeding. This would provide the necessary time to provide her a place to go, and provisions to help her disappear. With preparations complete, they returned promptly one week later. The doctor would indicate to the husband that there was severe internal bleeding, and that they would need to take the courtesan to the hospital immediately. He would stay to discuss the intake procedures for the hospital and have the man sign paperwork to admit her, while Kitoran and the courtesan would escape to an awaiting carriage a block down the way.
"Sadly, the doctor gambled and lost that evening. He thought the husband, being a busy business man with no time to waste on his underappreciated wife, would not read the documents he'd set before him. These documents were not admission papers for the hospital, but release of care for his wife and a bill of divorce. The husband signed, as requested, but then began to read over the documentation. Enraged at the deception, he takes out his gun and shoots the doctor, killing him immediately. Kitoran hears the gunshot from down the street, and he quickly puts together what must've happened. Grief-stricken, he shoves the lady into the carriage and they flee into the night, and she comforts him as he cries for the doctor.
"Later, they would discover that the good doctor left Kitoran all of his money, property, and businesses, setting him up to have a good lifestyle for the rest of his days. Amazed, he turns to the courtesan, who had chosen the new name of Adelia, and reveals his new wealth… along with his intentions to provide for her and the child she carried. He wanted to raise that child as his own, and professed his undying love for her that had grown over the many months they'd spent in hiding together. She did not want to ever marry again, but agreed to be his lover and to raise the child as their own.
"The baby was a girl. Kitoran got to spend eight beautiful years raising her together with Adelia. As a medical assistant, he taught her how to help ease a dying man's mind and provide comfort, he taught her all human weak points and self-defense that he'd learned both by the doctor's side and as a sex-servant. He showed her how to compartmentalize her emotions when she was in a tough situation and just act without feeling guilty for the outcome. He showed her how to use guns, knives, and a battle ax for defense, just as he had learned from the doctor, who'd been an army doctor for many years. He taught her a love of theater and music. She was becoming a beautiful young lady, with sharp intelligence behind her blue eyes.
"Alas, their story does not have a happily ever after. The war began, and their little family would never be the same. We'll pick back up on that one next week!"
A collective good-natured groan wracked the crowd, and then the noise began as the bartender rested his voice. Dietfried looked at his watch with no small amount of astonishment. He'd been there for hours. That bartender had some kind of special gift. He'd never let his guard down so thoroughly. He blinked a few times and reoriented his mind within himself, paid for his meal and drinks, and approached the bar. He shook hands with the man, and asked his name. "My friends call me KJ," he said, smiling. Dietfried complemented his story telling, and thanked him for a good choice of wine, then departed.
Dietfried had to return each week for a few weeks to gather the remainder of the story that had so enthralled him. The gist was that the mother was injured by invaders and later died of complications, leaving Kitoran to care for the child as best he could alone. They were in the midst of Bociaccia, near Intesne, and thus found themselves swarmed by enemy soldiers. With little choice, Kitoran offered what medical aid he could for the wounded, but his looks, musical talent, and theatrical tendencies earned him the attention of some higher-ranking officers. There was a general there who offered Kitoran a place by his side in the army ranks, but the offer was refused since Kitoran needed to care for his daughter.
The final night of the story telling, Dietfried was seated in what had become his usual spot in the back, although this time he'd brought his mother for a day of fun: they'd wandered the shops together. They drank tea, bought a few trinkets, and enjoyed the last remnants of fall as winter hovered around the corner. There was a music show on the corner, and they paused to enjoy it. When the sun started falling toward the horizon, he led his mother into the tavern to meet KJ. He and KJ had held many conversations in these past weeks, and they had become fast friends. KJ was excited to meet Dietfried's mother, who seemed equally happy to meet him. He bid them a fun time, and returned to the bar to start the story again. After a brief recap, the story continued, and Dietfried was once more swept away.
"Kitoran's refusal enraged the general, and so he threatened to slay the girl, then to give her to his men for a play thing. Horrified, Kitoran begged him to spare her such a fate, and said he would accept whatever role the general desired for himself. To punish Kitoran, the general said he would spare the girl by making her into a soldier, if Kitoran became his personal sex slave and underwent a trial. He agreed, eager to earn his child any reprieve he could. He knew with the training he'd done with her that she would make an excellent soldier, and anything was better than being passed around for anyone to use as they pleased. He'd been there, knew its horrors and the aftermath.
"The trial was to walk naked across the battlefield, erect, while the battle raged and men died around him. Upon his arrival to the general's location, he would take him before any present soldiers. At any point, if he fell flaccid, the deal was off and the child would be killed. Many men that were present for that moment still talk about the wonder of Kitoran's trial," KJ said, setting another drink on the platform. "They can't seem to stop seeing him, sun glistening on his bare skin, body ready for what awaited him on the other side of the field, but his face was utterly expressionless. Blood splattered across his chest and hip as a man literally died with a spray of blood next to him, but nothing phased him. He made it all across the field, meeting all of the general's demands. The general was unnerved by the show, though, and refused to finish the disgusting ceremony he'd forced on his new slave.
"He'd made good on his promise, though. The girl was taken away and trained, but they were rough with her. She was injured badly at one point, and lost her memories of her family. Kitoran begged his general for news of her, but one day the general refused to talk of her at all. Kitoran let it go for a long time, but then he brought her up again years later, desperate to hear of his child. 'That creature is a demon,' he said, crossing himself in the way of the religious in Intense. 'I hope she's dead.' Horrified, Kitaro began to ask every soldier around, but they did not know the fate of his young one. He went under the stairs to grieve, and fell asleep there on the cold stone.
"That was the night that the Leidenschaftlich army attacked intense, defeated the stronghold, and ended the war. No one seems to know what happened to Kitoran that night. Some say he died in the bombing. Others think he was taken by the enemy faction that later went on to attack the envoy train that carried the peace ambassador to the treaty signing…." KJ shurgged. "Equally a mystery is what became of his warrior daughter, who was so young when forced into becoming a soldier."
The crowd clapped, and began to disperse. Dietfried's mother looked up at him, distraught. "That's it?," she pressed, distraught. "I wanted a happy ending." Dietfried smiled a bit at her petulant look. "Well, sometimes that's how stories end, mother. You just don't know the true ending." Dietfried then suggested that they start home. His mother agreed, saying she'd had a wonderful time, but she was suddenly not feeling well.
"Do you feel well enough to walk to the ferry, or would you prefer for us to catch a taxi?," Dietfried asked, looping her arm around his and waving goodbye to KJ.
"A taxi would be lovely….," she answered, looking suddenly older and pale. "If you could manage…?"
Dietfried waved one down just outside of the tavern, and leaned forward to open the backdoor, but the flash of silver caught his attention. The driver had just pulled out a gun. Time slowed down for him, and he looked past the barrel to the driver, and was surprised by recognition. This was one of many underling-type men he'd seen around the Naval office: someone who was loyal to Lieutenant Jefferies, named Drexel Vogt. Drexel's eyes were on him as he raised the weapon and aimed it right at Dietfried's mother. Horrified, Dietfried dropped the shopping bags and his coat, which he'd had tucked into the nook of his arm, then shoved himself off of the door of the vehicle, pushing his body in front of hers. He reached for his own gun, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears, but his hand clasped around empty air. He had forgotten: when he'd left the navy, he'd turned in the only gun he'd had a holster for, so he didn't have one one him tonight.
Rata-rata-tata. The window between them shattered. A bullet slammed into the upper left of his chest, right where his mother's face would've been had he not moved himself there just in time. He imagined his body was made of steel, and prayed that the bullet would not pass through his body into her. Another burst the skin of his left bicep, and he felt the hot rush of blood flow stickily down his arm toward his hand, where it dangled uselessly by his side. A third missed, slamming into the brick of the building behind him. A fourth sank somewhere into his mid-section. Pain burst like fireworks through his body, but his training still held true, keeping him on his feet and defending his mother. People around him were screaming. The door to the tavern behind him slammed open. KJ ran out to Dietfried's side, his revolver raised to answer the onslaught, and with a click of the hammer and one distinct POP, Drexel's skull burst into bits of gore and blood throughout the vehicle.
Dietfried's ears were ringing, his breathing too loud and ragged. His mother was crying. People were screaming. Everything was still in slow motion for him. His eyes fell to the bags below, and the items that were scattered around his feet. He leaned down and slipped on his coat, thinking it would help prevent distressing his mother further if she didn't see his blood. Police came. Reports were filed. He answered all of their questions, showed them his permit. He was pleasantly surprised by the fact they didn't try to arrest KJ. Between having a witness of a well-known family, other reports indicating the driver firing first, and Dietfried's history as a Naval officer with no known infringements, they didn't seem to question the shooting on their part as self-defense.
They were on their way home in relatively efficient timing, and were even provided the kindness of a police ride home. KJ left the manager in charge of the bar, and followed them to the Bougainvillea estate in his own car. The officer had taken a liking to Dietfried's mother, so he stood at her door, chatting with her as Dietfried leaned against the car. He was starting to feel sick, and maybe more than a little dizzy. The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires drew him out of the haze he'd been slipping into. He looked up to see none other than Claudia and Violet pour out of the car, their faces alarmed.
"Yo!," he called to them, and the police officer's attention fell on them. Dietfried looked toward the house and noticed the maid hovering inside. He made an indication with his eyes and a nod of his head for her to take his mother inside. She understood, bless her, and his mother was safely tucked inside within a moment. Relieved, he turned his focus back to the new arrivals. KJ came up to stand next to him, peering at him with that intense golden gaze of his.
"Dietfried?," KJ barely moved his lips. "Man, I know you were hit back there. Why are we just standing here rather than taking you to the hospital? Why are you playing it cool?" Dietfried struggled to answer. "It's…. because… I want to make sure Mother stays inside. I can't make a fuss, or she'll be all…." He trailed off, closing his eyes for a second. He startled when KJ's hand closed over his shoulder, and Dietfried realized that he'd swayed, dangerously close to collapse. Claudia was engaged in a conversation with the officer near the front door of the estate, which confused Dietfried. How much time had he lost…? He felt a stare, and looked up to meet Violet's bright blue eyes.
She approached him, and stood before him silent. "Dietfried? ….I asked 'are you well'?" She said that as if she had said it more than once already.
He opened his mouth to answer her, but a cough racked him. It was a dry, hacking sound that accompanied a sharp, stabbing chest pain that radiated out through his shoulder and back. His eyes lost focus. He frowned, struggling to give her his full attention. The ground seemed to be moving, but he knew he stood still….
"Yeah!," the officer proclaimed, sounding excited. "It's in the backseat. Let me grab it!" He ran to the opposite side of Dietfried, and reached in to grab an item from the floorboard, but froze. There was blood on the leather seats. He stood up so fast he nearly hit his head on the roof. He looked up, startled, at Dietfried.
"Um… Mr. Bougainvillea?," he prodded, concerned. "Have you…. Have you been injured this entire time?," he asked, his certainty of the answer solidifying, and his alarm increasing the entire way.
"...Mr. Bougainvillea?"
The officer began to run to him after taking one good look at Dietfried's face. He looked sharply at Violet, his voice deep with alarm. "Does his skin look blueish to you?" She nodded, tension around her eyes. KJ touched his hand to Deitfried's forehead. Taken aback, he started to side step away, but the world tilted, and he lost his sense of up and down. Or left or….
The world was eaten by little black dots.
…
Voices drifted in and out. He was aware of movement, shuffling about, and an alarm. He struggled back into consciousness and found himself leaving the interior of an ambulance on a stretcher, going toward the emergency room at the hospital. He heard shouting from inside, but could only make out some of what they were saying.
"Tachycardia... Hypotension... Cyanosis... Multiple gunshot wounds... Suspected lung collapse…."
"I think I'm going to be sick," he said to no one in particular, thinking that the people around him should know. Then, a cough wracked him, and he propped himself on the edge of the stretcher, leaned over, and half-coughed, half-vomited up blood. More shouts ensued. Darkness rose up like a tidal wave before him. Cold metal hands touched his shoulders - (Why were his shoulders bare? He never removed his shirt because of the scars….) - easing him back onto the stretcher, then pressed into his forehead. The cold was very soothing, and he fell back under the deep recess of blackness.
His mind continued to piece together events as the quiet dark covered him. Short bursts of memory returned.
KJ, catching his dropping body.
Claudia and Violet removing his shirt. They flipped him over and pressed the shirt into the wounds on his back while the police officer radioed in a medical emergency.
The scars…. She saw them…. She SAW….
Chaos. Shouts. A loud noise, blaring, hurting his ears with its intensity.
Someone took his blood pressure, another shined a light at him and asked him his name. He struggled, couldn't speak his answer.
She answered for him. She stayed by his side in the ambulance as they sped toward more help. She kept him in the stretcher when he'd nearly coughed himself out of it… even though she'd seen them….
The next brief awareness was in a room surrounded by lights, and someone whispered in his ear. "Don't you die on me, Dietfried." But he thought he'd already heard the flat line once.
Sleep fell heavily on him after that, and he knew nothing.