Author's Note: I know that this chapter has taken a long time to come out, but I have been experimenting with different styles of writing and coming up with one I believe is stronger. Hopefully you will think so too, and, if not, please tell me. I only bite when I am hungry or fear something. Anyway, please enjoy and review, kind readers, or perish under the Millstone of Thanny's Irateness.
Ravaged Bonds Chapter 8: Forking Paths
Separation is as natural as it is manmade. The tree and prey are both ripped from its progeny; the mind is severed at death, birth, or extreme trial; flesh is torn by fang and sword; and the ground is sullied for its resources. Living peacefully, as you consider it, Yulli, is thusly nothing but a foolish notion because it is completely unnatural!
—General Rantz the Younger to Lord Yulli of Bilibin
Someone knocked roughly at the entry, filling the air with the jangling of locks, the squeak of a hinge, and the rattle of flesh on wood. It was inescapable. No matter how deep into her blankets she delved, Avdotya could not manage to escape the rat-a-tat-tat that offended her eardrums. When she covered her ears, it rang on. When she thrust a pillow over her head, it rang on. Once all efforts were dubbed fruitless, she withdrew her blankets and stepped out of bed.
Everything appeared as a mess of black and white. Moonlight as cold and white as ice shone through the window, crystallising the dust it touched in the air and illuminating the floor like tiles of ivory. Whatever light struck the surface was greedily absorbed by the wood, and was reflected in such a manner that only the eye retrieved its glow, so much so that Av had to feel for the knob to pull her bedroom door open.
Lamps lit the hardwood path beyond in warm patches of cherry and orange tints, far different from the monochromatic shades of her bedroom. In the depths of her mind, she wondered where her father and mother were, or whether they had woken up at all. When the maid was not available, they were the ones who greeted nightly visitors, but they must have been too deep into their sleep to answer an unexpected call in the middle of the night. Her parents were heavy sleepers.
As she descended the steps, the shadows that formed and fled at her feet entranced her, some cast by herself while others generated by the claw-esque extensions holding the wall lamps intertwined like kaleidoscopic patterns. It was terrifyingly beautiful, generating a mixed emotion that drowned out the persistent rapping for a time, but all things, especially staircases, must come to an end.
The knocking grew quieter as Avvie approached, resulting in silence when she reached for the twin locks. Did the knocker give up, or did whoever it was notice her coming, or perhaps something else? She had no idea, but she reckoned she was soon about to find out. The chains fell, and one swift tug on the handle pulled the entry open.
Her heart leapt in her chest to see the silhouette of her brother at the door, a pale smile illuminated by the crystal walk on the sides of his paler face. She felt herself mirroring him, regardless of the striking confusion.
"Wolfe? What are you doing out here? Why aren't you asleep?" she asked curiously.
His smile slipped from the shadowy edges of his silhouette.
"So you don't know what happened, or perhaps your father had not told you," he replied.
"W-what do you mean? What is it that I don't know?" Her brother remained silent, filling her with unease. She licked her lips worriedly, keeping her gaze locked where his were supposed to be. "Please, answer me this. What has Father not told me?"
"Why don't you find out for yourself?"
Wolfe's living shadow stepped backwards with the timing of a grandfather clock, never turning and never shifting his head. Avdotya's blood froze in her veins. She wanted to follow him, to call out for him to stop his metronomic plodding, but her body was rooted to the spot. Down the porch's stairs he plodded with neither foot nor pace missing a mark, and further did light creep up on the edges of the silhouette.
She let out a gasp at what she saw. His face was ashen, his clothes ragged and torn, his eyes dim, and his teeth glimmering through a faint smirk. She could hardly tell now that this was the sibling that had lived in the same household that she did, who dined at the same table as she did, who shared the same secrets that she did. Instead, he appeared as but a ghost of his former self.
"What happened to you?" she asked, her body quivering as she left the frame. "You're so pale . . . are you all right?"
"Look down."
Avdotya pursed her lips, but she slowly did as she was told, starting with his torso, then down to his legs, then down to a spattered pathway. Fear, suffocating with its grim reproach, welled up in her throat as she backtracked a line of thick, vermillion droplets.
"Heavens above, you're injured . . . and badly at that!" she managed to speak through pursed lips. She willed her legs into motion and stepped closer. "Come inside this instant so I can close the wound, Wolfe. If you lose another quart of blood like this, you'll soon die, I'm certain of it!"
The smirk morphed into a sneer, and Wolfe's orbits, eye and all, appeared as grey and terrible as the rest of him. The sight alone halted all movement, body, breath, and heart.
"You . . . you're not my brother, are you . . . ?" she peeped, fighting the paralysis seizing her lips.
Shimmers of blue and purple light flickered to life across Wolfe's flesh, shifting into a pale lavender blue, and the short, sandy hair that previously sported his head took the complexion of a curling ocean wave, ever growing longer. Twin mounds of flesh protruded from the latter, twisting into hardened horns.
"Your brother is dead, Av," the creature voiced with sickening sweetness, using Wolfe's voice all the while. "He was sucked dry a few nights ago. His fears . . . his ambitions . . . his innermost desires . . . they were like a fine vintage. You, on the other hand, might rival."
It approached seductively, hips gyrating like a snake's coil and every step a smooth motion. Facial configuration shifted, bones snapping sickeningly into a different position and muscles rearranging themselves underneath placid skin. The end result was the image of young woman emaciated and beautiful, the sight of which fixed Avdotya in place. The creature took the appearance of a goddess, but the predatory eyes erased all thought of divinity.
Avdotya struggled to raise her arm in defence, but the creature shoved it down with a wave of a hand.
"Now now, don't waste your energy on beating your brother away," the creature spoke with a foul giggle, launching a grin only Wolfe would have achieved.
Speckles of blood-tinged anger danced within her eyes as she tried again, faster this time, but all was for nothing when the eyes of the creature narrowed. Time slowed, responses hazed, and the muscles of her arm failed to hinder the creature's approach. A chill from a second paralysis scaled her backbone like a centipede, and only her mind could react.
"So feisty. I love that," the fiend giggled, raising a hand to stroke her shuddering arm. "You have such tender skin, like your mother"—it looked dead in her eyes with a pupilless stare—"such beautiful eyes, like your father . . . and within them a mouthwatering assortment of fears."
Feline teeth flashed as moonlight crept upon on the monster's visage, and every fibre of Avdotya's being urged her to move. Again was she planted to the spot; no matter how strong the desire to thrash was, her muscles replied only with a weak spasm.
"Go on. Struggle."
She did. She tried so hard to break free, but a paralysis like an encasing stone coffin arrested all her efforts. She felt the creature tilt her head back by her chin with perfect ease, and when her sight lifted toward the heavens she noticed the watching stars, spellbound similar to herself.
"I want to taste it," she heard from below, moist breath saturating her throat. "I want to taste my sister's fear so badly. . . ."
Fangs punctured the soft surface of Avdotya's neck, plunging deeper and deeper and deeper still. The world dyed itself a deeper shade of red every moment her lifeblood rushed out, and right before all faded into a sheet of crimson she caught the moon slinking from the rooftop to sneak a peek.
Avdotya lurched forward in a state of panic, heaving in shallow breaths over the crumpled form of blankets in her lap. Her arms lay braced on her legs as though she were about to vomit, and perspiration dotted her forehead in thick beads. Instinct dictated that she should raise a hand to her throat, and when she did the only thing to be felt was cold, clammy flesh. No blood stained her olive skin or ran in streams down her chest. Nothing scathing met her touch as she ran her hand across soft part of her neck. Her mind sighed in relief that it was all a dream and not reality, but her body refused to react similarly and broke down in sobs.
Three days and four nights had passed since the lighting of the island's resident Beacon, and for the fourth night in a row nothing but nightmares came to greet her between evening and dawn. Sleep deprivation left her eyes reddened and dull, and her body, once adamant and spry, steadily weakened through inaction.
After the attack on her father, the manor had undergone a lockdown. The immediate family was kept indoors for fear of a second assault, and only Emery the maid and the Great Healer were allowed access to the household. Avdotya was disgusted with the idea, desiring nothing more than to free herself from the coppery scent of the blood-spattered house and walk outside.
No, that was a lie. She craved far more than that. She wanted to leave her family's wishes far behind. She wanted the cogs of her eighteenth birthday to grind to an abrupt halt. She wanted to create her own future and not spend it with a rich snob like Myron Perrot. Most importantly, she wanted answers as to why Wolfe did what he did or whether he actually performed them.
So many desires lay cramped within her head, threatening to scatter her brains on the four corners of her room, and fear of rejection kept every one of them fastened inside. From what she saw, two very different roads forked in opposing directions. The first, the path of the Blindly Trusting, led to a life completely prepared since birth where nothing would go her way; the second, the path of the Deviant, spindled off into the distance, yet at the very end she knew there was some happiness awaiting her.
The decision was crucial. Once started upon either road, there was assuredly no going back. If she chose the first path, she would be ingrained too deeply to depart, and, should she choose the second, her family would never accept her again.
She shook her head, wiping tears away with an already damp sleeve, and pried her gaze away from her lap and toward the open window. Sol still had not hitherto dared to prop his fiery head over the horizon, nor did his wife Mani reveal her bleach-white face.
" 'For I am at the cusp of a sword,' " Av muttered lightly, " 'demanded a response to uneven terms. My honour lies on my tongue or my sword arm, lost or gained through voice or action.' "
She did not know how the quote came to mind, spoken from the mouth of the Righteous Thief Lunpa fifty years ago, but it granted her a little solace to know she was not alone with such thoughts.
"There's still time to decide," she reminded herself. "Three days is more than enough time to make up my mind, and if —"
Her train of thought screeched to a halt, and her face shriveled into that of anguish. Pain lanced through the right side of her head like a scalding poker before withdrawing like an observed assassin, leaving before she was able to press a hand to her head.
She groaned, the same hand dropping to her left side to check her pulse. The beating heart within pumped at a lively pace, surging adrenaline through her system to protect her, but it was evident that it could not.
"Nightmares and headaches in the same day . . ." she groaned as she stepped out of bed to start her morning toilette. "Should this continue, I'll lose my sanity in a few short months."
"Are you all right, pet?"
Avdotya looked up from the plate in front of her, her stare broken into blinking intervals. Her mother stood at the opposite end of the four-chair breakfast table, powdered and beautiful even at eight in the morning. The girl tried to smile, but the worry in her parent's face suppressed the action.
"I'm fine, Mum," she quietly replied, wringing her wrist under the table as she focused downwards again. An untouched pair of blueberry griddlecakes lay stacked in the plate's centre, and a tinted glass filled halfway with milk rested further into the table.
"Oh, please, don't give me that," Irina persisted, setting her plate on the table. "You are as pale as a sheet, and you always butter your pancakes before sitting."
The whispers of fluttering silk signaled the mother's approach, as did the hand that rubbed the Avdotya's inner shoulder. Contrary to their purpose, the gentle touches only agitated her.
"Say, hon, you should let the Great Healer look you over later today. I'm sure he would not mind, especially if I offer to pay for it on top of your father's medical bills."
"Mother, I said I'm fine," Av responded in a low tone, brushing the hand off her person.
"That's a lie, and we both know it," Irina voiced with a pinch of sadness. "You've been quiet ever since your father got injured, and don't think for an instant I haven't noticed it. You hardly leave your room. You don't talk to either of us. Whatever is on your mind?"
"Nothing," she whispered, tearing her gaze from the table and focusing further away from the table.
"Hon, again, don't give m—"
"Just drop it, okay?"
Her mother sighed in defeat and returned to her breakfast, pouring syrup all over it. Av dared to shoot a glance up at her and wished that she had not done so; the expression on Irina's face did not help her conscience one iota. Instead, she stared down at her unbuttered breakfast.
"So," Irina spoke later on, her small mound of pancakes nearly finished, "have you given any more thought on your coming of age?"
"I'm sorry, what was that?" queried Avvie, wading through her thoughts back to reality.
"Have you given any more thought on your birthday?" repeated her mother calmly.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Why, what I meant was have you picked out a husband, of course! I'm dying to know who you've chosen. Was it the lovely Hyro young man with his lovely blue eyes? Was it the Perrot lad from earlier? I hope you apologised to him for turning him away."
"I . . . have not chosen," Av responded, a blush sparking to life when she turned away.
"Oh, that's okay. There is still time to choose which one is suitable," Irina continued with an audible smile. "And you know all of your lines and the people that are going to be there?"
"I've been reciting for weeks now, Mum, so I think so."
"Hm, that's what your adopted brother said, and. . . ."
Irina caught her tongue too late, her daughter's face twisting into a frown at the mention of Wolfe. She changed the subject.
"Think about what it would be like when you are married, hon, about what a great experience it will be for you, one full of new and fantastic things. There will be no more school unless you will it, you can play instruments beyond that of the piano, and someday you will have children to call your own. You will be so happy under the wing of someone other than myself and your father. I will be happy as well. I can't wait to have my own grandchildren."
"Mother, please . . ." the girl groaned, crimsoning deeper. "I don't want to think about it. Don't make me think about it."
"But really, my duckling, it would be wonderful for you! When you were younger you thought babies were cute and wanted one of your own. Soon, that day will come, and you'll—"
Avdotya slammed both her hands down on the table's edge and rose from her seat, causing Irina to yelp in startlement.
"Aren't you even listening to me? I don't want to talk about such things!"
She stormed off without awaiting a response, and when her mother's pleas to come back reached her ears Av was already heading up the stairwell. She retired to her chamber with a flick of the bedroom door, and the only thing left she could hear was her own rampant breathing.
It took her minutes of lying facedown on the bedspread to recognise her puerility. Initially she blamed the nightmares and lack of sleep, and later she shifted the responsibility to the headaches, but neither fit in terms of her irritability. She was loath to admit it, but perhaps her father was right; her kid brother's influence may have left them both acting like children.
With a roll onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, wondering if Wolfe was safe. Four days was a long time to remain hidden, and she hoped for both their sakes that he managed to get off the island. It would not have been an easy feat; elsewhere in the world, boats had been seized in times of duress or risk, and if Palmaria did the same he was forced to stay on the archipelago, hampered unless he dared to brave the strong eddies surrounding the isles via an oceanic swim to the mainland.
She issued forth to the window a second time, desirous for fresh air. The morning air, still chilly as though the sun had not risen from the horizon, smelled faintly of an ocean-swept breeze, but that was not the chief thing which met her senses.
Pacing along the poorly maintained path leading to the smithy which branched off from the main road, Avdotya spotted a blue-garbed monk with his traditional cowl drawn overhead, the face so deep within the hood she could not see any distinguishable features inside its shade. She thought little of it at first, as even the most well-practiced blacksmith required healing now and again, but as her eyes followed she noticed the man glance up toward her.
Surprise drove her behind a curtain. For what reason would a monk look up at her manor window? Did he see her? She shook her head, wondering if she was taking this too seriously, but when she dared another look the hooded figure had stopped dead in the road and focused toward her.
Her heart skipped two beats as thoughts tore through her mind speedily. Her mind claimed this was no accident and that an odious someone was stalking her, yet her soul informed her that this was Wolfe, seeking whether she was fine or not.
She did not know how long the two contested, but when the figure continued walking the quarrel ceased. The hooded man was out of sight within the minute, quickening his pace similar to entering the final leg of a race, and Avvie's gaze followed him all the while.
"No good," she muttered to herself, starting to pace. "I can't tell who it is."
She threw up her hands in frustration and leaned on the dresser, her lips pursed in thought and her head hanging low.
"Maybe I'm overthinking things and my mind is unhinging. Maybe it is a simple Healer, and I'm only imagining him as someone else . . . but it doesn't make any sense. He paused when a Healer would continue, looked back when a Healer would keep focused, and sped up when a Healer would remain calm! If only I could get closer, then—"
A distant rap cut short her soliloquy, the merciless string of knocks assuring that Emery had just arrived to perform her daily tasks.
Avdotya waited and listened, hearing the chain locks unlink and the squeaky door be pried open and shut, but nary a word transacted between her mother and the housemaid. She took notice a long time ago, and still had not found an answer to this silent understanding between them. Neither showed much interest in the other, and neither revealed any ill will pitted. It was a strange impasse between acknowledgement and neglect, one that Av wished she would never achieve in her life, even though a forced marriage threatened to accomplish such.
She sighed. Her thoughts were scattered all over, untethered like a horse, and she needed a rein to control them. Options were limited to the room for the moment, but surely she could find something to focus on.
Seconds passed off as hours in the dark, and hours for years. Without the ticking of a clock or the refreshing cycle between day and night, Nem could only count her breaths to gain some sense of time, but even that was short-lived when one stumbles on numbers and words. Memories came back in clumps, some unnecessary and others purposeful.
At times she wished the memories would come back in one colossal surge instead of slowly feeding itself to her, but the fear of the results kept her in check. Would her head explode? Would it churn like her stomach when she ate fast? She truly did not want to find out.
She placed a hand on her receded stomach. Thoughts of food plagued her, and she could not remember when food was last given to her. During her stay she had been fed five times, but while that was enough to sustain her she craved more.
The texture of cotton on her fingertips amused Nem. "Clothes," as the kindly doctor called them, were uncomfortable and itchy, but they fended off the cold so well even her toes and fingers were warm. Time passed easier when spent putting them on, however difficult it was in infinite darkness. Sometimes she put her head or hand or foot in the wrong hole, and it took innumerable attempts to find a comfortable way to wear them. Pantaloons on her arms, a sweater covering her legs, undergarments acting as "overgarments" or flimsy hats, stockings on her hands—she tried it all until she deemed it appropriate, and even then it was not right.
Footsteps echoed from the hollow wall, causing her to leap from her sleeping corner, duck behind the table she first woke up on, and peer over the top. The wall swung open and the lights above her blinded her, but a contented churr escaped her lips when she recognised the doctor.
"Hey, angel," he responded with a suppressed laugh. "Still hiding behind there, are you?"
"Yes," Nem spoke succinctly, plunging her head behind the slab.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot play with you today. Too much work, you see, but I have something that might cheer you up."
Nem popped her head up above the slab, eyes beholding an ellipsoidal pewter tray. Atop the plate in the centre sat a helping of rare stringy meat, a dallop of mashed yam, and a wafer of black bread that appeared coarse and slightly aged; it was a scanty meal through-and-through, but her stomach, denied sustenance for a fair amount of time, demanded that she should rise to her feet.
"I managed to sneak some meat and preserves from the kitchen. They'll build your muscles and stamina up a little," he explained as he stepped to the stone wedge and placed the tray in front of her as if it were a table.
She gazed on each contender on the plate solicitously, wondering which to eat first. Sure enough, there was a small portion of red jelly, previously hidden behind the meat.
"Thank you . . ." she stuttered, reaching down and scooping jelly onto her fingertips.
"Please don't thank me, Nem. Never again."
Her hand halted a short distance away from her outstretched tongue when she looked toward the doctor.
"But you said—"
"I know what I said," he curtly replied. "I said earlier you shouldn't thank me just yet, but what I intended was different. Say nothing more on this."
The rigidity of the command coupled with disappointment froze Nem in place but for a moment before she placed her fingers in her mouth. The taste of berries exploded along her tongue, a flavour far more delicious than anything she had in her previous meals, and her hand rose and fell until not a mote of preserves remained.
"I see you like your sweets," the man commented in amusement, twirling his thin black mustache between his fingers.
"Mm! It tastes . . . sweet!"
"Yes, sweets tend to do that," he replied, laughing a note. "They are rare in these parts, as they are generally made in Vale, southern Indra, and the Apojii islands where briars and sugar cane are grown. I was surprised we had any in the storeroom."
Nem stared in silence, curious of his words but not understanding more than a lick of them.
"I keep forgetting you don't remember much from the outside world. It's a beautiful place, one that you will see with your own eyes soon enough."
"I can leave this prison?" she questioned, her eyes dropping while she handled the piece of meat from the plate. It was tough to chew and had a gamey taste she did not enjoy, but she managed to swallow all the same.
"Yes, you are able to leave, but this is not a prison. It is more of a protective ward and research facility for people with secret talents. You, my dear, are one of the latest."
"M-me . . . ?" Nem's eyes bulged in childish naïveté as she stared down at her dust-covered hands, hoping to see the talent for her own eyes, but when she saw nothing of value she glowered and sighed.
"From our research," he replied, his voice oscillating, "you either had one earlier or will have one. If we bring it to the surface, we can prove how great you truly can be. Your worth to our clientele can be limitless, but the process could take weeks, months, or even years at a time, but I am certain you have the ability to accomplish this."
She smiled up toward the doctor, not understanding some of the words but enjoying the thought of having something to call her own. Eagerness took the place of dejection, and she gleefully responded, "I want to be great!"
The dark-haired scientist chuckled, his eyes shining with light enjoyment. Nem wondered why she never saw a smile pass over his lips. She could not guess the reason, if there even was one, but her curiosity abated before blossoming into enquiry.
"Of course you will, and I will help all that I can, which brings me to the other thing I meant to speak to you about."
His hands attracted Nem's attention as they disappeared behind his back. She gave him a look of confusion when he struggled with something, but a short moment later an odd, boxlike object emerged from behind the coattails and was subsequently placed on the table. She stared at it with curiosity, fearful to reach out and touch the surface lest she break it. It wrinkled thing seemed so fragile, and the flecks of gold ingrained into its hide appeared to be one tug away from removal.
"What is it?" she asked, gaze refocusing toward the doctor.
"It is a book, Nem," he explained. "It tells stories and shows things which benefits how one lives one's life. Go ahead and take it up."
The girl did exactly so and gripped the spine, almost dropping the book when the opposite end lolled. Her eyes went as wide as a spooked owl's as she stared at it from the length of her arm, much to the man's amusement.
"Don't worry. The book is as alive as the stone around you, and you don't see that breathing, do you?" She nodded her head negatively, but her outstretched arm did not relax nor did her wide-eyed gaze falter. He did not seem to care, though. "Good. Now would you be a doll and open the cover?"
Nem gulped and pursed her lips, lifting a hand timidly toward the book as if it were expected it to awaken and gnash a hundred teeth in her face. When nothing happened, she pulled the closest "jaw" open, peered within, and was both relieved and bemused to see only flat whiteness and something else she could not make out. She deemed them as silly black marks at first, but they were too ornate and repetitive to be just that, and thus her eyes sought out the doctor.
"You may not recall at the moment, if even at all, but most kids your age can read this from cover to cover. Can you read it?"
"Read?" she asked confusedly, eyes never leaving his.
"So that was incapacitated as well, as I expected. I'll help teach you this until your mind catches up. It's such a pity that it is so malleable, but the answer lies beyond our grasp at the moment."
"There are more like me?" she inquired, the words almost muted by shock.
"No, child; precious few are like you."
His mouth fluxed as if to continue, but he failed to do so. She was still curious, however, and she spurred on the question.
"Why not?"
He hesitated and licked his lips, responding: "Some did not make it. Others were injured during the process, their minds turning to rock or jelly, either unresponsive or uncontrollable. You and five others were special because of unique traits, alterations both natural and artificial."
"Al- . . . terations?" Nem queried with eyes full of fear.
"I'm sorry. I have said too much and made you worry. What I intended to say is that you are special, both in reality and to me. I do not want to confuse you any further, so eat the rest of your meal, dear child. You will need it for the trials tonight."
When the Great Healer knocked on the door and asked if he could come in, Avdotya could not have been crosser. She set the book she was reading on the windowsill, trotted to the other side of the room, and pulled the door open without so much as a greeting.
He stepped in with passive contentment, scanning the room with an long, unblinking glance before focusing back on the young woman. She stared back too, soaking in his appearance. He wore a grey and undecorated traveller's cloak which hardly befit the opulent robes that were traditional of a man of his stature, yet the silver mitre still sported the top of his head. Bushy and long grey eyebrows matched his bushy and long grey hair, and more wrinkles than she could tally sprawled over his face.
Had she been in a better mood, Avvie may have felt some embarrassment about the pigpen that was her bedroom. Used clothes heaped in stacks both towering and over her floor and bed, and a number of articles were placed anywhere that had a surface. The entire space reeked of something acrid, but it was just as homey to its occupant as coffee was to her parents.
The sage did not seem to mind as much, casting a wise old smile that simultaneously scared and comforted her. It was as if the dismissal and the embrace of life could be felt in the curls of his mouth, the shifts of his eyes, and perhaps his entire being. Silly notions, all of them, she thought. The man in front of her was a medical cleric of the highest order, after all.
"Your mother wanted me to check in on you. Are you all right?" he mumbled, raising his mitre-laden brows to look into her eyes.
"She did, did she?" Avdotya uttered with a biting tongue. Her gaze slowly shifted away, but even still she noticed the methodical bob of his head.
"Indeed. She was very worried about you."
"Her worry is unnecessary, as I am perfectly fine," she responded.
"A mother's worry can be fooled, but old bones ring true when faced with lies. If you tell me what is bothering you, I may be able to help before things worsen."
Avvie's eyes darted up toward the man before she revolved, paced toward the windowed wall, and leaned her back against it.
"If you promise me not to say a word to my mother, maybe I will tell you."
"I promise," the Healer repeated with solemnity, "not to mention a word to your mother about this discussion."
"Then close the door, please."
He acknowledged the command with a slow twist towards the door and followed it short with an iron grip on the knob which lasted until the hidden latch clicked. Av smiled at the action's similarity to a handshake, but that was all it was, she assured herself—a similarity. Once he turned about again, she cleared her throat and hoped the words would come out correctly.
"I have . . . headaches. Not normal ones, you understand, which simply pain the head and ache in the back of the skull. Mine feel like . . . like a solid flame burning its way into my brain or the claws of some monster raking my head open."
He nodded with an irritating phlegmatic manner, but he replied warmly, "Perhaps it is something related to stress. You and your family have been undergoing much of it as of late."
"Oh, no, not at all. This has been happening ever since I was a child."
"A child!" he exclaimed, assuring that she grabbed his full attention.
"That's right. Anyway, when I was young, they had happened once every two years or so, always the same burning pain. My parents waved it off, probably expecting it to be a childish game to get their attention, but I knew better. I knew it was real, but always kept it to myself. Lately, though . . . they have been getting progressively worse. Years shifted to a year, then four months, and now there have been three."
"Three of what, my dear?" the sage uttered in confusion.
"Three headaches this month, each one, as I mentioned, happening sooner than its predecessor. The last one occurred this morning."
"And how long are these headaches?"
"Sometimes a few seconds, but never over half a minute."
The cleric knit his brows and closed his steely eyes in thought.
"Because you are a daughter of a noble house," he spoke after a moment's silence, "I must be frank with you by saying I have never heard of such an incidence. Forty and eight years have I practiced my art, half spent researching sicknesses and abnormalities in the western continents, and no known headache is as chronic and progressive as you say."
"So . . . what you are saying is that you don't know what this is, or how to cure it?"
"I know a little, but I don't know how to cure it."
Avdotya sagged against the wall, her heart weighing her down as it plunged into her gut. Though she did not expect an immediate cure, she had hoped that he would know ways to prevent the headaches from getting worse, and now that hope was dashed on the rocks.
"I will not give you false promises, but I will do my best to help," the wizened elder continued comfortingly. "These headaches you are feeling may cure themselves over time. The worst I have studied are rare and tend to last a significantly longer period of time than this, so instead of considering yourself unlucky, consider yourself blessed."
The girl put a nod and a smile into effort, to which the man smiled back in a sage manner.
"If you do not mind, I will be finishing my daily healing administrations on your father. I beg your leave."
"Of course, of course," she responded before her eyes lit up. "Oh, I just remembered something."
"Yes, child, what is it?" the Great Healer queried, already with his hand on the doorknob but turning around toward her again.
"Is the blacksmith injured? I thought I saw one of your healers pass down the road from his direction."
"Hmm? Tarjus? I have seen him only yesterday in town, and he is as healthy as the horses he shoes."
"Ah, I must have been mistaken, then. I am sorry for stopping you."
He smiled, saying: "Get some sleep, dear. I fear all the stress with your father and your approaching adulthood is getting to your head."
With that he exited the room, leaving Avdotya beside the wall with an inset frown.
"So it is true. The monk I saw was not a monk after all," she muttered under her breath, stealing a glance toward her window. "If that is so . . . Brother . . . could that really have been you out there?"