Unwilling (Book One of the Compelled Trilogy 1)

by Kristen Pike

  Sometimes on quiet days, when Rowan knew mother was sick and wouldn’t be coming out of her room, she liked to wander the halls. She’d open the dozens of rooms and sit on the bed and imagine what her life would have been like if she had been born into the family that had lived here previously, instead of the one she had been born in now.

  Rowan loved the house. She loved the history and all the little stories the house would tell her as she came across a nick in the wood, or when she found hidden objects locked away in an upstairs armoire. Rowan was lonely, and despite the house being large enough to house masses of people, only the four of them lived there, isolated away from everything. Rowan often wondered if they were being sheltered from the rest of Lamarina, or if Lamarina was being sheltered from their mother.

  Rowan sighed, fearful to go back in the house despite the fact that she had begun to lose feeling in her fingers and toes. Her breath puffed out in clouds that floated away in the frigid air in front of her and Rowan watched it swirl away, wishing she could take flight and leave as easily as her breaths could.

  Rowan stood, shaking dry red leafs from her clothes that had fallen on her from the Great Tree and taking small steps back toward the house, hanging her head to shelter her face from the chilly wind. Rowan pulled open the back door and stepped into the large kitchen, shaking herself to get off any excess leafs. Mother would be awful mad at her if she tracked them all through the house.

  The house was harshly silent and Rowan’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as she stepped from the kitchen, making her way hastily toward the secret room where she knew Elias would be. Rowan had discovered the room on one of her adventures of the house. She had been in the study, pulling books from a large shelf that dominated one wall, when she’d heard a clicking noise and the shelf moved aside, revealing a small room hidden conspicuously behind the shelf. Elias spent most of his time there, and Rowan knew that’s where she would find him now, willingly lost in a desperate attempt to avoid his family. Well, mother, anyway.

  Rowan’s feet slipped silently over the ornate rug as she made her way through the house. Rowan knew her father would be packing and their mother would be screaming at him and tearing everything from his bag, making the process hours longer than it should have been. Rowan slid into the study, closing the heavy elaborate door behind her. She padded to the massive bookshelf and pulled the book of The creation and history of Varisin as told by Jordon Monchaste on the far right, the mechanisms that held the door closed loosening as they allowed the shelf to creak open, revealing the hidden room.

  “Is father done packing?” Elias asked her absentmindedly, not even bothering turning around to look at her. Rowan hurried into the cramped room, tugging the shelf door closed behind her.

  “No. I haven’t heard a word from him all day. Do you think this trip will be as long as he says it will be?” Rowan asked, her voice edged with fear though she did her best to sound impassive.

  “I don’t know. Rowan.” Elias answered absently, cocking his head to the side as he brushed a stroke across his painting. Rowan remained silent as she looked at what he was working on, coming to stand beside him. She felt small beside him as he towered over her, a good foot and a half taller and still growing.

  Elias’s painting was ominous. It had a black background, with a round spot of light in the bottom corner. It’s a well. Rowan realized. A small boy was at the bottom of the well; his fingers were bloody as if he had tried to climb out of the despairing hole. Tears streaked down his face and his eyes looked lost and broken. Rowan felt her heart break to look at the picture, a million tiny fragments of sadness and pain and the need to protect reaching out to the small boy. Is this how my brother sees himself? Rowan thought, inclining her head to look up at Elias.

  Elias stared at the painting, his eyes shadowed, his mouth set in a frown. He had red paint flecks on the front of his shirt, and his hands were nearly caked in black paint. He’ll have to change his shirt before mother sees. Rowan thought distractedly to herself. Elias looked haunted and lost in a world of his own making, as he always did when he was painting.

  “It’s…” Rowan started, not sure what to say about the sinister painting as she studied her brother. Elias looked a thousand years old and a million miles away from her. “Where do you go Elias? Where do you go when you paint?” She asked him, and he turned his head to look at her, his eyes dilating and squinting as if seeing her for the first time.

  Elias creased his brow, as if concentrating hard on something. “There’s something in me Rowan. I can feel it. It’s bad, and it wants to be free.” Elias responded. Rowan furrowed her forehead at his puzzling response, not sure how to respond to him. Elias turned away from her, scooping some white paint onto his brush and sweeping it gently over the canvas, the way only an experienced artist knew how.

  Rowan wished she could paint like Elias. Rowan wished she were good at anything really. Elias was always assuring her she would be, she just had to find that one thing she was passionate about. Rowan turned from him, looking at the other paintings stored in the room. They were beautiful and she wished they didn’t have to be locked away as they were. Things with this beauty should be shared, not stored where no one save for her and her brother could admire them.

  Rowan absently touched a watercolor Elias had done of a ladybug. She was still in awe of the way Elias had been able to capture the exact red of her wings, and the way the light from the sun had caught in the grass, he even caught the way the grass had tilted slightly as a breeze lazily floated through it.

  Rowan sat in a small chair in the corner of the room and recalled the picture Elias had made of the Great Tree, made of moss and bark and leaves. It had been stunning, but as they had been bringing it into the house, their mother had seen them.

  “Things this beautiful don’t belong to monsters.” She had snarled at them, ripping the mosaic from Rowan’s hands. Elias had stood submissively, watching silently as their mother had shredded his work into ribbons, the moss and twigs falling to the floor like trash. They had been more careful after that not to let mother see Elias paint, smuggling his canvases and colors from Market into the house with hushed whispers and thumping hearts and fevered darting glances down halls.

  Rowan normally could have sat there for hours, watching her brother paint, but this day she was restless and felt the need to move around, so she slipped out from the study to wander the halls of the house. Rowan passed her and Elias’s room, the door closed tightly. Rowan knew they could each have had their pick of the rooms of the house, but they felt safer, stronger, when they were together, with their beds shoved together in a corner, as far from the door as they would go.

  Rowan ran her finger along the wall, gliding it across the textured wallpaper as she walked, letting her feet carry her through the familiar halls.

  “Rowan?” She heard a tender voice say behind her, jumping at the sudden sound spoken in the tranquil hall. Rowan turned to her father, who stood behind her. He was a small man and Rowan, even being only 17, was already starting to grow taller than him. He had large hands, and his hair was mostly gray now, save for a few streaks of brown here and there. The features of his face were close together but he had large kind brown eyes, and whenever Rowan looked into them, she felt like she was being embraced. “I’ve been looking for you.” He announced cheerfully, stepping closer to her. He smelled like soap, and Rowan could tell his clothes had been recently pressed.

  “Are you going then?” Rowan asked, trying to keep her voice steady though she could feel the familiar terror creep into her.

  “In the morning, yes, the illness in Resenet is spreading and their healers are no longer able to control it. I must get down there as quick as I can to help treat the patients.” He answered. Rowan knew that her father was an amazing doctor, people all over Lamarina would often call on him to treat them, and he made an exuberant amount of money, but Rowan could not help but wish that her father were a farmer, or even a butcher. Whatever allowe
d him to stay home and not leave her for weeks at a time with her.

  “Oh.” Rowan said, her voice sounding small and frail.

  “I promise to return as soon as I can.” He said, scooping Rowan into a hug.

  “But why must you go at all?” Rowan whined, hating herself for sounding like a child.

  “I’ll bring you back something special.” Her father volunteered, smiling sweetly at her as he withdrew from their embrace.

  “I don’t need another dress, or exotic chocolates!” Rowan exclaimed. She had an armoire full of fancy dresses she hardly ever wore from father’s previous trips, and she would live without chocolate for the rest of her life if father would just stay home. However, her father was a doctor instead of a butcher, and he was far too kind to say no to someone in need, so he would leave, and then he would return. Always with a present.

  “Oh, but you do love chocolate! Remember when you were a girl and you ate so much you made yourself sick?” Her father asked, his tone laughing and Rowan couldn’t help but smile along with him.

  “What’s so funny?” A hoarse voice asked behind her father and Rowan recoiled against the wall, hanging her head and trying to make herself as small as unnoticeable as invisible as possible.

  “Talia, honey.” Rowan’s father said surprised, all the laughter slithering out of him as he turned, startled, his wife coming into the hall. She was slightly taller than he was and her blond hair hung tangled down her back. She was bone thin, her green dress hanging baggy on her frame. Rowan thought she might have been the kind of beautiful that men go to war for, once, but now she only looked tired, and angry. Always angry.

  “Well?” She demanded, her voice intimidating as she looked back and forth between Rowan and her husband. “Is this some private joke? Would you like me to excuse myself so you can continue on?” She said, her voice deadly low. Rowan’s heart raced in her chest and she tried to stifle her breathing, not wanting to draw her mother’s eye to her. “Rowan? Anything you’d like to share?” Her mother asked, taking a step closer to her.

  “N-no.” Rowan stammered, shaking her head.

  “Not good enough for your joke am I?” Her mother asked, her eyes wide in rage. She raised her hand, ready to strike her daughter and Rowan cringed, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Talia.” Her father said, stepping between his wife and daughter. “There’s something I’ve meant to show you in private.” He said softly, as always only ever gentle and never raising his voice. Rowan raised her head to see her father lead her mother away, his hand pressed to the small of her back, urging her forward. He looked back at Rowan, and she thought she had never seen her father look as sad as he did right then, all the light leaving his normally jolly eyes making him look broken and dejected.

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  Rowan woke groggily, rubbing at her eyes to clear the grit. The first morning light peeped through the window sending soft tendrils of light dancing about the floor. Elias was already dressed and sitting at the edge of his bed, lost in thought. Rowan sat up, and kicked the blankets from her, letting them slide to the floor where they lay in a heap. Rowan knew she should pick them up, but she did not have the energy, her body weighed down heavily by the dispirited mood she was in.

  Rowan and Elias made their way down the stairs to the kitchen, where Elias made them some oatmeal. He left his plain but poured a heap of brown sugar into Rowan’s, knowing she hated the taste of plain oats. Rowan ate silently, spooning the thick mush into her mouth, swallowing her food without tasting it and the food sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Rowan jumped as her father banged his way into the room, placing his large travelling bag on the floor.

  “Good morning!” He said brightly, but upon seeing his children’s somber expressions his smile faded, replaced by a grim line. Rowan noticed that his eye was blackened, and one of his lips was split, though he mentioned neither as he sat down at the small table, pulling a chair out to sit between Rowan and Elias. “I’m sorry, I must go.” He said quietly. Elias pushed back from his chair, the legs squeaking loudly across the tiled floor as he stalked from the room. “Elias!” Her father called, but made no move to go after him. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He told Rowan; looking at her apologetically, desperately needing her reassurance that it was okay to go.

  “Please don’t go.” Rowan whispered, staring at her nearly full bowl of oatmeal, steam rising from it.

  “Rowan.” Her father breathed sadly, his face pinched at the impossible situation he once again found himself in. Rowan knew it was pointless to try to persuade him to stay, he always went. Rowan shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. She pushed back from her chair and ran from the kitchen, going to sulk in the hidden room. Rowan was surprised to find Elias wasn’t there.

  Rowan studied Elias’s paintings for hours, and by the time she emerged, exhausted, the sun had fallen and crickets were chirping in the moon light.

  Rowan groped her way through the dark house, her eyes adjusting poorly to the dim light, to her room. She pushed open the door, wooden toy blocks clambering together as the door swung open. Rowan had first put the blocks by the door when she was younger, to wake her up when her mother came in the night, as she often did, and it was a habit her and Elias had continued, as they grew older. Rowan closed the door quietly, careful not to wake Elias, though Rowan sincerely doubted that he was sleeping. He would be laying there, waiting, breathing, heart thudding, thinking, agonizing thoughts and memories and hours spent in the darkness trying desperately, urgently to wish himself away gone disappeared.

  She slid into the bed after replacing the blocks against the door, drawing the blankets to her chin, and snuggled deep into her bed as though her mother wouldn’t see her if she hid herself well beneath her blankets. Rowan knew her mother wouldn’t come that night. She never came that first night, but always the one after, and she quickly fell into sleep, knowing this would be the last peaceful night of sleep she would have until father returned.

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  The day slipped quickly by. Rowan awoke in the morning her heart heavy, and went to bed that night, her heart heavier. Rowan could feel the foreboding night drawing closer and her heart beat with each hour each minute each second that ticked by. Rowan watched the sun ascend in the sky from her bedroom window and prayed to all the Gods that the sun wouldn’t set, that it would stay in the sky forever and keep their mother from coming, but with each heartbeat another hour minute second ticked by and the sun descended a little more behind the trees that surrounded her house until at last her mother’s conspirator, the moon, who had agreed to keep all her mother’s secrets, swung vibrantly into the dark gray sky as if it couldn’t care less about what transpired below it.

  Rowan and Elias were quiet as they crawled into their beds. Elias grabbed Rowans hand and squeezed once, as though that would give Rowan the bravery to endure that horrible first night.

  Rowan jumped at a scraping sound in the hall, her heart skipping a beat. This is it. This is her. Rowan thought, her breath quickening. 99. 98. 97. Rowan counted, trying to calm herself the way Elias had taught her when they were younger.

  96. 95. 94. The door slid open, the blocks tumbling onto the floor as if trying to also escape, rolling one over the other as the door pushed across the floor. 93. 92. Rowan could see her mother’s silhouette in the doorframe, illuminated by the small light cast by the moon. Rowan swore her mother could see their rapid breaths puffing out in the air. Feel their terror as each step she took toward them boomed in their ears like a clap of thunder.

  Elias stood, squeezing Rowan’s hand once more. An assurance that he would see her in the morning, to go to bed, to not stay awake and listen and cry and breath and worry, and agonize each second he didn’t come back. A squeeze with a million meanings and none of them mattered because Rowan would stay awake and listen and cry and try to breath and worry and agonize each second Elias didn’t come back.

  Elias walked stiffly toward their mother and she pushed
him out of the room, slamming the door closed on Rowan. 91. 90. 89. Elias cried out and Rowan cringed, his voice carrying through the silent house. Rowan wanted to call out to him, to go to him, to free him but he wouldn’t want her to, a lesson she had learned the hard way, she carried the scars from it on her lower back, three paper-thin little scratches from razor-sharp fingernails. Promises, her mother called them, just three of many.

  Let someone hear. Let someone hear and come murder her where she stands. Rowan begged. She covered her ears, but that did little to drown out the sounds of her mother’s abuse. Someone will hear and take us away to father, who will love us and care for us, and we will never have to see her again. Please. Rowan prayed to any God that would listen. Of course no one ever heard, no one ever rescued them in the night, stealing them away under the cover of darkness and delivering them to father. If the God’s did hear her prayers, either they chose to ignore them or they did not care.

  Rowan counted down from one hundred 12 times before Elias returned to the room. Rowan could see he walked with a slight limp and as he passed by, she grabbed his hand and squeezed. He sucked in air, twinging with pain, and Rowan recoiled. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, only meant to say she was here for him.

  Hours later when Elias thought she was sleeping, she heard him whispering to himself, as he always did after their mother beat him. “I deserve this. I deserve this.” Over and over again, till the sun rose red in the sky. Rowan was never sure what they had done to deserve this, but if Elias thought they did then it must be true.

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  It had been three weeks since father had left. Rowan sat slumped on her bed, her eyes red from crying as the moon poured through the window abnormally bright and lighting up Rowan’s face as she waited. Elias tossed behind her, feverish. Elias had a broken arm, and his whole body was blue purple green yellow from bruises, his lips were split, and he had a gash on his forehead that leaked a sickly yellow color whenever Elias prodded at it.