Author's Note: I apologise to my readers for my recent disappearance (and the name change); school has been affecting me for some time, as has a writer's cramp. I hope this chapter reinforced with titanium words will make it up to you. I wish happy holidays to those who celebrate Christmas and Kwanzaa and other festive days, and say a loud, resounding "BOO!" to the others. Just kidding about the latter.
Ravaged Bonds Chapter 6: The Unknown
Fear, the plague which held sway over humanity for so many years, still exists even now. Many fears there are, but none worse than that of the unknown.
–Arnaud, the Wandering Prophet of Lemuria.
When he stepped through the familiar double doors of the island tavern, Wolfe only felt worse. The abrupt end to the conversation with his sister weighed that much heavier on his aching mind, and the wind had stopped talking to him as well. This was the only place he could think of to find solace, to find a source of comfort.
The reek of unwashed patrons coupled with aged and impure barley offended his nostrils, but in he went all the same, finding himself at the same table he had sat at with Isha half a minute later. Time seemed to fleet by on a waking wind to him, yet everything was the same as a few days ago. All but one, he corrected himself solemnly.
His inner eye darted from scene to scene as he remembered his beloved friend. He recalled the forced introductions of their first dinner meet between their parents, the days when they endlessly played together, the very last race they had underneath the Granddaddy Apple, and shortly after the first time they clasped hands. A wan smile slipped into existence, but when he reached out to touch her child-like hands once more his world shattered like the thinnest of glass only to find that she was not there. Tears flowed anew when he thought none were left, and silent sobs shook his body like a series of lachrymose hiccups.
The clanks of tankards ceased to stand out to his ears and were replaced by quiet whispers.
"That kid cryin'?" "Must have had a rough day." "Fool kid shouldn't be in a public house. What'll his parents think of him?" "D'ya think he's one of those tourist idiots?" "Shush, Jorl . . . that's him. That's the murderer they're—"
Each comment fueled the stinging sensation Wolfe felt like a growing burn, but the last was too much to tolerate. Tears stoppered and brow furrowed, he cast a stare toward the final speakers that forbade them from continuing. The stare worked, apparently, for the two recoiled back to their tankards.
Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he pondered as to why he bothered coming to town. It wasn't to get drunk, especially since he was underage, nor was it to be infuriated by an instilled rumour that might have a speck of truth to it. But what was it? Where was the solace he hoped to find in this pockmark of the world?
The familiar sound of chattering drops and amusement in the far corner of the inn answered his question. Lucky Dice, the betting game requiring raw luck, a clever hand, and frugality over a long run, was playing in the small gambling alcove in the furthest section of the inn.
A small smile revealed itself on the young man's face. Where many had lost more than they gained, Wolfe won more than he lost. Surely it would not be so terrible to play a few rounds to take his mind off of things and win some extra money on the side?
He shook his head in indecision. He greatly wanted—no, he needed—a way to escape the world's cold reality, but was gambling the only way to satisfy the craving? Avdotya had already reprimanded him on his habit, considering gambling a tempered trap, and should she realise that he was betting coin after coin in a tavern she would surely think of him worse.
But, he recalled, she was not here. There was no way she would catch him in the act, and what she did not know would not hurt her, according to the ancient saying. If it would take his brain away, numb the terrible pain wrought by the past week's events, is the lesser of two evils not obvious?
Determined, he rose from his dust-laden seat on the floor, walked past the loud-mouthed patrons, and headed for the dice table, eager to place a bet with like-minded individuals. Or ten. Or a hundred. For the first time in his week, the day will end well; of that, he was certain.
The lone figure could not tell whether it had opened its eyes in the pitch-black it lay in, all sense of time drained from and suffocated by the blackness of eternal night. There was not a change in the air, not a change in the cold surface that it felt against its naked back, no change whatsoever except the knowledge of its own existence, and that in itself was purely frightening.
Instinct dictated it should move, and so the being did, only to find that a burning sensation lancing through each and every one of its limbs. Further fear encouraged further struggling, so much so that its limbs flailed haphazardly in order to cease the pain, but the efforts were to no avail. Sharp, crude chains wrapped doubly around the wrists and ankles, arresting all movement and greedily drinking blood that oozed from etched flesh.
The figure ceased its attempt of escape shortly after, panting through its nostrils. Thoughts rolled through the void's sole occupant's mind as it looked left and right, searching for any clue as to where it was or how it got here, but nothing could be found to sate its lust for bearings.
Minute by painful minute passed as time crept back into the lightless space, measured with every heartbeat and breath as the creature kept still. Bu-thump, bu-thump, bu-thump. In, out, in. Both series of sounds mesmerized the figure in a place where no other rang out, and both smacked of its mortality. Being restrained meant that something dexterous enough to put it here, and with the very air reeking of recently spilled blood the chances of survival were slim should the creature be a goblin or ogre that hungered for flesh.
Two distinct clops of distant, solid footfalls bounded from one direction to another, increasingly getting closer. The figure listened intently, curiosity overpowering fear. The sounds could be heard through some form of hollow wall to its left, and for the first time since the creature's wake light shown down upon this darkest of cavities.
Eyelids snapped shut in an attempt to cancel the sudden surge of brightness, but the light was impossible to escape without wrenching a neck straight down. Dazed, confused, and furious, the figure let out a cry of anguish.
"Well, what do you know? She's awake early," a nearby voice spoke, so deep it inspired chills up the spine. The additional touch of a gloved hand on the forearm did not help either, and she withdrew from the touch at the expense of her bloodied wrist. "Hey, hey, easy," the voice continued, accompanied by a solemn pause. "She cut herself, the poor girl . . . but that's nothing to worry about. A little Cure will heal this. Where's that fool assistant when you need him? Bah, never mind. Hold still, dear, all right?"
The voice lost its initial chill as words rolled on, and the figure relaxed. Sight returned in small degrees to the point where its eyes could open, ever adjusting to the light. A wiry man with a drooping mustache and a beige overcoat met her eyes, accompanied by dark eyes and hair darker still. It took little longer to discern the other: features as thin as a whipcord, thin nose, a darting green gaze that scanned all over, and short light-blue hair all hardly met her as a pleasant sight and more like a visitation of the Reaper. She wished for the darkness to fall once more, hiding both from sight.
"You make the subject seem like a daughter," huffed the man from behind, his face cold, taciturn, and emotionless. "Don't tell me you're getting softer with every experiment you perform."
"Of course not!" countered the first, inadvertently causing the creature to fearfully slide away from them both. She withheld a cry as chains bit into fragile flesh once more, but the wiry dark-haired man noticed all the same, stroking her cheek lightly with a finger. The touches put her at ease, if only a little. "I take my experiments seriously, unlike those others in the academe. Live patients, dead patients, and those in-between, they each deserve a fair level of respect."
"A scientist with moral bounds fails in the end, doctor. Best you know this before something happens."
The figure read the expressions on the closer man's face, terror followed by anger. She found herself mirroring both, thrusting an glare toward the man with turquoise hair.
"Oh yes, I keep neglecting our guest . . . very bad for first impressions," the man continued sans expression as he looked down at her, eyes always shifting as if he were meticulously scanning. "Well, little doe, do you speak? Or has the good doctor taken that ability from you?"
The figure's features softened with every blink. Speak? She could do that? Looking down at the rest of her body assured that she was like them but somehow different. It may have been that she was not clothed, or that an X-shaped suture did not visibly cross their chests. Horrified, she started to flex her mouth, but what came out was unintelligible.
"Wh- . . . wh- . . ."
"Hush, don't speak. Too high a voice and it will tear your stitches," the doctor cautioned before he rotated. "She is in no condition to be questioned. You must leave. I have healing to do, and you have enough to report to the higher-ups."
An irritable snort emitted from the turquoise-maned man before he exited, a steady beat of footfalls resounding along a stone floor even as he twisted beyond the door. The girl breathed in mild relief. It was just her and this doctor, currently.
"Don't mind him," the remaining man uttered quietly after a moment of silence. "He always has been like that."
"N- . . ."
"Hon, don't talk; I might have to put you out if a suture tears, and neither of us would like that. Now, hold still. I'm going to take these chains off one at a time to heal you, okay?"
She nodded, relaxing her limbs so that they were more comfortable within the cruel chains. He must have tended to her before she awoke, but so little from before that was able to be remembered. Images of long grass running through fingers, next the burning sensation of travelling in boundless scorched sand, next still the beautiful face of a violet flower, then a pair of human faces so fleeting she could hardly tell what they looked like—all useless memories that left no clue as to purpose or former life.
The slinking of the chain from her left hand brought the girl back to the now, ending with a cacophonic rattle of metal on stone. She balled her hand into a fist, then loose, then a fist again. It was relieving to not be hurt just by moving anymore, but the sight of large splotches of crimson blood made her wince and whimper.
"No, don't look at it just yet. It will only make things worse. Close your eyes and count something."
She closed her eyes, but was unable to count. Too little came to mind to do that.
"Attagirl. You're doing great. Now, this may feel strange, but don't panic."
A hand slowly snatched up her arm, but the flow of warmth through the gloves on his fingers was so alien she unfastened her eyes and tried to slip from his grip.
"Nem, stop it!"
The girl's vision blurred, followed by the sensation that she was not in control as her left arm moved back to the same place. Terror chilled her to the very bone a second time. The man placed his hand atop her arm once again, this time with nothing to prevent him from doing so, and glanced back toward her.
"I'm sorry for scaring you, but you left me no choice. You were about to damage yourself further, and I could not risk that," the dark-haired man uttered, eyes peering into hers before breaking contact. "Just let me make it up to you."
She did not want it. She wanted nothing but a swift end to it all. Within the recesses of her fractured memory, she knew this pit of imprisonment was not where she belonged.
A soft glow, almost imperceptible but still there, managed to slip itself into the girl's blank stare, and she forced her mind to focus even though her eyes failed to follow suit. A beautiful sight of intertwining white and yellow light lay suspended in the air above his outstretched hand before falling out of sight. The light's warmth seeped into her arm, so quiescent and calming that her mind slowly began to ease. What was this technique? She remembered seeing it in her sleep, like a long-forgotten memory, but the very name escaped her.
The removal of the man's hand revealed the lack of a wound. Blood was wiped clean from solid white flesh through the aid of magic, and both skin and muscle were knit seamlessly together. The girl lay awestruck, inwardly gaping though the muscles of her mouth failed to flex.
Both remained silent as he shifted over to her remaining wounds. Though she could not move or see what was happening, the figure could feel the chains unfurl and the injuries heal and the mounting sense of relief wash over her as trust towards her healer grew.
"I think that's all that needs healing so far," the man uttered almost wearily, stepping into view again with trace beads of perspiration observable on his forehead. A definable frown could also be seen as he stared down beyond the stone table she lay on. "It's unforgivable that they chose such poorly crafted chains for you. Such metal barbs should not exist. Pfeh, I'll ask my superiors for better ones, else none will be used at all."
The girl continued focusing on the doctor, neither eye nor body shifting except through unconscious motions like the occasional rise and fall of her chest. He mused silently, a hand stroking his wispy mustache all the while.
"On the other hand, maybe it is unnecessary. You will get out of this hole for training in no time at all. Three hours is my best estimate. Until then, Nem, you are free to make yourself comfortable in the meantime, or sleep while you are able."
The girl sharply inhaled as her mind and body reunited with each other, and a small shiver shook her form. She was in control again, but she was unsure as to how.
"I'm sorry for what I've done to you," the doctor continued to speak as he walked toward the door, "all of it, but I do hope you'll forgive me in time."
"W-wait . . ."
"Hmm?" The mustachioed man turned with an eyebrow as dark as night raised. "You can speak this early? What is it?"
"Th- . . . thanks."
The faintest of frowns, almost imperceptible, could be observed before the room faded to black, and the light of the hallway carved the man's silhouette and shadow from the stone background. Slowly, the cutout reached for the door and pulled it inward.
"Goodbye, Nem," the scientist spoke quietly, "and don't thank me just yet."
Blackness ensued, this time without the accompaniment of primeval fear, as the figure huddled into a ball to keep warm. Even as the world faded into dark, it had two tiny glimmering objects now to keep it company—a name and a shred of hope—but when it laid its head to the right to rest a pain more intense than any it recognised dulled every other sensation.
Fear gripped the girl's heart and mind like the skeletal hand of Death itself, and after a moment of reluctance she raised her right hand past her left temple. A long and terrible scream shattered the silence like a mirror until she collapsed unconscious back onto the stone bed. The furrow of a scar both serpentine and sutured had met her fingerstips.
Wolfe sipped nervously from his glass, staring down at the clothed board of the table with a dancing flame in his gaze. Through frugal betting and a cautious hand, he won with ten coins a hundred and fifty, but for this moment he was willing to stake more rashly than ever. He pushed the entire heap forward.
Chatter from gamblers around the table died down as surprise took its place. Most of the islanders commonly put three or four coins at risk at a time, and rarely thirty or forty, but a hundred and fifty was unheard of. Even the owner of the table stared up at him, though the middle-aged woman had a wide smirk across her plump face. Five consecutive wins did not guarantee a sixth, and the all-encompassing law of probability was surely not in Wolfe's favour.
All knew this, but the youth for one appeared confident, albeit trying to pay no attention to the concentrated focus on him. His hand dropped, he picked up the pair of dice, he stared down at the two for a moment, and he tossed.
The dice ricocheted off the raised backboard and clattered clumsily down the fuzzy surface to the table, and, when the drop of the lucky cubes had completed its course, all was silent. Wolfe breathed a relieved sigh at the sight of a pair of snake eyes, one of them having landed in the furthest rectangle marked with a single pip and the other just barely in the nearby double-pip region. The game did not fail him for the sixth time in a row, and low cheers and laughs ascended through the thick air from the gathering.
"Triple the bet for the lad . . ." the embarrassed counter spoke over the din, taking a trio of large coins out from her sizable purse and placing it in Wolfe's side of the table. "You sure you'ren't cheating?" She crossed her arms over her chest decisively. What had previously been a great day for sapping coins from gamblers turned into a day of loss. "That's three hundred right there, and I'm not about to try to get them back. The door is that way. Next, please."
A satisfied grin set across his face, the young man drained the water from his glass, gathered his winnings, and trotted out of the tavern with more gold in pocket than entering. The rush of gambling was exhilarating after his history of terrible events. Though the thought still haunted the recesses of his mind, its impact had waned to a mere nagging sensation.
Yet, as soon as he stepped out of the door, and after still, the question he had previously asked himself offered itself again: where to go? He frowned to himself and halted to ponder this. Until this morning, he rarely had the reason to ask himself that, but chancing upon it twice in one day was a bad sign.
"Where to go indeed," he muttered to himself lowly.
Though the sun to the east and the busying street were sure signs to go home for the day, he was unsure as to whether he wanted to, or if there was a home awaiting him anymore. His adopted parents, or rather the entire household, hated him, and Avvie when livid had a gaze that pierced his very soul. Why should he go back to anger them even more and hurt himself in the process?
"No . . . that's a lie," he spoke again, his head shaking irritably. "Av doesn't hate me; she said that earlier when she said she actually cared about . . . why did I tell myself that?"
The sounds of a logging cart rolling by mostly shattered his inner thoughts, and the scent of fresh-cut fir briefly reminded of crimson candles and tangerines. He loved that smell, but he did not smile.
"I need to go back," he stated in finality, and continued to step down the stairs of the tavern, "if only to apologise to her. Why did it take me so long to think of something so simple? Stupid, stupid, stupid. . . ."
On he trudged. Along the way the wind built up again, sea-bound, resistive, and almost warning, but he trudged all the same. In his mind there was a goal set, and he was going to see it through to the end.
The luminescence of the crystals on either side of the walkway grew as the sun's influence waned, lighting Wolfe's path in calming hues of blue and purple, but Wolfe was in no way calm. His sister lay just beyond the massive door of the manor, and he had no idea what to say to ask her forgiveness.
Something was amiss, but he could not detect what that was. Perhaps it was the wind that continued to resist even now, but something infinitesimal felt almost desirous for him to leave. Putting the feeling aside and attempting to swallow his fear with a gulp that drained his mouth, he laid his hand on the spherical knob and pulled the door open.
Firelight dimly illuminated the otherwise poorly lit room, and the sounds of conversation that could be heard over the swing of the door was quickly extinguished. Wolfe blinked in the shadowed side of the portal and closed the door behind him, eyes adjusting to the low light.
"Late as always, Timbre. I wonder if you even know what punctuality is," spoke the detached voice of the father figure from behind one of the chairs by the fireside. From which, he did not know. "Have a seat," the voice prompted.
Wolfe was perplexed. Surely the father didn't mean to sit opposite him, because it had to be occupied. No other chairs he knew of were in the room, and he remained rooted in place.
"Seat yourself!" barked Maurus, a meaty finger jutting from behind the rightmost chair and pointing to the opposite.
Wolfe jumped high and his heart higher still, but he did as he was told, forgetting to leave his shoes by the door in his hurry. By the moment the sturdily-set man could be fully seen, he noticed that the father's gaze was on him all the while. The stare continued for a while, and Wolfe uncomfortably broke the silence.
"For what reason did you summon me?" he asked quietly.
"I wanted to have a personal chat with you," the elder grumbled, his tone sounding more akin to a rock crumbling to gravel than anything friendly.
"Personal?" the lad questioned in surprise, looking about from his seat in search of another person. "I thought that you in the middle of a conversation. No one else is around?"
"As you can plainly see. Irina and Avdotya have left for the Graven's estate and will be back when the evening is long spent. That gives us plenty of time to talk."
Wolfe nodded nervously, the thought of privately chatting with the father twice as terrifying currently now that neither his adoptive mother nor his sister was available to prevent the man from going out of control. He had seen his adopted parent's calm erase itself on more than one occasion, and, had Avvie not intervened, he probably would have suffered far more than verbal abuse.
That was not the only thing he was nervous about, however. He was almost sure that he heard a pair of voices, one low and guttural, and the other Maurus's. Was that real, or was his mind simply playing tricks on him? He did not like either option, that much was certain.
"So what was it you wished to talk about, sir?" he spoke with difficulty while shifting in his seat.
The father smirked and leaned forward, his eyes awash with a glow that Wolfe could not distinguish whether it was the natural fire from under the hearth or an inner, devilish flame.
"The truth," spoke he. "My gut tells me you've been dodgy the past few days, and I want to know if you have been honest with me."
Wolfe's ruffled pride curdled underneath his skin, and his face flushed with agitation.
"If this is about Isha, I have been completely honest with you. Sol as my witness, I did not kill her, nor could I! We were—"
"It's not about your little friend in the forest," the father uttered, the expression on his hawk-like features inverting into a light frown. "Some evidence has come up and cleared you of most of the charges, though it is still being ratified. Our searches have been rather . . . vigilant," he continued, rubbing his reddened eyes as if he had not slept for more than a day.
"Wha—?" Wolfe queried before cutting himself off. His expression turned into one of both incredible surprise and joy. "Y-you have some evidence? Please, tell me everything! I need to know!"
"Not now, but after," the father replied, a hand lifting from its respective sidepiece of his chair and waving the matter off. "I will tell you when you tell me what you know, fair?"
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Then tell me, did you awaken your inner potential?"
The question silenced Wolfe as much as a punch to the stomach would, and all the joviality swiftly drained from his face to be taken up by confusion.
"Inner . . . potential, sir?"
"Yes, inner potential. Have you been experiencing any oddities, like the earth moving underneath your feet? Water shifting to your will?"
"You . . . you mean Adepthood, don't you?"
The man only nodded, his gaze locked on Wolfe in the expectation of an answer and his hands gripping the chair's arms tightly. Wolfe also thought he heard the the swishing of clothing creeping into his ear, but neither of them moved, and Maurus said that they were alone. The dread feeling that something was amiss crept upon him again.
"I have . . . experienced nothing of the sort," he lied, struggling to keep his voice in check.
"You are sure? No flames popping up into existence?"
"I am positive," Wolfe fibbed again.
"No wind emerging from nowhere?" The father leaned forward closer as if attempting to scry Wolfe like a crystal ball, one eyebrow lifted and the other sternly locked in place. "You are absolutely sure? You aren't lying to me?"
"Of course, I am absolutely certain!" Wolfe replied; the repetition of denying the question greatly helped his nerves.
The father pulled back into his chair and relaxed his muscles, a small flash of a smile quickly hiding itself fractions of a second later.
"That is all I wish to know. Thank you for being honest with me, Wolfe. Thank you for proving yourself a bigger fool than I imagined you to be."
Wolfe felt a massive surge of pain as a clump of his hair was pulled forcibly upward, but the cold pressure of a knife laid fully against his throat unevoked whatever thought he had of screaming out his displeasure. His breath quickened, and through pain-inspired tears he saw the smiling image of the father.
"You really shouldn't be alarmed. There is no doubt that you saw a time like this coming, one day or some other. Carn, let up on the knife, please. Let the son speak to his adoptive father one last moment."
A grunt sounded out from behind him, and the force of the blade across his throat slowly disappeared from Wolfe's neck, leaving behind a trail of blood where the weapon had cut into flesh during its rest. The cruel grab to his hair continued, however, limiting the movement of his head.
"Why . . . why are you doing this?" he peeped.
"Never mind why."
"Then were you the one that killed Isha?" Wolfe shouted, moving much more than he should have had judging from a tug on his head that nearly tore out a portion of his hair. A sharp cry of pain tore out from his throat.
The father's smile widened for a brief moment before speaking once more: "No, I didn't. Someone accidentally beat me to the chance before I could even raise my sword arm."
Muffled laughter came from behind Wolfe's chair, and the young man's face twisted into one of rage. A deep and powerful surge of power gathered in his arms, just begging for a chant to be loosened from his tongue, but he kept himself restrained for now.
"Then tell me, father, what has cleared me of Isha's death. You promised me an answer."
"Still harping on that, are you?" Maurus chuckled darkly, folding his hands across his lap. "No, Wolfe, I never promised you anything, but I will amuse you before you die. One of my own killed her, effectively and efficiently. No one else kills with two blades."
Anger seethed from every pore and cell of Wolfe's person, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he failed to keep his emotions from getting the best of him.
"Don't be sad; it was bound to happen anyway, and if anything it was better this way. Now we have someone to pin the blame on, and when you lie dead on the floor with a knife in your hand and a suicide letter in your handwriting—"
Maurus did not get much further before Wolfe chanted and raised his arms, and everything within the vicinity was sent backwards. Endtables flew, papers tore themselves to shreds shortly after flying, and the chair Wolfe sat in leaned back at a ferocious speed so that the head of the chair lay horizontal within the second. The sickening wet sound of crunching bone sounded from behind him, as well as a terrible howl of anguish.
The world went dark for a moment as firelight was snuffed out of existence, but the heated wood managed to spark itself back to life and bring some small source of light to the room. Wolfe struggled to right himself from falling a small distance away from the chair, and so did Maurus, judging from the hardly audible coughs far behind him.
"You lying mongrel . . . you are indeed an Adept!" the father wheezed, causing Wolfe to look behind him. In the low light, he could see only the father, standing straight up with a terrible scowl scrawled across his face. "When I get my hands on you, I will wring your neck and throw you to the werewolves. You can't escape this fate."
"Just watch me . . ." Wolfe responded after a fit of shock-induced coughs before he started toward the front door. The last dregs of raw energy he had he built up in his legs, with some in his arm for good measure. If he was to flee, he needed to either run or protect himself.
However fast Wolfe was on his feet, Maurus was inevitably the faster, being far less exhausted and much more muscular. When Wolfe had reached the door, the father had also and slammed the youth against the oaken door with his forearm.
Pain lanced through Wolfe's spine and ribcage as he collided with both the door and the full brunt of the father's force, and blurred his vision to the point where focusing on the man's already-close face was nigh impossible. It was so difficult to breath, and felt impossible to resist the crush his chest was experiencing.
That was when he remembered the hand. With what little space he had left, he jerked his head forward and down, striking the bridge of Maurus's nose with his forehead. The man howled and loosened the pressure on Wolfe's chest for but a moment, and the younger took advantage of this. Finally able to breathe, he raised his hand up and chanted.
A powerful horizontal tornado formed between the two stemming from Wolfe's hand, carving a distance as it threw the father backward and Wolfe further against the face of the door. Had its construction not been sturdy, the wood of the door may have splintered and yielded to the pressure directed upon it, but it held until the swirling vortex receded.
Wolfe coughed up blood as he dropped to the ground, covering his mouth and turning a portion of his palm red before attempting to stagger to his feet. He had just barely evaded death, but had no time to rest. He had to leave before anything worse was about to happen.
With what little remained of his strength gathered, he opened the door and spilled into the walkway and out of sight.