by Bree Aguiar
After a bit, the door opened to allow Ametrine in, holding a bundle of fabric in her hands. The girl’s face was grim as she was joined by another creature walking in behind her. This unfamiliar girl was garbed in their same uniform, another inmate, though it fit her curvy body more snugly than Gwenyre’s and Ametrine’s. From her long, shining hair and ethereal look, Gwenyre could tell she was a nymph. Her beauty was obvious, not at all like the subtleness of Ametrine’s. But, unlike most nymphs who typically had a soured look on their face (they were known for being notoriously hermetic, more so than any other creature), this one looked kind and open-hearted. At least, that was the expression held in her bright, shining eyes.
“Nora sent us,” Ametrine explained in a kind voice. “Here’s your new shift.” She held it out for Gwenyre, who accepted it gratefully. The elf pulled off her current shift, body aching and feeling more pain than she’d ever felt. For some reason, the white dress wouldn’t peel off her body – it was stuck to something and it hurt abysmally. Ametrine and the nymph, seeing her discomforted grimace, rushed over to help. She tried to hold in her screams but failed miserably. Aimee turned to the nymph. “Wyndemere, you’d better get that ointment. Quickly.” The ethereal creature ran off to the other side of the room, diving beneath a bed in search of the healing lotion.
Ametrine finally managed to get the shift off of Gwen, who was holding back tears. “Did it hurt this much your first time?” the elf asked.
Ametrine shook her head grimly, her own eyes also glassing over. “No, my love. And it shouldn’t. I should have known when you said it was Sylvan. I should have told Norethebo right away.”
Gwenyre was frustrated at how confusion seemed to follow her every step. “What do you mean?” At that moment, Wyndemere made her way back with a jar of sickly yellow cream that Aimee quickly scooped into her hands.
“This’ll hurt a bit,” she warned, ignoring the elf’s question. “But it’ll make it feel better and heal faster. Goodness knows you’ll need healing.”
Her frustration rose as the girl placed a glob of ointment onto her stinging back. The pain was unbearable as it began to burn. She bit her tongue in an effort to hold back any screams. Her mouth was in a grimace as she asked again. “What do you mean you should’ve known, Aimee? Should’ve known what?”
Ametrine sat in silence as she applied the healing cream and contemplated her next words. “When you said Sylvan did your intake… Do you remember that I thought it was odd? And that I said he only comes out for the big boys?” Gwenyre nodded, her mouth held tight and twisting in pain. “Well…” the girl continued softly. “Well, that’s because he’s harsh. More than harsh. Sadistic, really. He takes pleasure in seeing people squirm. He shouldn’t have hurt you. He shouldn’t have made you bleed.”
Gwenyre now understood why her shift was ruined; it was full of the blood from the cuts he gave her, the slashes that were apparently not normal here, despite her initial thoughts. She’d just assumed that this place was violent and harsh and cruel, but that wasn’t the case. Not entirely, anyway. The cruelty lay in him.
“You’re not supposed to bleed,” Wyndemere piped up in a breathy voice. “Just bruising and a bit of raw skin. It hurts like hell, but it’s not supposed to be… well, that.” She pointed at Gwenyre’s back and the elf subconsciously began to blush in embarrassment. These two beautiful, carefree girls were seeing her at her most vulnerable; it was enough to fill her with a shame she had never know.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ametrine asked gently. “You barely complained about the pain, no more than anyone else, but you got it so much worse. How did you hold it in?”
Gwenyre sighed, feeling tears slowly start to fall down her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she said in an exhausted huff. “I just thought it was normal, I guess. It didn’t feel right to complain about something everyone else had gone through.”
“Elven pride,” Wyndemere explained. Ametrine shot her a quick, dirty look. “What?” the nymph responded. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, but it’s true. Everyone knows that about elves.”
Ametrine still looked scandalized by her friend’s words, but Gwenyre piped up in the nymph’s defense. “It’s true,” she confirmed. A black laugh formed in her throat. “I’m such a stupid, prideful elf that I just let myself be shamed without even a word. The irony.” She laughed louder now, unable to control herself even as it hurt her wounds.
The others said nothing at first, but after a bit they began to laugh out of awkwardness. Ametrine patted Gwenyre gently, helping her don her new shift. When the elf was fully dressed, apron and all, she stood up and turned to the nymph. “I’m Gwenyre by the way,” she said, extending her hand. “But you can call me Gwen. My friends call me that.” She turned her head to Ametrine, smiling at the girl.
“Wyndemere,” the nymph said by way of introduction. “Calling me Wind also works. Just don’t call me before dawn.” The three girls chuckled at the horrible attempt for a joke before falling back into an awkward silence.
“Well, we should get back,” Ametrine interrupted, standing from the bed. “Norethebo gave you leave to stay here for the rest of the day, if you’d like. She might seem like an awful old frog, but she’s rather sweet if you get on her good side.”
Wyndemere laughed at that. “Guess I’m not on her good side, then. You know she scolded me for an hour today because I folded up a bedsheet up too many times? Mental, she is!”
Ametrine rolled her eyes at the nymph, though in a well-meaning way. “I’ll teach you how to be irresistibly charming, my friend. Within a week, she’ll be begging you to lead a seminar on sheet folding, just you watch.” The girls laughed as they started their goodbyes.
Gwenyre, however, decided to follow. “I think I’ll come back with you. I might as well get used to working a full day.”
“Are you sure?” Ametrine asked in shock.
“Yes,” Gwenyre smiled at her assuredly. “I’m sure.”
“Eleven pride,” Wyndemere explained in a sing-song tease. The three laughed together as they headed back up towards the House.
9 DINNER WITH COMPANY
The rest of the working day passed in a lull for Gwenyre. Norethebo was clearly impressed by Gwen’s insistence on working through the pain, though the Miz tried to hide her pleasure with the girl, being sure to grumble and harrumph occasionally when giving orders and instructions. Because of that, she was given easier jobs throughout the house: folding laundry, setting tables, dusting the porcelain figures in the sitting room. She was occasionally separated from her new friends but was able to catch up with them between tasks. Their attachment felt natural, shared through hurried whispers in the halls, help on their next chore, and a myriad of winks, grins, and funny faces aimed when they thought no-one else was looking. If one good thing was to come out of Gatehouse, it would be this.
Though Gwenyre had not fully accepted her fate and knew that Gatehouse’s moral position in her logical mind was fuzzy at best, she had vowed to take the good with the bad. And the good was these girls. Growing up in Ríhda, Gwenyre hadn’t had too many friends – not due to her own nature, but rather that of her family’s. They lived on the outskirts of the small elven village as practically hermits. She was homeschooled, like most high-born elves, and her one close friend, Geneviery, was just the daughter of one of their housemaidens. The two elves were encouraged to go horseback riding or shooting together, and had snuck out to the market square a few times after dark when their parents wouldn’t miss them. But Geneviery was older and had married soon after her own Marking Day a few years ago. Since then, Gwenyre was pretty much on her own in terms of companionship. Until Ametrine and Wyndemere.
After their last task of the day (clearing up after the visitor’s dinner service, which involved wiping up so much drunkenly spilled wine that Gwenyre imagined she must have smelled like an entire bushel of sour grapes), Norethebo announced that they would be working the Stables tomorrow to deal with the influx of visi
tors leaving after the feast day celebrations. Wyndemere, a permanent member of the House Service, grumbled her complaints about being stuck alone for the day. Though Gwenyre didn’t mind the work at the House and would miss a day around Wind, she was mildly excited to see the Stables up close and to work with the horses. The three girls exhaustedly said their goodbyes to Norethebo and headed off towards their own dinner service in the Mess Hall.
Prisoners or not, Cycle Day was an important feast for every creature and there was at least some celebratory feel within the large, wooden hall. Fairy lanterns, seemingly floating in midair, lit up the normally dark room and flower garlands were draped on every wall and table that Gwenyre could see. The Hall smelled of traditional feast day foods: honeyed bread and stewed vegetables and roasted chickens. Many of the servants donned homemade feast hats folded from thick parchment and wide smiles on their faces. The chatter in the room was loud but welcoming, and Gwenyre could hear wishes of merriment coming from all directions.
The girls grabbed their plates heaping with delicious food. “Extra portions today!” Wyndemere exclaimed, quickly stuffing sweet bread into her smiling mouth. They walked around, trying to find a space for them within the crowded room.
Their search seemed futile after a few laps, and they had resigned to sit apart when Gwenyre heard her name called from a corner. Confused, she headed over with the two other girls following in her wake. Sitting towards the end of one of the larger tables, with such a smile that Gwenyre did not think possible on his stoic face, was Cyran.
“Sit,” he instructed them. “There’s plenty of room, once Gorgoth pushes his sizeable backside over.” Gorgoth, a rather grim-looking gargoyle, snarled briefly, but pushed over and turned his attention away to another conversation. The girls crowded together on the bench, and Wind started eating immediately.
“What?” she asked in a scandalized voice after receiving a dirty look from Ametrine. “I’m starving, and the food’ll get cold!” Aimee and Gwen rolled their eyes, laughing.
Not wanting to be rude, Gwenyre began the proper introductions. “Girls, this is Cyran. He’s a fellow elf who accompanied me on my journey here. Don’t let his smile fool you, he’s a right ghastly old man.” Cyran chuckled at her jest and held out his palm for Ametrine, as Wyndemere was still shoveling vegetables in her face.
“Ametrine,” the girl introduced herself in her low-born accent. “And this horribly rude nymph is Wyndemere.” Upon hearing her name, Wind smiled and stuck her hand out, though she said not a word; that would have been impossible as her cheeks were stuffed as full as a squirrel’s. “So, you’re the famous Cyran,” Ametrine continued. “I’ve heard a bit about you, mostly your gallant act befriending our Gwen here. She didn’t, however, mention how handsome you were.”
Though Gwenyre had seen Ametrine flirting with everyone today (it appeared to be second nature to the girl), she was shocked at her forwardness with someone as ascetic as Cyran. She felt her cheeks redden, not sure who she was more embarrassed for but knowing that Ametrine’s charm probably wouldn’t work on the old elf. She was surprised, though if it was a pleasant surprise she could not say, when he appeared to flirt back.
She heard a deep, belly laugh come from the elf as he flicked his long ponytail behind his shoulder. “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you?” he asked rhetorically. “The last time I was referred to as handsome was probably before your parents’ parents were born, child, but it is nice to hear it from someone as beautiful as you.” Now it was Ametrine’s turn to blush, which was such a rare sight that even Wyndemere laughed as she took a break from her personal feast.
Cyran asked about their day and how Gwenyre was settling in. The little elf noticed that his icy eyes always looked deep into those of whomever he was talking to, which was comforting. Though she imagined it could be unsettling for anyone who got on his bad side, and silently thanked the stars that he had warmed up to her and her plight. They (mostly Ametrine) told him about their various chores and the mischief they’d gotten up to while under House Service. Gwenyre was comfortable sitting back and listening, smiling at the conversation and adding tidbits when needed.
“We’ll be at the Stables tomorrow,” Ametrine said between bites. “I absolutely hate them if I’m being honest. Too much horse poo.” She wrinkled her nose as she shoved a forkful of chicken into her mouth. Both Gwenyre and Cyran laughed at her human-like sentiment.
“Besides the smell,” Gwenyre began, earning another disgusted sniffle from Ametrine, “what are the stables like?”
Cyran answered for her. “They are actually quite pleasant. For you and me anyway.” He winked at them after that last addition, which made Ametrine blush even more and look quickly down at her food. Though Gwenyre hadn’t known her for long, she had a feeling that Aimee’s reactions to Cyran were rare. Before she could think more about it (not that she really wanted to), Cyran continued. “There is a great deal of... horse dung, yes.” He chuckled at that. “But you also tend to the horses, brushing, feeding, saddling, and riding if you’re lucky. Though as a Rogue, they won’t trust you enough to ride.”
Well that was a shame. Gwenyre hadn’t been able to properly mount a horse since she had ridden into Newbridge. She was used to going for daily rides back home, and her want to saddle up again came fast and furious. She had a sudden desire to be assigned to the Stables, knowing it would be a small comfort in her time here.
“Master Phillipe is rather genial,” Cyran continued, pulling her out of her thoughts once again. “As long as the horses are happy, so is he.”
“Phillipe?!” Gwenyre exclaimed. “What a name for a troll.”
Everyone laughed at that, leaving Gwenyre confused. Once their laughter subsided, Wyndemere explained. “Phillipe is not a troll, he’s probably the furthest thing from it!”
“He’d take offense being compared to one too,” Ametrine added. “Though not openly; he’s not stupid.”
Cyran offered a further explanation. “He’s a centaur, and the only Master at Gatehouse who is not a troll. The horses get a little skittish around the big ones, and they can never seem to saddle them correctly. Phillipe is the only one who can calm them down – understandably so.”
Gwenyre nodded, excited to meet this centaur. Maybe he would be the one who could help her. She felt a glimmer of hope, and then a sharp wince of pain. Someone had accidentally hit her with their tail right in the back. Normally, a tail brush wasn’t something she was concerned about, but with her wounds it felt like agony. She gasped aloud, unable to hold it in, and bit her lip to keep herself from crying out more as the spot held its sting. When she was able to let her breath out, she noticed her companions looking at her with concern.
“Are you okay, little one?” Cyran asked.
Gwenyre nodded grimly. “It’s just my lashes, no need to worry.”
Cyran nodded, turning back to his food but the girls did not let up. “You really should see if you can rest tomorrow,” Wyndemere suggested. Ametrine nodded her consent and assured her that Norethebo would understand. Upon hearing this, Cyran looked up to raise his eyebrows.
“Understand what?” he asked in confusion. “No offense, little one, but the masters will not care about a little first day bruising. It’ll feel better tomorrow.” His blasé attitude toward it offended Ametrine, whose face once again turned red at Cyran but this time out of anger.
“First day bruising?! What that bastard did to her is more than first day bruising! Don’t you dare make her feel bad about this. She described you as a friend, but right now you are acting far from it.”
Cyran held his hands up in defense. “What are you talking about?” he said calmly, not engaging in her anger. The two girls ignored his question, and instead turned to comfort Gwenyre. When no-one answered, he looked directly at the little elf. His icy eyes bore into her soul as he looked for the answer in a hollow voice. “What did Sylvan do?”
She sighed, tears forming in her eyes as she tried not to relive it ag
ain. Ametrine, realizing that Cyran was ignorant to the situation, immediately apologized. He nodded his acceptance of it but kept his eyes on Gwenyre, waiting for her answer. Eventually she found the courage to explain what had occurred that morning in more detail. She told him about the bleeding and the shock on Gurney’s face. She told him about the pure pain she felt when she had to peel the shift off. She told him about her shame but tried to speak only in facts. She kept her emotions in check as best as she could, holding back her tears and hoping that after this she would no longer have to think about it again. No longer have to be humiliated and ashamed by it.
Cyran listened to her story, his eyes hardening as she explained the details. “That bastard,” he mumbled under his breath, soft enough for only her sharp ears to hear. He sighed as he turned to take in the sight of all three girls. “If he does it again, to any of you, come to me straight away. I promise you that he will not get away with it.” The look in his eyes was quite scary, and Gwenyre had a feeling that Cyran would keep that promise no matter what it meant for him. She appreciated it but did not intend to bring him any unnecessary worry or trouble; she’d keep any hit of future discord with Sylvan quiet from the hard elf, while reminding herself to warn the others to do the same.
Ametrine, knowing Cyran probably had more knowledge of Sylvan from his many trips to the Gatehouse, piped up with a question. “Why do you think he did it? I mean, it’s not like our Gwen here is the poster child for hardcore strength and stubbornness. No offense,” she added quickly, looking towards Gwenyre with a small smile.
“None taken. Trust me,” Gwenyre promised.
