“Will she be okay, Hältia?” A stoic Elf said as Christophe reached the car. He held the umbrella a little higher to keep his master dry and pulled the door back as far as it would go to give him room.
“Yes Dreeoth. We need to hurry though. She was in a more severe condition than I had anticipated, and the net only slows a soul from evaporating. It does not stop or reverse the process.” Christophe said this without taking his eyes of the mummified woman he was gingerly placing in the back seat of the Mercedes, wrapped in his own anxieties and love for her.
“By your will.” Dreeoth responded with respect, closing the door behind his master, shaking the umbrella violently and getting into the driver's seat.
She flitted in and out of consciousness as the journey went on, partially remembering a kind face being close to her and laying something on her shoulder. The enveloping warmth and love that immediately followed comforted her and kept her from the stark, biting elements. When looking up she could see rain falling directly onto her face, but she felt nothing. She watched struggling lights overhead and dancing darkness that responded to their plight. Grey streamers of hot air invaded her view from time to time as she stared at the strong, stubbled, concentrating jawline of the man carrying her. Then the rain stopped, and she was lying down, feeling the ebb and flow of being transported. Was she in a car? In the air? On a boat? She couldn’t tell and didn’t care. Strange sounds of doors closing and opening bombarded her ears. Countless weirdly decorated corridors and rooms passed by before reaching a small metal box and being held completely still for a few minutes. Round lights with strange numbers on them blinked at her from the corner of her eye but the jawline was constant. Another man was there, but he wasn’t allowed to be near her, respectfully helping where he could and easing their passage through alien places.
Eventually they came to a huge room. Two sides of which had floor to ceiling windows that overlooked a city. She didn’t recognise the skyline as the poor excuse for a life she was trapped in, barely left her own city. The room screamed class and wealth at her in everything it contained. Designer furniture, healthy, exotic plants, straight lines and cleanliness penetrated the rooms existence. Exposed brick columns dotted the huge open plan flat, boasting expensive finishing’s wherever it could. Doors led to places she would investigate when her strength returned, but for now, she just needed to be cared for. The Mistress was willing to go along with this, but The Rage continued to spit and flail within her mind, childishly lashing out even though she knew the man would save their lives.
She was lovingly placed on a sofa that faced a brick wall, an inner turmoil conflicting with the uniformity of the bricks. Her thoughts were becoming harder and harder to hold on to, pointless questions about where they were and what was happening using up precious energy. She knew she was dying, but for some reason she felt safe and secure in the finality of it. Even though she had escaped, for the briefest of moments that was all that mattered. All she needed. Her previous life was filled with pain and anguish and then she was trapped in that meat bag with no purpose. A living hell. Being free though. That was enough and welcoming the endless sleep might be the thing she had wanted all along.
Then the wall started moving. Jawline had moved over to the side and pressed something to make it split down the middle to reveal unblemished, untouched steel. So perfect was its construction that she almost couldn’t tell where the surfaces joined. The room made her ethereal stomach turn with pleasure. Not because of what it looked like and the engineering beauty of it, but because of what was in the middle of it. A dentist-style chair was in the fully upright position in the exact centre of the steel enclosure. She knew that the chair could move and be manipulated into a thousand different positions and her spiritual brain began computing the possibilities of what could be done with it. What could be done with the woman that was strapped to it. Panic was in that poor soul’s eyes, sweat emanating from every pore of her naked, paralysed body. Jawline’s face slowly appeared close to her face, sharp details coming into focus and accompanied by his soft voice.
“Are you hungry Äsheenie?”
* * *
Dreeoth had been cleaning the steel for a while by the time she regained consciousness. She felt a lot better than she had upon arriving at the penthouse suite, groaning with pleasure and thanking Christophe for bringing her the woman. He’d selected an excellent specimen for her and she’d gained physical form from consuming the captive. When she went to stand though, a coughing fit ensued, bringing with it unknown fluids and pain in her chest. On her hands and knees, thick deposits of her own body dribbled from the corners of her mouth onto the pristine white and soft carpet. Christophe was at her side immediately and helped ease her back to the sofa with a concerned look on his face.
“She did something to me Christophe.” The woman growled.
“It certainly looks that way my love.” Worry creeping into his voice. “Any idea what?”
She looked at him, eyes filled with fury. “Of course not. That she-devil has cursed me.” She paused for a moment, thinking, before speaking to herself more than the two men in the room. “The conniving little skell has cast some sort of dark magik spell on me. I didn’t think she had it in her.” She smiled at the beauty of it, essentially putting a ticking time bomb inside her was inspired and something she would’ve done herself. The feelings of admiration were given voice inside her, but she squashed it, wary that she’d not be able to shake its presence.
“What do you need Äsheenie?” Christophe asked warmly, placing a slightly shaking hand on hers. This act of physically touching her after seeing her eat was hard for him. In the past, he used to enjoy those moments, revelling in the carnage and chaos of it. The unbridled need to cause destruction and fulfil her hunger was a mix of primal instincts and deadly beauty when he knew her before. Had too much time passed? Maybe I’m just not used to it he thought. Maybe it’ll get easier he lied to himself, whilst waiting for her to respond.
“I need her.” She said to no one.
“Who?”
“My book. I need my book.” She said angrily, frustrated that he didn’t understand what she was asking for. She had told him about it from the before times. Of how she loved it. How it had kept her safe. How it had given her inspiration and the confidence to take what she thought she deserved.
“Where is it?” He asked, only to be ignored.
“I need another one of those.” She added, waving a tired hand towards the steel room.
“By your will Rosalind.” Christophe uttered subserviently. He didn’t like being her attendant again after all these years. His status was far elevated compared to when he knew her last. Careful dearest, he thought, you need me.
Dreeoth stood up in the steel room and turned to face the two people on the sofa. Covered in someone else’s blood, rubber gloves and apron stained red, he wondered how much longer he could keep this up. The Protectorate had recruited him years ago, wanting him to report on his master’s movements and he was hoping they would extract him soon. The conflict he had been feeling ever since becoming a snitch was beginning to tear him apart. The Hältia, Pavleja relationship was a sacred one for his people and he despised himself for violating the trust it ensured. When an Elf committed themselves to serve, it was either seen as an incredibly generous gift reserved for their versions of saints, or, the most honourable path to redemption for any past crimes. He had decided that a lifetime of servitude to any master would earn him favour amongst the tribes and his own elders may look more graciously upon him when asking to come back to them.
The smiles of his sisters, Erin and Erso, surprised him when they slammed into the front of his mind. They’d always believed in him and lobbied the councils relentlessly when trying to overturn the decision all those years ago. They knew the reasons for his actions and stood by him throughout everything. The thought of being able to see them again filled his long dead heart with joy and it drove most of his decisions. Mentally sighing, he t
hought about his options. He was confronted with serving his Hältia until he was freed, fulfilling his Pavleja duties and being accepted by his kin legitimately. Or. He could betray his master and The Protectorate would expedite his re-entry back into the tribes, but as a Sköltroth. Unable to take a mate or fully integrate back into the tribe until the elders felt appeased, he felt he could bare this weight. Life was long, and he could wait. Christophe was a good man when Dreeoth chose him, at least, that’s what he thought. Soon after entering into his life of servitude however, it became clear that his master was involved in some extremely treacherous activities. Dreeoth wasn’t directly exposed to all the machinations of his suspicious and careful master, but this recent turn of events was more disturbing than most.
“Dreeoth.” His master called. “Fetch another specimen for our guest.” He wasn’t even looking at him. He was just staring into the woman’s eyes.
“By your will.” He automatically responded. It was time for him to put pressure on The Protectorate he thought. He was being punished for the moral choice he made all that time ago and he wasn’t willing to abandon his morals now. He needed to make contact as soon as possible and get extracted. He was staring at lifetimes of slavery and even though this was a blink of an eye for an Elf, he didn’t want his soul to be damaged beyond repair. Even as a Sköltroth, lower than the lowest, he was at least back with his people. Back with his sisters.
“Is there a problem Dreeoth?” Christophe asked patiently, snapping his servant out of his day dreaming.
“No, Hältia.” He flexed to attention, arms at his sides and bowing deeply at his waist. May Surelikai forgive me, he thought before standing up straight and heading for the elevator.
CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE DOOR
I hold the slip of white in my hand for a long time, frightened by the implications and juggling a hundred paper questions in my head. I know that I need to get moving and get out of this room, but I haven’t seen that name in years. Parts of me were hoping that it had faded from everyone’s memory. A piece of something falling into a river, being washed away and out to sea, never to be discovered. But here it was. As clear as the blue sky atop a mountain. My name.
Memories start firing inside me, like a line of machine gun placements raining their metal death down upon the enemy. Vibrant moments ricochet off each other and the walls of my conscience, inexorably mixing themselves together with deep feelings that I didn’t know I had. This feels important. More important than my injuries or getting out of the room. Someone had planned this whole thing and had intended to confront me. I was performing in a terrible and sick opera where only destruction was portrayed for the audience. I’m on the floor, trapped by the physical and mental walls I’ve erected around me, still clutching the paper, when it ruffles very slightly. The sound and feeling of the movement brought me back to reality and the task I had set myself to. I acknowledge what I’m feeling, then politely ask all of it to sit tight whilst I figure out how to escape. Refocused, I realise the breeze that I’d felt earlier on my face, was now manipulating the scrap of truth in front of me. There’s a way out of this nightmare room and I know where it is. Behind the door.
I pocket my later and drag myself to my feet. In doing so, it actually feels like I’m locking a piece of myself away for now, leaving that particular problem for later and adding it to the long list of things I needed to confront. Confront when I’m ready and can process properly. In the now, it’s essential to free up my energy to deal with the door, which I know demands respect. It emanates something regal and ancient that told me I need to be present. I can’t not crawl up to it and expect to walk through on my knees like the damned. It expected more from its subjects. Slowly, purposefully - and with an unrehearsed mantra - I make my way across the room taking in every detail as I go. I repeat the zombie shuffle of earlier without meaning to, the effort of carrying myself properly, too much to handle.
There was a change inside me that I hadn’t felt before. The name had unlocked part of me that I’d ignored for so long. Looking around at the people on the floor I take another mental note to keep them in my mind, the list getting ever longer. I wouldn’t ignore the truth as I had before, I need to repent and find a way to make peace with what happened rather than hide in the shadows and blame others for my actions. Where before, I would dwell and wallow on my actions without confronting them properly, I know that keeping moving was my saviour now, and that someday, the scales will balance. The debt would be paid.
I walk past the symbol and fell to the floor in agony. For some reason as I pass it, my brain’s pierced with an emotional trauma I can’t fathom, it crippling me and downing the zombie I’d become. With an effort, I try to gather the thoughts and feelings around what it was trying to show me, but they slip through before I can stop them, like water passing through my fingers. I can’t place where I’d seen it before, but it was preparing me for the door. Knowledge from deep within springs up, telling me what was coming, is going to be both terrible, and liberating. Whatever was about to happen to me would be decisive in my future and I shouldn’t take it lightly. I gurgle-laugh-cry at where all this was coming from, fearing my mind was breaking, like my body was. The slow madness is taking me, and I’m tempted to let it. Tempted to let the madness become me and be my actions from now on, replacing the lost past and giving weight to what I used to do.
For years there’s been nothing. Just the episodes and brief respites from the daily torture of part-knowing what I am and what I’m capable of. The untold number of days where I can’t remember where I’m from, what made me this way. Just reliving the loss of Eve, over and over again. It anchors and crucifies me. I’ve been living with the slow madness all this time so maybe it’s okay to lose myself to it. Why’s all of this coming to me now, though? Why have I spent countless years living in pain when there may’ve been answers within me all along? Glimpses from my past have shown me that the supernatural exists although I always questioned how real that was, casting the visions aside as dreams and a vivid imagination. My ribs react to my thinking, crackling pain through my chest and forcing me to look at them, trying to understand. My wound is glowing a gangrenous purple and green with an endless black near the centre. More questions surface to replace the old ones and my mind is crowded, frantic even, with the voices and ricocheting theories flinging themselves at me. Trying to calm myself I stare at the dark light near the middle of the wound and as I do, I feel something. Twisted knots of pain and emotion gather near my core, then slowly work themselves up through my neck, towards my head and then out of my ear. It’s scary to start, but as it moves I can sense the process is good for me and it’s a strange sensation, the release I feel when something heavy lands on my shoulder, noises and part-memories whispering from it. I feel cleaner and less full. Like a stop cock has been released to allow the water to flow. Gingerly I touch at where the feeling’s coming from and when I pull my hand back there’s a filthy, dark sludgy mass clinging to me.
It moves with a life of its own. Slow, deliberate and daemonic. I think. No, I’m not in danger, this thing in my hand was part of what was killing me, and it feels good that it’s out. I look at the mass in my hand for a moment, fascinated by how it moves and how it feels in my hand. Light dances around its form with unnatural bulges and shapes forming and deforming in front of my eyes and that’s when I see it. A tiny, beautiful shimmer of gold. It’s only a hair's width, but it stands in stark contrast against the disgusting sediment that surrounded it. Shreds of recognition come back to me as this sliver of beauty sways in front of me. It’s a part of my soul. Maybe a good part or maybe not, yet I know it means a lot. As understanding dawns on me, a little peace settles with it at the same time. The frenetic noise in my head gets quieter and I’m lighter. It’s almost like the thing I pulled from my ear was what was clogging up and poisoning my spirit. I place my little black friend on my shoulder and speak softly to it.
“Not long now Äsheen”. The archaic word sprang to me w
ith ease. Full of meaning, love and warmth I couldn’t think of a better word to use, it being one of the most intimate words in the old tongue you can use for a close friend. I hadn’t used the dead language for a long time, but in my loneliest hour it felt appropriate. I’d turned from the teachings more than a lifetime ago in hope it would stave off the darkness, but maybe I’d been ignoring the truth for too long, that the teachings I scarcely remember would help. I draw strength from this realisation, wanting to sit with it and explore its meaning but a sharp pain ripples through my ribs, reminding me of the urgency of my situation. Coughing up some blood and pieces of flesh I prepare myself for the next few steps, sweat starting to pour from me at the effort of getting up from the floor and staying conscious. Removing the blackness took more from me than I realised, but looking at the door again, my body automatically straightens and starts moving towards it until it was within touching distance. I’d left the zombie on the floor and stood there, taking in the details of it again with glimmers and shadows of recognition coming to me. I smile and reach out to the handle, grasping it tightly in my hand, feeling like I’m on the precipice of understanding. At least I think I do. My hand hovers around the gnarled wood, apprehensive thoughts and hesitations holding me back. My future depends on paying the debts of my past. Maybe I’m not ready. My body takes over again, refusing to bend to the whims of my unstable mind and my hand grasps the handle.
It’s warm. Friendly. Welcoming. Like being embraced by an old friend and relief washes over me like a tide. The door knows me, and I know it. We’re both so old, but the doors seen more time than I can comprehend. We’re both trapped too. Slight amusement seems to emanate from the door as I work over these ideas when a sound creeps into the back of my head. I close my eyes and really listen for it, realising that I’m being spoken to.
A Dyad in Time Page 10
