by Jayden Woods
*
Picard strolled down the Striped Corridor and considered whether to eat some more safra. He did not want to confess it to himself, but he battled with feelings of disappointment and he did not know how to handle them.
He felt restless. He felt worried. And when he wasn’t feeling those things, he felt … bored.
Something wasn’t right. Dearen should be a place of complete bliss and joy. He should not have to eat or smoke safra in large amounts in order to feel happy. Or should he? Did he require a higher amount of safra than others? Was he simply more tolerant to its effects? Did he possess some profound knowledge that others did not?
He paused near a window, needing a visual reprieve from the gaudy orange and black of the hallway, and stared into the moonlit night. He had been to Dearen once as a child and that was all. Perhaps he had exaggerated his own memories over time, combining them with legends and the whimsical accounts of returning travelers. He thought the Haze would be thicker than this, the safra in the air more abundant.
Whatever the reason, Picard could not find the same level of enjoyment as the people around him—not without consuming more safra than they did. In the courtyard, he’d had plenty of chances to watch them smile and laugh and cuddle one another with objective curiosity. No one argued with or lied to anyone else. They simply embraced each other—quite literally. His personal obtainment of happiness no longer distinguished him. Here, everyone was happy, even his foolish brother and father, who forgot they needed to take certain steps in order to remain that way.
He resumed strolling down the hallway and noticed a woman walking towards him. She dressed simply, at least for someone in Dearen, with a soft-flowing gown and flowers in her red hair. Her feet were bare and she smiled softly, floating in that level of utmost contentment which Picard could not seem to obtain.
“Hello there,” he said.
Her green eyes flicked to him temporarily. Her ruby lips spread wider and she dipped her head of luscious red hair. Picard did not often come across such a hair color. Some of it was braided neatly on top her head, while the rest flowed in wavy locks around her shoulders. “Hello, sir.” Then she kept moving past.
He reached with his gloved hand and grabbed her arm. The rods of the mechanism locked in tight as she lurched to a stop.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Are you a maid?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mina.”
“Mina.” He reached up with his good hand and stroked one of her red locks. “I don’t know if you can help me, Mina. You see, I am not feeling as happy as I’d like to feel.”
“Oh no! Perhaps you need some more safra.”
“You think so?”
She reached for a pouch hanging from the sash on her hip. “Look, I have some!”
“Why thank you.” He considered her offer, so freely and innocently given. With great reluctance, he pushed her hand back down. “But I need to keep my desires and goals in my head right now, even if that desire is merely safra itself. Do you understand?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course you don’t. But I wonder … I wonder if more safra is the only solution.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“That’s a very good question.” He took a deep breath and took what safra from that air that he could. He wondered what made him happy, with or without safra. He opened his eyes and looked upon her calmly. “Did you know my brother calls me impotent?”
“No. Who’s your brother?”
Picard’s grip on her tightened, even though this caused him new pain. “Do you think I am impotent?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
He had never had intercourse before, this was true. That didn’t mean he didn’t wish to. The desire simply never seemed to arise at the proper occasion. The first time he ever masturbated had also been the last. It happened not long after his hand had been ruined and he didn’t have enough safra in his system. His pain had equaled the intensity of his pleasure. He had not cared to repeat that little experiment—not alone, anyway. “Why don’t you help me find out?”
She blinked rapidly as he began pushing her towards the wall. She nearly tripped over her own feet but his firm grip helped to steady her until she leaned against the clay of the corridor. His gloved hand moved up to her shoulder, which he squeezed and pressed to the wall. He studied her face all the while. Her eyes opened wider now, her breath came a little faster, but these changes were slight.
“How do you feel, Mina?”
“I feel … I feel like I’m not the best girl to help you. But maybe I can help you find the right one.”
“No, I think you’re the one, Mina.” He released her now, but she knew to stay still. He trailed one of his gloved fingers through her flowing hair. “Have you lived in Dearen your whole life, Mina?”
“Yes.” She watched curiously as he wrapped a few red strands—just a little tendril—round his finger. Was that a flicker of fear in her eyes?
“Have you ever felt pain?”
“I suppose so … here and there.”
“Not enough to make you unhappy?”
“I suppose not.”
He used his good hand to push a rod on the right one. His glove creaked with the movement as he clenched her hair more tightly. “You don’t even know what real pain is, do you?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He yanked hard on the hair and it ripped from her head.
She flinched. That was all. But he saw a hint of pain in her eyes—just a hint—and his heart beat a little faster. A thrill went through him, a little different than what he felt when he used safra. Nonetheless he considered having some more safra now, thinking it might heighten this exhilaration.
“Mina,” he breathed, “I want you to walk me to my bedchamber. I got lost, you see, and can’t find my way back.”
“Where is it?”
“The Oak Fortress, I believe it’s called. I am Archon Picard, the khan’s own son. So take me there.”
“Very well.” She reached up and brushed the sore spot on her head. The she pushed it from her mind and moved off the wall. “This way.”
He watched her intently as she led him, looking for any signs of fear or discomfort. She glanced away a few times, as if thinking of running. But she did not. He could hardly believe it. A Vikand woman would have thrown him to the floor and pummeled him by now. Any woman in her right mind would at the very least run away. But people living in the Haze had no proper sense of safety or danger, it appeared. Picard found this a little disappointing on principle, but in the end, it worked to his favor.
Somewhere amidst his contemplations, Picard could not help but glance at other palace occupants as they passed. It was as if he hoped to find some exception to the safra-induced euphoria so easily attained by everyone but himself. Instead, his observations only corroborated his suspicions. People laughed and sang songs together. They hugged and they kissed and Friva-knew-what-else as they retreated to darkened corners.
Really, he found it quite dull. Perhaps a thin Haze was not entirely to blame. Safra gave people an intrinsic sense of joy, but it also encouraged them to do things that gave them pleasure, thus multiplying the overall effect. Picard lacked such an activity here in Dearen, it seemed. What did he do in Vikand that made such a difference? Usually it was enough just to watch the people around him, squabbling and swinging swords at one another. He could not observe such activities in Dearen. Perhaps this girl Mina could provide an alternative. He grew more and more excited as he neared his bedchamber, for he felt on the verge of a new discovery. If this was how Mina behaved with safra in her system, how would she behave without it?
A passing man broke Picard’s flow of thought. He couldn’t say why at first, only something about this man made him pause and pay attention. The man seemed of Vikand origin, based on his wools and style of dress, though
he was of high enough nobility to afford some embroidery for his clothes and nice jewelry for his arms. Something else distinguished him, though—something less visibly obvious. It was the way he walked.
They passed each other and continued their separate ways, but Picard could not stop thinking about him.
“Here’s your room, sir.”
Picard did not particularly like the chambers he’d been assigned. The section of the palace in which they now stood was made entirely of timber. Wood was a valuable resource in Vikand, where fertile soil was scarce, but Picard had a feeling that in Dearen eyes, this was the cheapest part of the palace. Tightly-woven tapestries broke up the wood’s blandness with blocks of color and elegance, but seemed mostly like a desperate afterthought.
“Tell me something,” said Picard. “Who else sleeps in this flimsy wooden fortress?”
“Mostly guests and suitors from Vikand, I think.”
“Is that so?”
“Princess Fayr tries to keep guests from the same kingdom close together.”
“I suppose that’s smart of her. She’s a smart one, isn’t she? Smarter than the average Dearen.”
“I suppose. She’s the princess.”
“Yes, yes.” Picard looked nervously about. “Listen. I want to spend some more time with you, but I need to speak to someone first. Someone important. Will you wait for me?”
All hints of a smile on her face vanished. Somehow, the maid managed to reach deep within herself a find a source of rebellion. “Why?” she said. “If you want to sleep with me, let’s just go ahead and do it.”
The extent of her compliance grew increasingly astounding. “And if I don’t?” he asked. “What if I just want to tie you up and watch you?”
“Why … ?” She blinked in puzzlement, then shook her head, failing to understand. “Will you at least give me safra?”
“Oh.” He grinned. “But that would ruin the point.”
He grabbed her arm and pushed her into the room. He closed the door and fumbled about in the darkness for something to tie her with. He found a piece of cloth and hoped it would suffice as he bound her hands to a leg of the bed. “There, that’s not so bad,” he said. “Just wait here and relax. I’ll be right back.”
Quite proud of himself, Picard secured the door and hurried back down the hallway.
