Chapter 3

The room had a glacial air. The armless woman sat on the floor with her back against the wall, one leg bent and the other extended. Her shoulders trembled. Several steps from her the boy sat on his knees. His arms hung at his sides and his eyes moved from one occupant of the room to the other. Priscilla alone was standing among the three, like an untouched statue among rubble. She was beside the boy but paid him little mind, she was fixed on the woman. In this cramped chamber there were no words and little movement.

She noticed the woman's face leaning in the direction of her severed limbs. Several paces separated the woman from the appendages.

"Ah!" said Priscilla. She took two steps to the bloody limbs and delivered a kick. They slid along the floor to the woman. "Our peace would be wasted if someone noticed your mutilation." The last word left her mouth with a smile, it was the passing taunt.

The woman did not reply. An adroit handling of one of the limbs allowed it to pass from the woman's feet to her knees, and from her knees to her mouth. She held the limb like a dog would its bone. She had one raw face touch the other. The faces trembled. With effort she succeeded.

"How embarrassing." Priscilla muttered. She sensed a concentration of Yoki in the connected pieces. It was not unlike fire welding two metals.

Some minutes passed. The woman had repaired the first arm and was now handling the second. She grimaced as she worked.

"I'm sorry." the boy said. His voice was unnatural, but she could understand his words. If she had not known she struck him, she would have assumed he had rocks in his mouth.

He looked in the woman's direction, but not at her face. "Forgive me, please. I didn't want any of this to happen, please believe me! As soon as I can, I'll take her and leave the city." In a whisper he added, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Priscilla glanced at the boy from the edge of her sight. He thought too much of himself. His arrogance annoyed her, but she would be lying if she said it didn't also amuse her. They had a curious relationship. She thought him a lark and he thought himself the master. This state was fragile, and it would not last. There would come a time when his will would stand against hers, and then she would show him his mistake. Until then he could believe as he liked, she had no obligation to relieve him of his delusion.

She wanted to prod the woman some more. It was an itch. She felt that the reprisal was too soft for the crime. This impostor had invaded her alcove and threatened her with a knife. It would be nice to satisfy that itch, but it would perhaps be better if she abstained. The boy was already shaken, and she didn't want to antagonize him further. She would have a dilemma if he became unreasonable.

With her arms repaired, the woman struggled to her feet. She took shaky steps towards the fallen blade. Priscilla was the closer of the two to the blade, and she stood above it first. She set her foot on the hilt. She glared at the woman. Not two arm-lengths separated them. So this woman wished to be killed? Fine, if that's what she wanted, she would satisfy them both.

"Priscilla! Leave her!" the boy shouted. She ignored him.

"Yoma," the woman uttered, "you told me to leave. I am leaving."

She didn't like this woman's manner; much pride and little humility. "Go then, I am not stopping you."

"Will you not let me to take my sword?"

Priscilla wished to at once laugh and thrash this woman. So her life was not enough and she wanted her blade too. Did she take her for a fool? Who would be so generous to return a knife to their assailant?

She didn't remove her foot from the sword nor did she say a word. Her eyes were fixed on the nun's hardened face. They were at an impasse.

Priscilla's brow grew strict. This woman was eroding her patience.

"The door will not stay open."

The woman shuddered, shook her head, and went out.

Priscilla had found herself back in her chair. The boy remained on the floor and he appeared to be in a trance. She considered drawing her chair near him. Just as she decided, he stirred. He crawled to the abandoned sword and grabbed it by its hilt. Using it as support it raised himself. He looked at her askance. Perhaps he anticipated a reaction. She didn't have one. A child with a twig was no more threatening than a child without.

The sword was truned into a cane as he lumbered to the bed. He let the sword fall to the floor and he carefully lowered himself onto the bed. He sat on its edge opposite her with his back towards her face. The two sat in silence.

"Why do you act this way?" he said at last, "Are you deaf to my words? Do they mean nothing to you?"

With him on one edge and her on a chair off the other edge, there was the entirety of the narrow bed separating the two. She drew her chair closer to the bed. This was done unconsciously. It might have been for the smell. A foolish observer may have said she had become dependent on that scent. But this wasn't dependence, it was indulgence. Dependence is the need of something, and that is weakness. Indulgence is the satisfaction of a want, and that is strength.

He turned his head when she hadn't replied, and he found her staring. His eyes dropped.

Her mind, which was her only master, excavated memories of garments crafted from animal hide. She never had any, but she had seen them during her travels with Isley and Raki. The idea of a chemise or shawl made of the boy's skin rolled through her thoughts. It would allow her to breathe the smell. She smiled and a soft laugh escaped her lips. It was a silly fancy. She wouldn't know where to start, and even if she did, she doubted it would perform as she imagined.

Besides, his scent was not his sole savior. She was fond of the absurdities and ironies of his company. Her life had only two spectres; death and ennui. The second was more real than the first. Her body could guarantee her life, but her mind could not guarantee her contentment.

The boy's brow was severe. His fist trembled. "You laugh and don't answer. What the hell is your problem? Can't you feel as I feel? Have you no sympathy? 'I'm sorry', you say, and then you shatter a woman's head. 'I have not hurt anybody else' you insist, and then within that day you maim a nun and drag her to the border of death. Did you lose your mind? Have you become rabid?"

The nerve he had! She was glowering at him and if he saw her may have become silent, but his downcast eyes precluded such recognition.

"Your voice is grating." she said.

"Grating? You don't like to hear of your madness? Hmph, I'll say it again: you're unhinged and you're not the same as you were. You-"

He cut his sentence and recoiled when he noticed her hand reaching for his face. He tensed and instinctively raised his forearms as a shield between his head and her grasp.

She stopped. What had she planned to do with her hand? Crush his jaw until it was unusable? It was a visceral reaction. The thought had barely passed her mind before her arm wished to execute. She knew she had a proclivity towards violence and in this habit she saw no fault. She liked brutality, though she couldn't explain the reason for her enjoyment. It seemed to kindle in her a certain heat. Perhaps it was because of its ease. During those moments the buzzing of her thoughts would disappear and her mind would be calm. Though in this case she was glad she caught herself. A brief pleasure wouldn't have been worth ruining the boy.

She hadn't touched him and her hand returned to her lap. The boy's arms remained as buffers. He peered at her nervously from behind his guard. A few seconds passed. She was wordless and still. At last the boy closed his eyes, released a breath, and allowed his arms to drop.

Though she was silent, she thought his guard was laughable. Did he think it would help to hide behind his limbs?

His eyes did not meet hers. "In seven years, you didn't threaten me once," he muttered, "now you did so twice in an hour."

His shoulder fell onto the bed and he laid down on his side with his back towards her. He slept on the edge. He may have wanted to be as far from her as he could, but it wasn't very far.

It was that season when the days were short and the night rose early. He didn't know how to talk to Priscilla, and so to spare himself the unease he feigned sleep. In that chamber hours had passed without an exchange between the two. Evening had arrived. He was awake, though Priscilla may have thought otherwise. It was a mistake to sleep on the bed's edge. By leaving half of it unoccupied, he had allowed her to claim it.

It was not unusual for the two to sleep as a pair. They had shared many modest beds. In the early days he resisted, but she was persistent. He would fall asleep without her and he would wake beside her. Her laconic character hindered understanding, but with time he realized she clung to his scent, whatever that was.

The strangeness of her thoughts of him were matched only by the strangeness of his thoughts of her. That creature was at once his sister and his daughter, and now she had also become a stranger and a murderess. There was turmoil in his mind. He would see the little girl, and then she would be vanquished by the murderess, and then the little girl would rise again. It went on and on in the darkness of the room. In the midst of Rabona he felt as though he was in a cavern.

It was late and all light had died. He was surrounded by blackness. He could not sleep. His conscience wouldn't allow it. It was only fair. Hardly a day had passed since he had been witness to that butchery. The lucky ones were killed instantly. The ill-fated had to watch and scream as chunks were torn from their bodies. There was something terrifying about the completeness of the killing. When the crowd fled her tendrils slashed their legs. They could not run so they crawled. It was useless. She fed quickly. In fear some hid in houses or in alleys. This only delayed. She had the nose of a predator.

He remembered his body's impotence as he laid in that court of death. His throat was ruined and his voice extinct. She did not look at him. His survival only amplified his guilt. He had brought her and she had killed them.

He knew there was a blade at his bedside. He could take it noiselessly and bring it down on Priscilla's neck. When he had brought it there in the day it was with this vague intention. The action was worthy of a serpent, but there was no other way. His body was resilient, his arms strong, and his grasp firm, but they would not matter. In a fight she would rip him in two.

He did not know if he could end her in a single strike. If the first did not kill, she would not permit a second. But this danger to himself was only a passing thought. He had long ago resolved that if Priscilla ever became a threat, he would subdue her or die in the attempt.

He still had not grasped the blade. His hesitation came from the understanding that the butcher of that town was also the creature that carried him to Rabona. This dual personality threw his conscience into darkness. One face murderous and the other benign. To kill one would be to kill the other.

He groped in this mental obscurity. It was a cruel contradiction. He had accepted that a day would come when Priscilla's body would override her will. And it had. But so soon afterwards she had saved him. He could not comprehend the thoughts necessary for such volatility. Was it a momentary madness induced by hunger? Could he then still think her a monster? A creature that tried to do good in spite of her nature was the exact opposite of a monster.

He remembered the soft hand of the little girl that walked beside him for seven years. To deliver the blow would be to sever that childish and gentle head. To her, who was his savior, he would be an assassin. He would repay life with death.

Then he remembered the indifference with which she crushed that Claymore's skull, and the viciousness of her attack on the nun. He could not deny there was something sinister in her shadow. To do so would be to close his eyes to the dead of the town, and to gamble the lives of more.

His brow was moist. The air felt damp and thick. There were only two paths before him, and in both directions infamy and degradation. To put one morality on a pedestal he would throw another into the swamp.

He was startled from his reverie by a faint light passing the window. Perhaps it was from a night guard or some strolling citizen. There was a shiver through his skin. In the feeble light Priscilla's eyes stared at him. The light passed, and the room was again plunged into darkness. The brief vision perished.

Was she awake? Or was it an illusion of the mind? The mind is often least reliable when it is most needed. The terror of that moment clung to his chest. Was she staring at him even through this obscurity?

Fear banished his dilemma, at least for tonight. He could not risk her being awake. He laid back on the bed. He shut his eyes. He could not sleep.

Many hours passed. He was in that semi-lucid state where the eyes are shut and one is drifting into unconsciousness. He was roused by the sound of repeated knocking. He ignored it, such noises are common in a city. The knocking stopped, and then grew more intense. There may have even been a voice accompanying it, but distance and obstacles made it indistinguishable. He kept his indifference. He didn't even know where he was, the sound couldn't be his concern.

He discerned another sound, this one was of hurried steps. The steps were approaching. Indifference became panic. This was a symptom of a guilty conscience. He was no longer lying down. His feet were on the floor and his eyes on the door. With his heel he pushed the sword under the bed. He glanced at Priscilla. She still laid on the mattress, but she was awake. She appeared unfazed, then again, he didn't know if she was capable of any other face. He didn't know what worried him more; this creature or the nearing unknown.

There was a shout; "Father Vincent!"

Father Vincent? The name was familiar.

"Raki!"

What?

The door swung open and under the frame stood a light haired man. The man's mouth was half open and he was anxious, his eyes moved from him to Priscilla and then back to him.

"I'm sorry to have startled you." the man said. "But please answer one question; over the past few days have you two noticed any strangeness from each other?" The inquiry was made with a mix of embarrassment and weakness. The man was reluctant to ask, and perhaps fearful of the answer.

"Sid?" Raki said. He recognized this man; he was from his life before Isley and Priscilla.

"It's me, but please tell me. Did you two lose sight of each other recently? Were you ever near Doga?"

There was a relapse of the terror he felt in the night. What did Sid suspect? What did he know? Were they unveiled already? He glanced at Priscilla. She had returned to the chair she occupied in the day. She turned watchfully from one man to the other.

It was not long ago he could walk alongside her on any road. Now her presence distressed him at every moment. In a day she had transformed from a cat to a tiger on a weak leash He could tell Sid everything. He could point to Priscilla and say: "There is the Yoma that slaughtered Doga. It was her." And what would be the result? Probably the death of two men and a wild Yoma in Rabona.

No, that was unacceptable. He refused to be responsible for two massacres.

"No." Raki answered.

The man's face relaxed, his eyes closed, and he let out a small laugh. "You two must think I'm some madman." Sid was too kind, he didn't suspect him at all.

"I don't."

"It's alright, I don't mind." Sid said. "You would understand my boorishness if you saw what I saw."

So the mess he left behind was found by others. He didn't expect otherwise. Something of that that nature could not be hidden.

"In Doga?" he asked. Of course it was in Doga, what else would he be talking about? He didn't know why asked. Perhaps he wanted to assume ignorance. He felt filthy. He felt as if he was a felon.

"Yes, in Doga. There was an attack by a Yoma."

Raki gave a solemn nod. "I see."

Sid shook his head. On his face there was a sad smile. "No, I don't think you do. I don't think you've ever seen such a scene. And if you are fortunate, you never will."

There was a stillness in the room. He did not know what to say to this man.

Sid parted his lips, then closed them, then opened them again. It was as if he wanted to speak, but his throat would not obey. At last the silence was broken, Sid's words escaped in a flurry;

"There was a miasma in the town, Raki. The sort that can only be found when horror intersects tragedy. There were crushed skulls, odd limbs, displaced entrails. Ah!" He screwed his eyes. "I won't ever forget it! Those corpses can't be forgotten. And the smell, Raki! O, the smell! It was hideous! It clung to my clothes. I was breathing death. Ah, I don't mean to disrespect those tragic folk. You understand me, right? It was as if I had tumbled into some tortured grave." Sid became quiet, and then he resumed, "What am I saying? I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He made a curt bow to Priscilla. "I have before me a recovering man and a young woman, and I'm throwing this wreck on them. Forgive me. It's just that, I can't euphemize that Gehenna."

Raki felt a hollowness in his chest and his breaths were shallow. It was horrible, he knew it was horrible. And yet, even acknowledging that, could it be that his memory was still giving him mercy? He imagined all those disfigured cadavers laying in the sun. The open air was not kind to the dead.

"Raki. Raki!"

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry, I should have been more thoughtful."

"It's fine, I'm doing fine."

"You look unwell. You're haggard. Do you have a fever?" Sid approached and placed his hand on Raki's brow. Raki drew back his head.

"I just had some trouble sleeping, no reason to worry."

"If you say so."

Priscilla had stopped observing the two men and had strolled to the room's sole window. Her cheek touched the pane as she strived to scan the lot. Sid glanced at her, but it was only for a moment. He did not seem to dwell on her actions.

For anyone else her behaviour would not have warranted a second thought, but to Raki it was frightening. His chest was in a vice and his thought raced through the worst conclusions.

"I do feel silly for barging in, but it wasn't completely my fault. Circumstances had lined themselves against me. There were survivors in the town."

Survivors? The knowledge filled him with joy, but it was brief as it was eclipsed by dread. Did Sid already know about his lies and was only playing along?

"It was two little girls," Sid continued, "and I doubt their combined years would pass ten. They are alone in the world, everyone that knew them is dead. One saw nothing, but the other did."

Raki listened with bated breath.

"We, the soldiers I mean, asked her about the Yoma. 'It was a girl with brown hair.' she said with moist eyes and a quivering voice. 'What did she wear? How tall? Anything distinctive? The shade of her skin?' we demanded. 'She was tall as mother.' she answered, and that was all she remembered. Oh, we were such brutes!"

Raki took a discrete look at Priscilla. She was watching them again. Sid noticed his glance.

"I'm embarrassed to admit that I had the same first thought. But it didn't last long. Do you know how many brown haired woman of unremarkable height pass in and out of the gates of Rabona each day?"

It was a question that needed no answer.

"Too many." Sid said. "Anyway, after spending a day gathering the dead, I was dismissed and I returned to Rabona. Since I was the one that brought you to Father Vincent, I thought I should at least come visit, I suppose it was it to rid myself of that nagging fear as well. Could you imagine my distress when I knocked ten times and there was no reply? Then could you imagine the thoughts I had when I realized that the door was open? You know the rest, I ended in this room with you half-asleep." Sid gave a soft laugh. "It's stupid, I know, but panic is often a master to reason. I should have realized Father Vincent was an early riser."

This was the home of Father Vincent? He was awake through the entirety of yesterday and perhaps through all the night. There was never anybody in this dwelling besides him and Priscilla. He felt a chill and then anger. Could Priscilla have eaten him as she did the others? He couldn't bear the thought. He wanted to demand an answer from her at this moment, but Sid's presence held him.

"What's happening outside?" Priscilla said. Her eyes were on Sid. It was an ordinary question, but Raki, who knew her as he did, felt a sinister undertone. This was a query from a judge to an offender. There was a guillotine above the young soldier's neck.

Sid answered with a blank stare and a long pause. "The outside? Do you mean the bustle of soldiers and civilians?"

She did not clarify.

"Ah, well, the city is restless. It's neighbour was slaughtered. You could not expect the streets to be insensitive.

Raki looked at her anxiously. He appealed to her with his eyes. He watched for any hint of her intention. He could gather nothing. Her limbs were frozen, her eyes unmoving, and her face stone. Her thoughts were an enigma. The murkiness of her mind was more unnerving than her penchant for violence.

"Actually," Sid said, "that's another reason I came to see you." He shuffled past Priscilla to the window. He pulled the blinds over the pane. "Don't go outside. Don't even get seen, both of you." His smile had vanished. "Rabona is not kind to strangers at the moment. Soldiers have been asked to herd the people that have entered the city in the past couple days. Vigilantes are taking it upon themselves too. If you wander out you'll get grabbed and shoved into a pen in the city centre, the pen being a ring of armed guards. It's a bit excessive, but I don't disagree with the idea. It's for everyone's safety, and we're not mistreating them or anything."

"Do you expect to find the Yoma like that?" Priscilla asked. "By surrounding it with meat? It's a bit cynical." Sid, standing by the curtains, could not see her faint smile.

"No, of course not, we're not savages. The commander sent for a team of Claymores. Bringing likely suspects to one place only makes sense."

Claymores were coming to Rabona? They were both a blessing and a curse. Those huntresses could help put down Priscilla, but their presence could also incite her. Then again, could a group of Claymores even kill Priscilla? Priscilla was strong, and he didn't know how strong. There were Claymores among his captors, and he wasn't sure what happened, but they were dead when he left them.

"You're not here to escort us to the quarantine?" Raki asked. He didn't want Sid talking to Priscilla. A poor sentence could tear his throat.

"No, she and you are innocent. You said the two of you haven't lost each other in the past few days. A butchery of that scale takes more than a few minutes. You know what I think, the suspicious are those that are alone. It was a single Yoma, and so it's probably wandering on its own. Or even as a recent member of some group. You two don't fit at all."

Raki gave a small nod. He could not meet the soldier's eyes.

"Besides," Sid continued, "you're not doing so well. Do you think my conscience would forgive me if something happened while you were pointlessly dragged around?"

"You came alone?" Priscilla said, "And you're the only one that knows we're here?" Raki did not know if she asked a question or gave voice to a thought.

"Yes, other than Father Vincent, I suppose."

He could imagine the ideas passing through her mind.

"You're bold." she said. "What if you did find the Yoma?"

Raki prayed she wouldn't ravage him. What other choice did he have?

Sid laughed. "It's sweet of you to be concerned about me, but you don't have to worry. Soldiers are resourceful."

There was a lull in the room. It was the inevitable sort that comes when semi-acquaintances have exhausted necessary topics. For Sid it may have been awkward, for Raki it was frightening.

"Well," Sid said, "I'll leave you to your rest. I'll return when I get a chance." He turned and took three steps towards the door. He stopped. "Raki," he hesitated. "Are-Are your wounds healing? Have any of the gashes split again?"

"Ah, no, I'm doing fine."

"They haven't opened? Even once?"

"They haven't. I promise you."

"I see. That's good. Take care." Sid went out. Raki listened to the fading steps and then the click of the front door.

He shut his eyes and shook his head. He bent his neck and held his brow in his palm. He had to do something. He couldn't live this way.

He turned to Priscilla. He glared at her.

She was observing him.

"Where's Father Vincent?" he demanded. He was more angry at her than he was afraid.

She continued to watch him, like one breed would another. At length she shrugged.

That monster.

Author's Notes:

Well, it has been a while. I don't have any excuses, I just lack discipline. I hope to improve my habits. I thought it would be nice to know Raki's thoughts, and so I centred some scenes on him.

I really appreciate the reviews. It's a bit embarrassing to admit but I've read them all more times than I can remember. It gives a certain pleasure, I'm sure many writers on this site feel that way. Don't be shy in your critiques either, I like to think I have a thick skin.

Let me know what you think about this chapter. It was more tame than the other two and so I wasn't sure how it would be received.

Until next time, take care.