by Allie Jean
Several hours passed, and they both sat quiet on the bed, enjoying their new revelation. Mathias traced patterns on her hand with his thumb, his expression pensive, yet happy and content. Chantal had never felt more complete in her whole life. With Mathias at her side, she felt anything was possible, including setting off on a mission that could potentially be dangerous and rewarding all at once.
“We have to find her,” Chantal said. “I can’t stand to think she’s out there alone.”
“We don’t know if she’s alive, Chantal. It will be dangerous.”
“She is. I can feel it.”
“If we hear any word about her whereabouts, we can’t trust it. We have to consider that every lead we get is a potential trap.”
Chantal turned to Mathias, shifting so she could face him.
“She told me I’d save her, Mathias. She told me I’d been in her dreams. That has to count for something.”
“It does, beautiful,” he said with a kiss to her brow. “And I will help you find her.”
With that, she drifted into a gentle sleep in his protective arms.
A heavy fog weighs her down. The metal digs into her wrists, cold and unyielding, like the stone walls surrounding her. Although the pain is intense, she welcomes it. That’s the only thing that keeps her lucid and aware.
The metal chains clank against the wall, the moans of her neighbor moving to her right sending her attention on alert. If the girl isn’t careful, she will awaken their guard, and she’s had enough beatings to last a lifetime.
Hope is the only thing she has left to hold onto. She knows someone looks for her, searching amid the grim and filth of this world, but it has been so long. Maybe they’ve given up the hunt. Maybe she isn’t that important after all.
“You’re awake.” She hears the sinister voice of her most hated captor, and she cowers against the wall in response. This one is cruel and relentless as if it is merely a form of entertainment, and she doesn’t think she has the energy to fight him off for very long.
“The Prince has ordered you to tell him what you saw,” he says, his horrible scent flooding her nose as he closes in.
“I d-didn’t dream tonight. I didn’t see anything.”
“Liar,” he says, his hot breath brushing against her face, and she turns away to hide as best she can.
“Leave her alone!” her neighbor yells at him. “She’s just a girl, you disgusting pig.”
“Shut up!” the creature bellows. “You’ll get what’s coming to you if you’re not careful. Now”—he turns back to his victim chained helpless before him—“what did I hear you say while you slept, my child?”
“I d-don’t remember,” she says. “I was sleeping, and I can’t remember what I say when I’m asleep.”
“Don’t play coy with me,” he says. “I know you saw something. Now tell me what it was!”
“An island, surrounded by water,” she says hurriedly. “Chantal was sitting on her bed with her father at her side. They were talking, but I couldn’t make it out. The water was too loud.”
“What else!”
“Um, I saw where they scattered the remains of my warrior.”
“Idiot!” The creature screams and slaps her across the face. “Tell me what I want to hear. I know you have more than that.”
“I don’t,” she says. “I swear, I don’t”
He leaves to grab another woman from her chains, pulling the helpless female in front of her as means of torture. She is too small and frail for his sadistic mood. In these circumstances, the girl has only one means of escape. Pulling away from herself, she goes into a trance-like state while her mind watches from a distance where she cannot feel her captor’s brutality. Even the emotional burden is somewhat subdued. Here she is an apathetic spectator. Here is the only place she feels a modicum of safety.
However, this time is different.
As she watches the scene from her place of distance, she sees herself cry and cover her ears. The small body trembles as she tries to get away from the horrible scene before her. Although she feels disconnected from it all, she has a sense of urgency to get inside that room to rescue the girl and her fellow prisoner.
“Tell me now!”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
The girl turns a burning gaze onto the space where her disjointed self watches in avid horror. No, she is not the girl, but some other kind of observer. Has this all been a dream? A vision she should understand?
“Chantie!” the young girl says. “Help me, please.”
“Who are you speaking to?” her guard asks. “Who are you looking at?”
“Find me,” the girl screams. “I’m in a well. And there are others. Please, come quick. I don’t think I can hold on much longer.”
She dreams in fitful rest, images of Lydia in shackles keeping her on edge. She is running through a maze of tunnels, following the young girl’s cries, hoping to rescue her. Each solid iron door she comes to is locked.
She comes to the end of a long corridor, narrow and ominous. At the end of it is a door that is slightly ajar. She runs down the hall, hoping she’s found Lydia. Not caring about her own safety, she goes through it. The girl is there, chained to a wall, dirty, and emaciated. Chantal falls to her knees before her, a movement mirroring that of a penitent man. She weeps for the child, because Lydia is still as if in death, her arms held out wide in a Christ-like pose. “Find me,” the girl whispers, though her lips do not move.
