When the fog finally ebbed away, he was alone in a warm place, the medicinal tang of some mineral in his nostrils and sense pits. It was still dark, but the flicker of unease at that slid away before he could bring it into focus. An artificial tranquility that he recognised. Sedative. He drifted, becalmed somewhere between dreams and memories, and let words lead him back: I'll show you. Part ironic humour, part threat; naked need underneath. It had been many years since he had last uttered those words, and the smell of rotting fruit was what came back most strongly.
It was almost four months after he was captured. They had been keeping him on the surface then, in a windowless brick outbuilding not far from the Ring that must once have been used to house livestock, to judge by the stink of dung in the straw underfoot. The heavy half-door was kept bolted shut, but he was free to move around his makeshift cell. The two halves of the door did not fit together properly, and the narrow gap admitted a slender blade of light by day, a cutting draught by night. He spent a lot of time standing just inside the door, listening, breathing in the scents carried to him on that tiny thread of freedom. He always moved backwards when he heard footsteps approaching, so that whenever the guards unbolted and threw back the heavy top door, projectile weapons at the ready, he was standing in the centre of the floor staring at them. Guide found their palpable apprehension at his apparent immobility mildly diverting.
In the beginning they had thrown food to him as if he was some sort of domesticated animal, but that stopped very quickly after the night an officer came down to check on his men and found them gathered in a breathless, sniggering knot around the open half-door while the boldest of their number, a sweaty slob with a filthy apron tied on over his uniform, pelted him with kitchen refuse. The man crowed as a brown, mould-eaten apple found its mark with a smack. Guide turned his head and spat, resisting the urge to wipe the stuff off his face.
"Aww, look boys, he doesn't like fruit either!"
A ripple of laughter from the craning onlookers. Another self-appointed wag called out from the back of the crowd, "Come on, Branik! Everyone knows Wraith eat humans, you can't give him fruit and veg, he needs meat!"
"You mean he's a carnivore, Mallo, get it right! And since when are you an expert on the Wraith? The bastards don't eat you, they suck the life out of you with that thing on their hand." The man Branik peered in at Guide over the half-door, twisting his fleshy face into a mock-confiding leer. "That's right, isn't it? Got a little surprise tucked away in your handshake?"
"Come inside." He saw them all jump at the tonal rasp of his voice, and bared his teeth, lifting his feeding hand in a beckoning gesture the obscenity of which was wasted on them. "Come inside and I'll show you."
Stark silence for a long moment; this had not been part of their game. Predictably, Branik was first to recover. "Ooh, fancy that, do you? Fancy giving Mallo here the old glad hand? He ain't got much life in him to start with, of course..."
Jeering laughter, and jostling as the unfortunate Mallo was shoved to the front by willing hands. Their fear and hate smelt sharp as blood on the night air, and so focused were they on their sport that they failed to see the approach of two other men, the first tall, solid, with the unflappable air of the non-commissioned officer, the other slighter, still fumbling to fasten the last shiny buttons of his uniform jacket as the other shoved through the knot of men ahead of soldiers fell silent. Branik tried to sidle away into the mass of men, and the tall officer checked him with a cold glance.
"Where do you think you're off to, Ranker Branik? Did I give you permission to move?"
"No sir, I was just-"
"I don't recall asking you to speak either!" The tall one bellowed directly into the man's face. Branik snapped to rigid attention, followed with varying degrees of alacrity by his fellows, and the grizzled one paced among them glaring.
"Get them in line." The second man never raised his voice, but his authority was unmistakeable. His face when he glanced in over the door was very young, a fact not hidden by the neatly-barbered attempt at a moustache and beard, but his pale gaze took in the refuse scattered on the floor and the revolting stuff plastered on the prisoner's face and in his hair. Guide met his eyes without comment. The man's mouth twisted. "Officer Sobol, two riflemen over here now. Bring a bucket of water. And Branik."
He turned on his heel as the men moved to do his bidding, and spoke in a clear, clipped voice. "Some of you men seem to think that because we are not technically serving in the Regulars here, discipline can go by the board. You are mistaken. Some of you..." and his gaze swept over them, lingering on Branik. "Some of you seem not to think at all."
Faint sniggers whispered through the ranks, but the officer lifted a gloved hand and the murmur of voices stilled instantly. "Enough! We are Genii. Our forefathers were a mighty force, but even they fell before the Wraith. This-" His forefinger jabbed towards Guide. "This is no joke. This is no beast for you to make sport of. This is an enemy soldier, and the Commander will wish to interrogate him personally when he gets here. I have no intention of disappointing him or having to explain some stupid mishap. So we will not be seeing a repetition of this evening's little entertainment. I hope I make myself clear." He nodded to Sobol, drawing his pistol. "Open the door. A rifleman to each side, if you please, Officer Sobol. Ranker Branik, bring the water."
Whatever else he had expected as a conclusion to the incident, this was not it. Guide held himself very still as the Genii officer walked into the cell. The young man halted, and raised his pistol. His hand was admirably steady, despite the clear tang of fear on his skin.
"Move back three steps. Please."
If he had fed recently, he could have taken the boy in that moment – he was bigger, wilier, and much, much faster, and the fool had blocked his own covering fire by coming in head-on like that. As it was, it was all he could do to move the required three steps backwards without revealing that his legs were on the point of buckling under him. He amused himself instead by watching as the bully Branik scuffled around in the filthy straw, retrieving every noisome scrap that he had thrown, rivulets of sweat snaking down the sides of his fat face, and taking twice as long as he needed to because his hands were shaking so much. Guide huffed the greasy stink of terror out of his nostrils, suddenly hotly aware of the man's proximity, and saw the young officer's gaze flinch down to his side. Carefully, Guide closed the trembling fingers of his feeding hand, claws biting into his own palm, and inclined his head slightly to the boy.
"Ranker, out." The officer backed out after his man with great care, and Guide guessed the boy knew how close he had come to the edge of his own control. "Use the water as you wish, I will see it is replenished." Over the half-door, the grey eyes met his with open curiosity. "Do you require water... for drinking, I mean?"
Guide only hesitated for a moment. "Only when I have not fed. So... yes."
"I will see the order is given." The young officer nodded to him, and signalled to his men. "Close it up. The Commander will be here in a few days, I would very much like for us to still have a prisoner to show him when he arrives. That will be all."