Old Echoes
Sparrow.
Blade sat bolt upright with a gasp, her hand clasping at her shoulder, the mark of the bullet there. It was dark, so dark. She couldn't breathe. She paused for a moment, stilling her thumping heart, her panting breaths. She looked around her. She hesitated. Then she let out a low, weary sigh, and fell back down onto the bed.
She gave her eyes some time to adjust to the darkness. The comforting glow from above the door soothed her, lulling her back into a state of calm. It was dark, very early, she'd probably not even had four hours sleep yet, but she'd had enough. She looked to her side. Michael was lying with his back to her, curled slightly, his side rising and falling as he breathed.
She paused for a moment, watching him. She knew he was asleep. Slowly, she moved the cover off her, moving her legs off the bed. The wooden floor felt cold against her bare feet, and, as she stood, she picked up a robe that was slung carelessly over a chair near the bed, sliding it over her bare skin. She tightened the cotton belt slightly, looking around her. She moved over to the bookcase. Her fingers easily found her Guild Seal in the dark, tracing over the engraved patterns.
The metal grew hot under her touch.
Ah. You can hear me. Excellent.
Blade tightened her grip on the medallion. Theresa.
Hammer has learned the location of the Thief. Return to the Guild as soon as you can.
She paused, and then nodded, slowly. She took the Seal into her hand, slipping the lace over her neck. She took a second to feel the familiar weight of it around her neck, and then turned to the cupboard, the one Michael had said contained all her things.
She opened it, silently, and then conjured a small fireball in her hand, instantly surrounding it with a small shield of Will. She dimmed it until it showed only a faint light, and looked through the clothes. It held the most interesting variety, from a pauper's bodice to proper gentleman's shirt. She rifled through, picking a characteristically mismatched outfit - shorts, a corset, a crop jacket, and long, thigh-high boots. She had dyed them all a violent shade of blue, even visible in this light, and, after a short pause, she also picked out a noble lady's hat of black.
Her golden ballroom mask was on the table with her clockwork pistol. She picked them up and tucked them into the belt that she found sprawled across the floor.
Jaina closed the wardrobe, slowly, making sure it didn't creak, and then moved away from it. She went to move back to the bed and then stopped. She hesitated. Then she let the robe she had put on slip to the floor. Concentrating, she increased the light of the fire in her hand, just a little.
Her reflection shone back at her from the mirror. Her now very short hair was mussed, dark strands stuck with sweat to her cheeks. Her eyes traced down herself. She turned slightly, getting a vague look at her back. Ten years... What was once pure, strong skin was now a pallid covering. What that damned hybrid at the Spire had noted to be fresh and scar-less was cut apart. Her back bore the brunt of their beatings, thick, pale scars extending down her spine. More markings covered both wrists, the marks of handcuffs and rope when she had been bound and left in isolation for weeks on end. Ten long years.
So it's punishment you're after, is it? Then I'll oblige.
She shook her head, turning away from the somewhat painful image - and the painful memories it brought. She sat down on the edge of the bed, silently, taking care not to awake the sleeper behind her. She dragged on the collection of clothes, frowning slightly at her own choice. It was an odd change from her Spire guard uniform to this. It was almost... provocative. The corset, the boots, the so-short-shorts... what was she trying to prove? That she could still wear her femininity with pride? That was a joke. Any glimmer of femininity she had once had had been bleached out long ago, and she never really had much to begin with.
Jaina pulled on the long boots. Maybe she had bought this outfit during an uncharacteristic burst of spontaneity. Maybe it was an old relic of a much younger self. It didn't matter. She had chosen these clothes instinctively. She would wear them, and she would wear them like she always did - like they were made for her.
"D'you know what our Rose says more than 'I'm going to be a Hero'?"
Jaina paused, hands still on her laces. Her heart had instinctively started pounding, forcing blood around her body in case she had to fight. She hadn't realised he was awake. She was getting rusty.
And, in the Spire, being rusty could be the last thing you did.
She forced up a smile, not fully turning to him, just glancing back at him over her shoulder, "What?"
Michael looked at her, perfectly serious, "'Is mum going to be back soon'."
Her smile faded. She hesitated, looking at him. Then she turned back to her laces.
"And now you're leaving us again. Aren't you." There was a pause, and she heard him shake his head, his voice developing anger and a tint of disgust that tore through her heart: "How could you do that to them. How could you do that to me?"
"I have to go, Michael." Her hands were shaking. She kept messing up the knot. "Theresa needs me at the Guild. We have to find the third Hero."
He got to his feet, picking up the discarded robe she had been wearing and slipping it over his arms, standing some distance away from her, out of her direct sightline, "The Thief, yes, I know. Hannah told me. The Hero of Skill." He gave a small, strange sounding laugh, "In these past years I've learnt more about your life than I would have ever learnt from you. Did you know that?"
She said nothing. She hadn't told him? Had she not trusted him? No, it couldn't be that. The love she held for him, and he for her... that was real, wasn't it? So why had she not confided in him? Was she worried what he would think? Worried for his safety?
Was she scared for him?
Her hands shook, and she kept biting her lip. She made it look as if she was still tying the damned strings, but in reality her fingers were trembling so much she couldn't concentrate.
"It's Lucien. Isn't it. Before, I wouldn't have minded. I didn't mind, Jaina. I understood, you told me, and I understood. But now..." below the anger, she could hear a faint plea to his voice, "Ten years. Your daughter, your son. You can't abandon them now. You can't leave me again."
She swallowed, thickly. Then, even though it cut through her heart, she forced her voice to sound calm: "It is Lucien. It's always Lucien. And I need to find this Hero to stop him."
"Jaina. This isn't you. Why have you... How..." he paused, and then shook his head, anger burning through him again, "How could you be so cruel? What the hell happened to you in that place?"
She froze. The laces fell unheeded to the floor.
Michael seemed to sense her emotions. Her fear, her pain. He knew he was getting somewhere. He shook his head, starting to move over to her. Quickly, she shoved the still undone laces into the sides of her boots, got to her feet, and fled the room.
Blade managed to find her way through the house, hearing him hot on her tail, moving swiftly towards the door.
He stopped her, putting a rough hand on the door over her shoulder, forcing it back shut. She tried to open it again and he just shoved it shut, moving around her a bit and pushing his shoulder firmly in the way of the door.
Michael looked at her, his green eyes intense, "What happened in the Spire."
She shook her head, her voice quiet: "Get out my way."
"Not a chance in hell."
Her resolve flickered, and she shook her head, "Please, Michael. Let me go." Her voice was fading slightly, losing control.
"What happened to you." He repeated, slowly.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she could do nothing to stop them. She shook her head, pulling away from him, "Michael, please. Move on. Leave me behind." She shook her head again, disgust moving through her, but not for him, "I don't even know why I came here, I'm so stupid, I should never have come! I'm so sorry."
"How can you say that. How can you." He shook his head and moved closer. She retreated, immediately, but he continued, cornering her. His eyes flickered over her, clocking her distress and her tears, and she could tell he was forcing his empathy down. He shook his head, and, as though instinctively, leant down and pushed his lips to hers. She jerked back and slapped him around the face, hard.
There was a pause. But he was made from tough stuff, and, though he flinched back, he didn't make a sound. He watched her for a second, and then shook his head again, almost desperately, "Jaina, I love you."
"You can't love me." Her voice was fierce. She pushed anger into it, forcefully, put daggers into her words.
"But I do."
"But I don't."
He shook his head, immediately, "You're lying." He moved closer, putting his mouth back to her throat, nuzzling in the crook of her neck, catching her hand as she tried to hit him again, remarkably fast, "I know you're lying."
She fought ferociously with his grip, trying to continue her hit, "I'm not."
"Yes you are. You're my wife, Jaina, and I love you. And you love me."
"I don't even remember you!"
That hit hard. Michael paused. Then he pulled back, looking at her, his eyes searching out hers.
Blade shook her head, forcing up anger, forcing up the vicious, cutting edge to her that she knew was the only way to give him any sort of release from her, "I didn't even remember your name. I didn't know the kids and I didn't remember where we lived. Everything has gone, Michael, I don't even know you!" she hesitated, and then ploughed on, knowing she had to, feeling pain and so sharp guilt slicing through her at the look on his face, "How can I love someone I don't know. How can I love a stranger."
"What are you talking about." His voice was quiet, and held the faintest sign of a shake.
She shook her head, angrily, and ripped the red scarf from her neck, throwing it to the floor. His eyes widened with concern, pain, and something close to fear as he saw the deep, dark scars across her skin, the cuts, the burns, the wounds that the collar had sliced into her.
Then she moved swiftly to the now spent fire, taking a handful of soot and spreading it thickly onto her left forearm, rubbing it in. Black covered her skin, and then she brushed it off, in quick, sharp jerks. Most of the black faded, leaving her skin a dull chrome, but the dust stayed in the scars in her skin, and that one word, the word she had carved into her own flesh, came out so easily readable in the thick dirt.
"Look at it. Look at it. That's what I did to try and remember. And the cuts on my neck? That's what the Commandant did to make sure I didn't." she found the collar clipped onto her belt, and tore it off, showing it to him, "It's this. This is what made me what I am."
He looked at it, "I don't understand."
"This is what it is! This is what took my memories! I didn't know you, or the kids, or this goddamned place, I didn't even know my own goddamned name!" The cold metal on her palm made her shiver, but she ignored it, firmly, and pressed it into his hand, "Feel it! Go on! See what it felt like!"
Michael adjusted his grip on the collar, instinctively. It squeezed, still containing the slightest amount of its Old Kingdom magic, and he cursed as it started to burn against his skin.
Without thinking, Blade stepped forwards, burying one of her hands in the collar with his, and then forced it shut.
Pain burned through her, squeezing, tearing at her wrist, and there was an echo, the slightest echo, the echo of the pull she'd felt that first day at the Spire and all the days after it, the pull on her stomach and her mind. But an echo was strong enough. Michael's hand tightened on hers until she could feel her bones crunching. She knew he could feel it too.
There was the voice again. And, instead of fighting it this time, she embraced it, viciously, knowing it was only an echo, knowing it could never hurt her.
The world outside these marvellous walls is a corrupt, rotting husk. Reason is absent. Instead of order... there is chaos.
Jaina saw a frown move onto her husband's face, a grimace, wincing at the pain in his wrist and fighting with the screaming in his head.
You stand in the centre of a great instrument of change. With it I shall remake the world, and my creation shall be unrecognisable... in its perfection.
You are Recruit 273. That number is not random - it was assigned to you because I have broken two-hundred and seventy-two recruits before you. You are nothing more... than the next link in the chain.
He was giving a quiet murmur, like a soft plea, hands pushing at the collar, trying to get her to release it. Blade held on, firmly, despite the pain, despite the calls within her head.
Obey! This man must die.
Everyone has their breaking point. And I will find yours.
Pain pierced her as the Commandant cut blades down her flesh, slicing into her, breaking her fingers, vicious floggings, blood pouring from her back. She cried out, but kept her hands down on the collar, ferociously holding their hands together.
You don't fear pain. Threats. Humiliation. You don't fear the less... tasteful orders the others try and put you through. So what do you fear?
"No." He managed, his voice a low murmur, "Jaina. Stop. Stop it."
She couldn't. She was standing in front of all those officers, circling her, smiling, laughing, reaching out, grabbing her, lips on her neck making her skin crawl, hands roaming over her body freely because she couldn't stop them, they had her hands, her arms, forcing her to stay still, an order, they gave an order, laughing, but no, she couldn't, she couldn't - pain, pain of the collar, tightening around her neck - you must obey! - on the floor, cold, hard stone, she couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
And then she was in that room, that cold, empty room, completely silent, walls on all sides of her, head on her knees, throat raw from screaming - begging - at the silence, shaking, rocking herself to a broken sleep.
"Jaina. No."
Bob was lying on the floor in front of her, eyes open but unseeing, dead, and hot, bitter tears spread down her cheeks as a hole was driven into her heart, so deep.
Michael. Rose Marie. Mattie. Your links. Y'know, the funny thing is, I don't even need the collar to get rid of them. All I need to do is this.
Her friend, he was all she had, her only sanity in this madness. But he wasn't separate from it. The madness had entered him.
It's a mercy, 273. Think of it that way, if you will. Look at him. He's in pain. Put him out of his misery.
No. She didn't have the strength. Didn't have the nerve. Couldn't stop his pain, couldn't help him, couldn't stop the Commandant, and now he was dead, and it was all her fault.
One scar. Just one scar.
Michael. Rose Marie. Mattie. Michael. Rose Marie. Mattie.
M'lord? What's happened? What's that light?
"Jaina, you have to stop this. Stop it now. Come on."
Michael. Rose Marie. Mattie.
What? No, wait! NO!
"Jaina."
MichaelRoseMarieMattieMichaelRoseMarieMattie
Darling baby honey dear cutie love dearest pet beloved precious sweetheart babe missy toy princess sugar sweetie, come on what d'you say let's go have a bit of fun come on you know you want to don't make me come down there, aw she's such a little sweetheart so scared so vulnerable so alone. Oh, so you're name's Blade is it how cute how sweet, you got yourself a man back home, honey? No? Oh, that's a shame - pity crime shame pity.
Come on, little thing. Let's play.
Michael lashed out, catching the metal and yanking it away from them. The collar flew off their hands and they were both thrown in opposite directions across the room, Blade smashing into the fireplace and Michael forced back into the stairs. She felt her head crack back against the cold marble and she fell to the floor, panting for breaths, red hot pain burning across her hands, her back, her head. She'd hit it hard. She felt darkness enveloping her.
Come on, little thing. Let's play.
She lost consciousness.
