Ilyan (An Imdalind Story)

by Rebecca Ethington

  She smiled as she leaned closer, her eyes lashes tickling against my cheek as she closed them to kiss me.

  I felt her lips for the briefest moment before they were gone, gone like the sound of the waves, gone like the salt air.

  And all that was left was the smell of antiseptic and salt, a familiar rhythmic beeping undulating from somewhere in the distance.

  My eyes fluttered open to the same red flowers, the same yellow light that streamed from the open window. Only this time, instead of the bitter mountain air it was crisp, cool. It reminded me of the meadowed hills in France where Wyn and Thom had made their home. If I closed my eyes I was sure I could see the tiny three-room cabin he had built. He only told me later that he had refused to use magic on the precious thing.

  I had never been inside, never seen the home they had made, but I had been there enough.

  That memory was one of the few that mixed good with bad in a seamless wave. The emotion washed over me and I gasped, chest tensing as the intensity caught me off guard.

  Much like everything else the sensation was intensified without my magic to stifle it.

  Just like the pain in my head…

  I turned from the window to the heavy wooden door that was inset against the yellow wallpaper. The whole room was different than the hospital I had been in Kiev, the layout was wrong, the smell that drifted in through the window didn’t even match. But that wallpaper, that wallpaper was exactly the same.

  I stared at it, the low hum of my heart rate monitor picking up as I attempted to sit. My movements, however, were hindered by a single padded strap, wrapped around my left ankle.

  Heart rate turning into a thunder, I threw the blankets from me, revealing an old stained hospital gown and one of the padded restraints that had held me down for years.

  Without thinking, I pushed my magic to serge, just the same as I had always done. The concentration, the strength, it was all there, but nothing else responded.

  Just like in Mongolia.

  Just like on the train.

  This was going to take some getting used to.

  My sigh turned into a growl as I shifted my weight, ready to tear the metal padlock on the ankle restraint off with my bare hands. I didn’t get a chance to try.

  The door swung open with a clatter and I jerked, throwing the blanket back over the thing.

  Instead of the angry Russian, or the line of soldiers, however, it was a woman. My hope swelled as she backed her way into the room, heart thundering at her long brown hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Kaye!” I practically yelled her name, relief at seeing her, at seeing the one person who could possibly get me out of here.

  All of the hope was dashed, however, as she turned around, revealing a nameless woman with bottle green eyes and a comfortable expression.

  “Who?” She asked as she shuffled in, pulling a large metal rack behind her.

  “I… ummm” I stammered, failing to come up with an adequate response.

  She didn’t seem to care, however, she just smiled kindly, and continued to roll her cart in, bringing it right up to where I sat up in my bed.

  “It’s Borscht again today,” her smiled faltered somewhat, the light in her eyes dimming as though she was delivering bad news.

  I felt none of that, after so long of unknowingly eating meat, a bowl of beet stew sounded divine. Unless… “does it taste bad?”

  Her smiled softened, a gentle clang hitting against side table as she set a bowl and a few rolls down on my bedside table.

  “No,” She didn’t even look at me, her focus was only on the bowl as she carefully removed the foil. “But it has only been borscht here for a year.”

  Her honesty caught me off guard and I looked away from the soup that my stomach was growling in need of, to the young woman with a kindness so different from what I had seen before.

  It was such a stark contrast that it made me wonder if it was all a dream.

  “Where am I?” my own stomach twisted at my question.

  The woman froze in her task of putting yet another roll on my tray and turned to me slowly, the trepidation I had expected to see there before flooding her once bright eyes.

  “They don't want me to tell you that,” she whispered, glancing at the door as she began to shift through something in the bottom of her cart.

  “The Republic?” I asked part of me hoping that I could get some answers out of his woman.

  She only nodded, and while it was enough, I could feel myself needing more.

  “And they are not the SSU?” The Russian had told me as much before, but I needed to know for sure. The question startled the women, however, for she gave a tiny little jerk, sending cart and contents rattling.

  “The SSU fell years ago,” she resolved, her hands shaking as she peered at me from behind the cart, the thing suddenly becoming a barricade between us. “Were you part of the SSU? You are the only one who they guard… those men warned me...”

  She tried to keep her voice calm, but her fear at the fallen dictatorship suddenly made sense.

  “No,” I responded quickly, vigorously shaking my head. “I am not part of the SSU. The SSU tortured me for nearly a decade.”

  I wasn't sure her eyes could go wider, but she managed it, her mouth forming a soft ‘O’ as she emerged from behind her cart.

  “Then you know this place…” She looked around once, the glare she gave the faded yellow wallpaper verifying my assumption. Her lips twisted toward the walls before she turned, pulling a large leather-bound book and a few other things from her cart as she stepped right up to me.

  For a moment, it seemed as though she was going to plop down right next to me. She thought better of it at the last moment, however, and instead held her book to her chest, taking a step back.

  “The hospital in Kiev,” I filled in her blank, choosing to ignore her motion. “It is the same?”

  She nodded once, “Why are you here?”

  “I would need to know what the Republic is before I answer that…” I prodded, luckily she was eager to respond.

  “Kyōwakoku” She interrupted, the Japanese word for republic sounded off with her Russian accent. “We call them Kyō. Today. Because it is how we must live.”

  “But who are they?”

  She hesitated again, this time choosing to sink into the bed beside me.

  “I do not have much time,” she hissed, her voice shaking as the fear I had expected to see earlier presented itself. “I only bring the food… and this…”

  She shoved the book toward me, the spine bulging from a pen she had concealed inside of it.

  “A book?”

  “They say you have no memory. But I know who you are. If you remember, even a little bit, I can help.” She smiled with a pride and bravery that I would not have expected from her up until this point. “If you write letters. I will get them where they need to go.”

  Her hand was kind as she placed it on my arm, one gentle squeeze pressing against me before she stood.

  “But the Republic…” I asked, my desperation for knowledge growing as she turned to leave.

  “They are not the SSU. They will not hurt you the same, although they may not be kind.” Her back was to me now, her cart clattering as she pushed it toward the door. “Read the book. Fill its pages for me.”

  Her instructions were a hiss as the door opened, the wide wooden slab opening to swallow her whole and dispense the blonde individual that I had expected to see the first time.

  I was only barely able to conceal the book underneath the covers of my bed before his focus shifted from the attractive young woman to me, his interest not wanting to leave her.

  “Welcome, home, I guess we can say,” his voice was a drawl, his Russian clipped in what I could only assume was agitation.

  He walked right up to my bed, pulling a clipboard off the end of it as he made his way to the head. His focus drifted between me and the papers, the side glances tensing through
my already taut muscles. I shifted my weight as best I could thanks to the lone shackle in an attempt to hide the book.

  “A slight concussion, it seems, but other than that you appear to have come through transport okay.”

  He sighed and set the clipboard down on the bed, right on top of where I had placed the book. I was shocked he hadn’t noticed that it hadn’t hit the bed.

  “I suppose now the only matter at hand is the question of whether or not you will comply, or if I need to reintroduce you to that lovely room that the former owners had set up for you.”

  I swallowed. The strict consonants in his words made it clear just how serious he was, and that promise of torture did not bode well for me and my suddenly mortal existence.

  “What exactly do you want to know?” My own fear swallowed the words as they lodged in my throat, constricting my question in a way that he did not miss.

  He smiled at the sound, at the fear that like it or not was quickly taking up home in my heart.

  I was sure I could battle him. I was sure I could win. It was only one restraint on my ankle, one man, with one gun. But even with my memory of how to fight returned, there was little to nothing I could do.

  It wasn’t worth the risk.

  He stepped forward, pulling a few pieces of paper from the back of the clipboard and placed them down on the bed.

  I had seen the pictures so often in the years I spent in the fog of not knowing. They were the same ones of the battle in Svarov, of Prague being rebuilt, and that last one with Joclyn and Ryland walking along the bank of the Vltava River, Joclyn refusing to take the long golden ribbon from him.

  My heart clenched at seeing it there, at seeing her hair flow free around her face and not bound in the braid. It was a pain of loss I finally understood, the same look clear on her face as she pled with my brother to take the sacred ribbon. I saw it in her, just as I felt it in me now.

  Even though I knew the risk, knew that the man beside me was watching me intently, I still grabbed the picture from the pile he was still throwing before me, warm tears rolling down my cheeks as I lifted the image closer, desperate to see her, to be closer to this proof that she was still alive, and not dead as I had thought when I had died.

  “Ahhh,” The man sighed, the tone of his voice sounding as though he had found a great treasure. “You know her then?”

  The picture was wrinkled, worn around the edges, with a bit of both water and fire damage to the delicate print. They all were. I dropped the treasured picture of my wife and shifted to another one, the exact one Kaye had used to help identify Joclyn all those years before.

  Her and I fighting side by side.

  The pain of the other image was gone here, although I could barely see it thanks to the damage that the images had received.

  “Is this the same girl?” I asked, careful to keep my voice casual.

  “The same…” He obviously didn’t understand.

  “The same girl in the image?” I asked, a thought slamming into me, making my heart rate monitor beat faster in my excitement. The man obviously didn’t notice. “Is she the same? I cannot see her here. Do you have the original.”

  I looked right at him as I asked the question, watched his breath catch as he went back to the clipboard, shuffling through papers as he tried to locate something.

  “You were shown these images before,” he finally said, his voice gaining that same hard line of lost impatience. “You do not need an original. You know what you see.”

  He glared at me, fingers tapping on the clipboard in either impatience or nerves, I wasn’t sure. The sound matched my heart rate as it too began to accelerate, thundering in exhilaration.

  He knew nothing, just as he had said.

  The SSU had taken it all.

  “Yes, it is the same girl,” I finally said, not looking a millimeter away as I handed the images back. “But I do not know who she is.”

  He stared at me, the corners of his jaw tensing as his temper flared.

  “Fine,” he said in a grumble so low that I wasn’t completely sure that was what he had said. “Then tell me about this.”

  This picture was different. The image was clean, crisp, with no sign of damage.

  It was clearly of me flying over the town at the border, moments away from escape.

  I could see Kaye and the others below me, see their fear. I knew this moment, just seeing it pricked me with the memory of dozens of bullets ripping through my body.

  “Tell me about this.” He growled as he dropped the picture before me, letting the crisp image fall to my lap.

  Although it was clear the images from before had come from somewhere. This one was new. He may not know everything, but he knew enough. Enough to make this a very dangerous situation.

  This time I was the one to hesitate, although I did not look away, although I refused to give this man all of my strength, I could still feel the twist of fear in my stomach that the memory of those years of torture had left me with. The electronic monitor of my accelerated heartbeat served as a haunting backdrop.

  “Whatever power was in me. Whatever power this man had,” I said as I tapped against my own image. “It was lost in that escape. I have told you before. It is gone….”

  “No.” his snap was not in anger, but instead in a defiant command of refusal. He would not believe me, or rather he would not fail in bringing this power to his precious republic.

  I could only imagine the accolades that would be behind it.

  “You spout lies so you can escape in the night,” he hissed in Russian, some of the papers in his hands slipping to the ground as he leaned closer to me. “You think I will believe you, but you are my prisoner and I know better. I will not believe you.”

  The rest of the clipboard fell to the ground with a clang that made me jump, the action so abrupt that even if I had been paying attention I don’t think I could have moved fast enough to stop him from slicing the long blade over my arm.

  I screamed as the flesh opened, as my own blood began to pour from me in a wave brighter and faster than I had ever seen.

  I had never felt pain as strong as I did then. Never felt every moment of a cut, of an injury.

  I had been hurt thousands of times. My bones had been broken, even injuries worse than this had ripped over me. Before, however, I always had my magic to protect me, to heal me. Now, there was none of that. Now, there was no barrier between me and the pain.

  I continued to scream as the sheets of the bed blossomed in red from the pool that was pouring over my skin. The Russian held my arm down as he stared at the massive gash, waiting in exhilaration for a forgotten magic to erupt in me. Nothing happened.

  “It’s gone,” I panted through the agony, wishing beyond anything that it was here.

  That the pain would leave.

  “The magic is gone.” I barely got the words out before I fell back on the bed, unable to support my own weight through the lightheaded spin I was smothered by.

  “No!” I heard his scream as my hand dropped, as his feet stomped, as the door slammed shut.

  I heard it, but I could only look at the stained ceiling, at the old hospital light, and wish beyond anything that I could escape this place.

  That I could stutter and find myself in the safety of her arms.

  But there was nothing but an old ceiling, a tightened restraint, and the hard edge of a book against my lower back.

  The book.

  The woman with the kind face who promised to help me. Told me to write letters to them. To find help.

  It was a long shot, and I wasn’t sure how I could make it work, how I could find Joclyn, but I had to try.

  Just like Kaye, I had to trust her.

  20

  Dear Sir or Madame

  I wrote the words carefully, each stroke of the pen throbbing through my arm. It had been nearly two weeks since he had cut it, and thanks to the lack of medicine or medical personnel in this place it was hurting more than usual.

/>   It was also a bit more red than what I was sure was healthy.

  Attempting to ignore it, I kept my motions slow, drawing each letter slowly as I began the same phrase, the same plea.

  It was the twelfth letter I had written like this, and the words came freely now.

  My name is Ilyan Krul. I am writing to you as someone in need of assistance. I was a victim of the massacre in Prague some fifteen years prior. Since then I have been a captive of the SSU and now am under the control of what they are telling me is called the Republic.

  I do not know what it is, but I know I am in danger. I am trying to find my wife. Her name is Joclyn Krul, formerly Despain. She is an American, but I have hopes that she is near you, and you could help me find her.

  I hesitated, while the letters all began the same, each one was different from this point on. She is in our home by the seaside near the French town of Giens. She is somewhere in Prague please hang a sign with the word Silnỳ printed on it. She is in the monastery of Rioseco. She is in… she could be… she might be…

  A million possibilities. A million safe houses. A massive tunnel where no mortal could find her.

  Truth told, the more of these I wrote the more hopeless I had begun to feel.

  They were nothing more than letters that I slipped into a book, letters that were hopefully sent all over the world, desperate to find their locations.

  To find her.

  With each agonizing word I wrote, I sat. The restraints tight against both ankles now as they kept me tethered to the bed, locked away in this hospital. Behind guards, trapped within hallways I didn’t know. I had planned an escape a million times, thought through a million different ways to fight back.

  It all came down to one massive problem: I didn’t know how to fight like a mortal.

  So I remained here. A prisoner. Every scrap of hope riding on the backs of these letters.

  Once a day the Russian would come in with pictures and promises, just like the SSU had done for so long. After the disastrous slice to my arm, he no longer tired to prove of the existence of my magic. His focus was only on Joclyn, only on finding her.