by Stevie Barry
"I can't let him get away with this," Lorna said, covering her face with her hands. Rage was joining her grief and shame, a force of wrath that was almost comforting. "He's got to pay for this. Maybe death's too good for him," she added savagely. "Maybe I should cripple him, tear his eyes out and make him eat them."
It was that surge of hatred that finally made her cry. Her tears were wrenched from the depths of her soul, hot and bitter, salty where they touched her lips. And they hurt -- she hadn't cried in so very long, and even now her instinct was to suppress it. She sobbed until there was nothing left in her, but she still shivered, and wondered if she would ever stop.
The Lady held her the entire time, and made no attempt to shush her. Just now, tears were the only catharsis she had.
"I'm so damn weak, Lady," she said at last, through heaving hiccups. "Goddammit, he beat me. I've never -- shite, I've never lost before. Not like that."
The Lady brushed her damp hair back from her forehead. "You are not weak, child," she said gently. "You have survived so much, and you will survive this. I have taken the greater part of your memories of what happened, and I will never return them to you. They would do more good elsewhere." She kissed the crown of Lorna's head, and her touch was inexpressibly comforting. "Losing a battle does not make you weak, nor does it make you a victim. You have it in you to be stronger than Von Ratched, if you are willing to learn to use your power."
Lorna wasn't sure she believed that. The bastard was so powerful it was monstrous, almost inhuman. Surely she could never match that -- and she wasn't sure she wanted to. "Would it make me like him?" she asked, looking up at the Lady through tear-blurred eyes. "I'm not -- I'm not a very good person, Lady. I don't think I want to know what I'd do, if I had that much power."
"You are more than you think you are, child. You have darkness in you, but you also have so very much light. What you choose when you meet Von Ratched again will decide your course." She rocked Lorna slightly, as she would a real child. "Do not let your hatred rule you. He is not worth it, and there is no torture you might inflict on him that is worse than what he already inflicts on himself. You have a long road ahead of you yet, but live, Lorna. Live, and learn, and grow."
"Sure God, Lady, don't send me back there. I couldn't handle it."
"I will not," the Lady said, stroking Lorna's forehead with her warm, rough hands. "I mean it when I say you have a long journey ahead of you. You must learn about yourself, before you face others. I will give you what you need to survive, and I will give you guides, but for a time the wilderness must be your home."
She rose, and set Lorna on her feet. "I will not abandon you," she said. "I will walk your path with you, though you will not see me. Just remember that you are not alone."
She kissed Lorna's forehead again, and then she and the Garden were gone.
Lorna blinked, for a moment totally disoriented. She stood now in a forest, beneath a fir tree so huge it might have stood for five hundred years. Cold air hit her full in the face, but the rest of her was warm enough. She wasn't dressed in jeans and a T-shirt anymore -- now she wore snow pants and several layers of shirts, as well as a black wool coat that came down to her ankles. Her feet were encased in heavy boots, and on her hands were soft wool gloves. Something was on her head, and when she pulled it off she found it was a white hat of knitted wool.
A search of the coat's pockets produced a bowie knife and a Zippo lighter. Close inspection told her it was the one Liam had given her for their one-year anniversary. The Lady was right -- she did go forward prepared.
It was dawn here, the sky pearl-grey, what little she could see of the horizon faintly pink. It gave her an indication of which way was south, so she turned and started on her way.
It only took two steps for her to realize her injuries had followed her here -- to some extent, at least. She could put weight on her leg, but it hurt like a mad bastard, and she clenched her teeth against a groan. Why did the Lady have to leave her like that? How was she to make it anywhere if she had to limp the whole way? Her shoulder was only vaguely sore, but that would change soon enough. Damn it.
The pain froze her, and made her shudder. The comfort she'd found in the Garden was already fading, and she found herself tempted to scratch her own skin off. Clean though she was, she suddenly felt filthy, and had to fight an overwhelming need to be sick. It was so horrible she leaned against the tree, hands pressed to her face while her skin crawled.
You are free.
Quiet though it was, the thought broke through her horror. Lorna lowered her hands, looking at the forest around her. Snow lay feathered on the boughs high above, but there was little on the ground. It was like standing in some massive cathedral, and though it made her feel smaller than ever, that wasn't a bad thing.
You are free. There is nothing to help or hinder you but yourself. Go forward, Lorna, and don't look back.
That was much easier said than done. But, painful and slow though it was, moving did help. Every uncertain, wobbling step she took led her further from the Institute, away from the monster who had tried and failed to break her. She couldn't change what had been done to her, but she was being given the chance to learn to live with it, before she had to face people again. Once again she was on her own, but perhaps now that could be a good thing.
----
The Institute was still and silent as a tomb. It was a heavy, oppressive silence that threatened to suffocate Von Ratched, pressing on his chest like a lead weight.
He sat in the main lab of F wing, his head in his hands. The room was almost entirely dark, the only illumination the weak fluorescent bulbs over one counter. He skulked in the shadows, and wondered if he would go mad.
At this point, madness was an enticing proposition. He sat up straight and looked at his hands, for the first time knowing the meaning of despair. Traces of Lorna's blood remained on his fingers, now dry and flaky. It lingered in his mouth, too, sour and bitter. He'd finally gone much, much too far, and he knew it.
Von Ratched had killed and tortured dozens of people over the course of his long life, but he'd never, ever come even close to doing what he'd just done to Lorna. He was a dispassionate monster -- he'd taken vicious satisfaction in vengeance before, but it had never been anything like this. He'd done his level best to break her, to force her to realize she was his, but he'd enjoyed it. Far, far too much. For once he'd fit the proper definition of a sadist, something he had always believed was beneath him.
He should go back. She'd been alive when he left her, but without medical attention, she might not remain so for long. He'd broken at least two of her ribs, and hit her so hard he might well have cracked her skull. She needed aid, probably a great deal of it, but not for anything could he return to his apartment. Even if Lorna was comatose, he might never be able to face her again.
Yes, madness was tempting, but his mind was too rigid to allow him that luxury, and he was cursed with an eidetic memory. He might live a hundred more years, but he would never forget a moment of it. It was burned into his mind for the rest of his life.
And it was burned into Lorna's, too. He couldn't take it away, couldn't go in and tear it out by the roots. He'd been so thorough in his torment he had to have broken her, and there was no way to undo it. She might lose her mind if she'd survived, but that might be a blessing.
But he couldn't go to her, no matter how much his guilt wanted to beg for forgiveness she would never grant him. Forgiveness he certainly didn’t deserve.
Maybe he should kill her. Maybe he should kill both of them -- Lorna because she didn't deserve the horror his actions would force her to live with, and himself because he didn't deserve to live. Such a bitter irony, that a man who had spent almost a century seeking immortality would drive himself to suicide.
The thought steeled him, forced him to move. When Von Ratched set his mind to a thing, that thing happened, and he trod his way back to his apartment in grim silence. He could stop her heart quite easily, give
her a painless death. He, on the other hand, deserved much worse.
And he would give her what dignity he could, wash her and dress her and return her to her apartment, so that the Institute's would-be rescuers would not find her as he'd left her. He could do that much.
When he reached the door, he hesitated. His resolutions were all well and good, but first he had to face her -- had to face his gruesome handiwork.
And he didn't know if he could do it.
He stood there a long while, the doorknob cold under his hand. It took every ounce of will he had to turn it, to enter his home that smelled of blood and fear. He forced himself to go to his bedroom, to turn on the light and survey the worst mistake of his life.
Lorna wasn't there.
Dread seized Von Ratched, crowding out his guilt. The bloody sheets remained on the bed, but the comforter was gone. Somehow she'd moved, but in the state he'd left her, she couldn't have gone far. Small, bare, bloody footprints led to the bathroom, but she wasn't there, either. His comforter was, lying crumpled amid the shattered remnants of the mirror, but no Lorna.
He raced through his apartment, for the first time in his life completely frantic, but there was no sign of her. The front door had still been locked from the inside -- there was no way she had left through it. The windows were all closed; she hadn't jumped, either. She'd just…vanished.
He returned to the bathroom, careful not to step on the broken glass. Lying atop the comforter was a single sprig of forget-me-not, and for once wild moment he wondered if she'd turned herself into a flower, like women in the fairytales of his homeland. He knelt to pick it up, but as soon as his fingers touched it, his mind was hit with an assault so intense it knocked him over.
It was memory -- Lorna's memory, the torturous, unbearable mix of pain and desire he'd forced on her. It possessed him with such crystal clarity that it threatened to really drive him insane. He felt the snap of her ribs, tasted the blood that filled her mouth when he bit her lip, and oh God, this was horrible beyond anything even his twisted imagination could come up with. Fear, rage, hatred, pain mingling artificial lust, but also shame, a deep and terrible self-loathing. And it went on for what seemed like an eternity, until his mind threatened to break apart --
He managed to drop the flower, and found he'd collapsed. Shards of mirror had lodged in his chest, drawing faint streaks and runnels of blood, but he couldn't move. Not yet. Was that what he had made her feel -- what she was now forced to live with, wherever she'd fled?
No. No, he couldn't let it go on, couldn't doom her to the madness he had to have driven her to. She couldn't have gone far -- he would find her, and he would end this. For both of them.
Chapter Twenty
Ratiri barely had time to put on something more sensible before Geezer dragged him off. Gerald and Katje were to stay behind, but Geezer refused to be left out of military action, and Ratiri refused to be controlled, period.
The ever-resourceful Julifer had scared up fatigues and boots for him, along with gloves and a heavy jacket. At least he wouldn't freeze to death.
He almost ran headlong into Miranda when they met up at a Door. She was being followed by a man and a woman locked in a fierce argument, and regarded them both with badly-frayed patience.
"If she wants to go up with the Washington convoy, let her," she snapped. "As long as she knows what she's getting into, it can't hurt anything. Now both of you, bugger off."
She shook her head as they retreated, and led Ratiri and Geezer through the Door, into a long tunnel of chilly concrete.
"What was that about?" Geezer asked.
"We've got some auxiliary forces coming up from Washington State," she said, pulling an aviator hat onto her head. "One of them's got a sister who's a reporter, and she wants to go with. Getting footage up there might be useful."
Ratiri had to agree -- provided they all got there in one piece. His determination to get to the Institute was somewhat hampered by his fear of flying. He didn't have the luxury of unconsciousness this time.
The tunnel opened out into a vast hangar that couldn't have been more different from the one at the Institute. It was organized with military precision, but the walls were as plastered with signs and pictures as those within the DMA itself. Multicolored Christmas lights were strung haphazardly along some of the shelving, and what looked like a Tibetan mandala had been painted on the floor. What an odd, odd place this was.
The aircraft were standard enough, a variety of planes, and helicopters parked on snow-dusted tarmac. Ratiri rode with Geezer and a pair of DMA soldiers, both of whom bore what looked like grenade launchers. "I'm Tamara, and this is Al," one of them said. She was a tall black woman, built like the proverbial brick house. "I'm your weather-manipulator. Don't worry about any storms bringing us down."
Well, that was a relief. "Good to meet you. I’m Ratiri."
"We know who all y'all are," Al said, handing him a headset that looked like a pair of orange rubber earmuffs. "Put these on or you'll go deaf."
Ratiri did, and they shut out the greater part of the noise as Geezer fired up the engine. His stomach gave a horrible, wrenching lurch when they took off, but Geezer knew what he was doing, and they steadied almost immediately.
It was a good fifteen minutes before Ratiri dared look out the window, and when he did he found them flying over a vast expanse of forest. The trees were conifers of some kind, frosted with a fine layer of snow, spread out for miles without a sign of civilization. It had been late morning in London, but it was very early here, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. It gilded the trees, making the snow glow faintly gold, and he wished he could appreciate it. As it was, he was much too tense, both from flying and from worry over what might await them at the Institute.
At least they were hardly alone. They were surrounded by more helicopters than he could count, and he hoped like hell that would be enough. If Von Ratched was still at the Institute, it might not be.
But then, this group was hardly ordinary military. It was made up of cursed -- altered -- whatever the hell you wanted to call them, most born with their abilities. Unlike the inmates, they knew what they were doing, knew how to properly utilize their powers. However strong he was, Von Ratched was only one man, and Ratiri had to tell himself they could beat him. It was the only way to avoid having a heart attack from worry.
He shifted a little, wishing he'd had time to take more painkillers. His leg was killing him, and it was only going to get worse, but he couldn't afford to let it slow him down. At least it would hold his weight, if nothing else.
Tamara tapped his arm, and pointed at his leg, a question in her eyes. Ratiri grimaced and nodded, and she stripped off her gloves to dig through the first aid kit. When she filled a syringe with morphine, he vehemently shook his head -- he couldn't be out of it when they reached the Institute.
She rolled her eyes, and tapped her wrist where a watch would rest. He got the message: they had a long way to go. With a sigh he rolled up his sleeve and let her inject him, and found the drug did more than relieve his pain. Almost against his will he felt himself relax, his tension easing. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she smiled.
He shut his eyes, letting his head rest against the cold metal of the cockpit wall. He'd been pumped full of so many painkillers for so long that he was probably horribly addicted, but that could be dealt with later, when they were safe. No point in borrowing trouble right now.
----
Lorna would never have thought a person could get used to the kind of pain she was in, but after four hours of walking, she'd learned to ignore it. What she couldn't ignore was the hunger that clawed at her stomach, but she didn't know what to do about that.
She knew a great deal about edible plants, but she couldn't even recognize half of what grew here. The ground got so little sunlight that the undergrowth was pretty sparse anyway, and she wondered if the Lady had meant her to starve out here. Even if she hadn't been in such rotten shape physically, she didn't
know the first thing about hunting.
She was also thirsty. She'd found a creek, but Lorna knew better than to drink untreated spring water -- the last thing she needed was a case of giardia. She could make a fire, but she had nothing to boil water in, and her supplies didn't include iodine pills. Shit. So far she'd tried eating snow, but that was hardly a thirst-quencher. All it really did was make her teeth ache.
Eventually she had to stop and build a fire, digging up dry kindling from the base of a few huge trees. For a while she sat and basked in the warmth, watching the cheery dance of red and yellow when she wasn't looking longingly at the creek.
She scooped up some snow and held her hands near the fire, letting it melt. It took half an hour of this for her to drink until she was sated, but it was much better than nothing -- and certainly better than a day of giardia-induced diarrhea. That still left the problem of her hunger, though, and she found herself wondering if cedar bark was edible.
"Dammit, Lady," she muttered. "I'm not sure you thought this out very well."
She was still grumbling to herself when a twig snapped behind her, and she froze. There was no way any person had followed her out here, and she sure as hell didn't want to tangle with a bear, telekinesis or no telekinesis. Maybe she could use the fire to scare it off.
She turned, very, very slowly, her heart in her throat and her blood pounding in her ears. After everything that had happened to her, she would have thought her supply of adrenaline had run dry, but for once she was poised for flight rather than fight. A human adversary she could deal with, but wildlife was another story entirely.
A wolf stood at the edge of the trees, a grey, shaggy beast that from her perspective looked the size of a small horse. Its paws were almost as big as her hands, for fuck's sake, and she didn't want to think about what its teeth would be like.
There was no hostility in its arctic blue eyes, though -- in fact, there was a lot more intelligence than Lorna would have expected of an animal. They stared at one another a while, until she began to feel like a fool.
