“This is crazy!” Aurianne had exclaimed. “Can’t you see Isabou has gone almost five days without water! Look at her Mr Brannon! Look at her! She can’t possibly go much longer!”
Jhary sighed at the angry outburst. “Please Aurianne, try and understand the water on the ground and the plant life is now very poisonous. You just can’t let your horse eat it, she will sicken and die.”
“Well we can’t just stand here either, what do you propose we do then?”
The bard had not expected this and struggled in the face of heated Aurianne's tirade. He had never been good in the face of aggression. Let alone from a woman he was beginning to have a very strong affection for.
“Please, just one more day Aurianne?” Having said this he gathered up the remaining canteen and held it out to the angry redhead.
“There is a large river here not too distant, on the strength of that information let your horse drink the water that remains. Then we will fashion a muzzle for her so she does not eat any of the contaminated foliage, tomorrow we shall take her straight to the river. That I promise. At least the dampness by then will have dried, and we will make our way to the Bridge. Please, Aurianne listen to me.”
Such appealing and disarming brown eyes Aurianne thought, as she clutched the last almost full canteen in her arms.
“All right.” She sighed and made to fashion a leather trough out of the body of her coat that Isabou may drink.
Kario sat idly on the pump housing piping loathe to contribute to the argument that had raged most of the day. He was most tired of it honestly. He had found Jhary's vehement caution most strange. He personally felt there was nothing to fear, but had given up trying to explain this to his companions. He was weary of being told the exposure had possibly already made him sick. Kario felt absolutely fine.
*****
The next morning found Kario up and staring at the dawning sky, perhaps he had never slept, accommodations were hardly conducive to any sort of restfulness. He had frequently walked outside much to Jhary’s insistence he not do so. The dark man chose to ignore him.
“Would you look at that!” Kario exclaimed.
Both Jhary and Aurianne peered through the door of the shelter. Big Isabou keenly nudged her mistress in the hope of pushing further and gaining long-awaited access to the outdoors. The sky was the vaguest hint of rosy pink.
“Oh!” Aurianne exclaimed in wonder.
“The upper atmosphere is cleansing itself.” Jhary indicated.
Aurianne didn't know about that, but she was overjoyed to see some difference in the sky once again. Even more delighted as the party prepared to depart to sight the hints of soft blues behind the clouds as the sun rose. There were even some shafts of stray sunlight. On seeing this Aurianne felt great joy. She had fashioned a crude muzzle for her horse and was warned on no account to let the mare try to eat. She tacked up her beloved mare and added a short eating reign to help prevent Isabou from the temptation of grazing.
I guess we are ready.” Jhary announced, as much as he felt he was not. He led the way from the iron shelter to what he hoped was the vast river valley and floodplain he remembered snaking below.
Isabou fought heartily with Aurianne, and she found she had to ride to at least get some control of her hungry and thirsty mount. This would be a long trip she thought silently as she struggled to control the two thousand pound mare, who desperately tried to grasp every mouthful of plant life she passed by heedless of the muzzle.
They had only gone a short way when the trio came on a sobering sight, Jhary's mare lying on her back already bloated in death. Hooves pointed skyward. It appeared as though she had not died a dignified death either. Beauty ran about the carcass sniffing wildly, as Jhary paused to retrieve his saddlebags.
“Now this is what I’m talking about.” Jhary finally had some visible benchmark to illustrate the point he had so struggled to communicate earlier. “Killed by radiation from the sky.”
He struggled to pull the leather bags out from under the mare’s dead weight, the saddle was irretrievable. Aurianne kept turning and staring back at the mare even long after she had ridden away. Making far more effort to ensure her horse didn't touch anything at all. It seemed Jhary had not been telling stories.
They had walked all morning, the sun breaking the clouds on occasion to cast the world in light. Its presence was uplifting. At midday, they sighted the river.
“We will head there, the water I hope should be somewhat safe. We have little choice but to drink it.” Jhary stated and led the way, saddlebags slung over his shoulder, guitar in its battered case dangling in hand.
*****
They let Isabou drink, she stood quietly, muzzle hovering over the waters slurping at intervals eyes half closed. Aurianne too was thirsty, but now she was doubtful to so mindlessly imbibe. Jhary had said the waters were possibly less contaminated. Perhaps she would try and wait until they got to this town? She noted that Jhary did the same, though Kario seemed to find no issue with drinking his fill.
“The Bridge will be further to the southwest, I hope not too far.” Perhaps there we can get your horse safe hay and decent rations for ourselves?”
Aurianne nodded to Jhary and took up her mount's reins. Isabou seemed to be content now she had sated her thirst, and allowed herself to be led far more easily. Aurianne was glad of it, this morning had been a struggle.
*****
They had eaten the last of the flatbread weeks ago, but Dwayne thought about it incessantly for the duration of the homeward journey. Unlike the older men in his clan, he had been no more than twelve when the bombings had disintegrated polite society. He was struggling to remember his schooling and the foods he ate as a child. He spent more time longing for what he had and knew presently than fretting over the absence of anything that had gone before.
He often listened in puzzlement to the elder members of his clan speak about so many things he had little to no recollection of. Things like porn, beer, and ice cream. Those things seemed strange and trivial to him, phantasms almost. He sensed Jormugar felt the same, they belonged firmly in the present, even with its adversities.
Jormugar had felt better in subsequent days, however, he puzzled over his strange and sudden sickness. At times he still felt uncharacteristic weakness and headaches. Though being a creature of the wild he had an endurance most could not match, and he kept pace with his captors giving no sign he was weakened.
His weapons were not returned to him, though he had expected that. At least he was no longer bound. He didn't ask what the strange metallic cylinders were for, or contained. Working for the likes of men like Master Jacques had taught the young man to be very judicious with what he said. He simply did as he was asked, got paid, and pondered it no more.
Gareth was content. He had secured the prize of a new future, and his latest deed would cement his position as the second most powerful man in the clan. Though the return journey would be slow and lengthy, he felt unusually satisfied. He cast his eyes back to the four horses, they looked tired but not alarmingly so. Tired horses were often obedient horses, the last thing he needed now was one flighty animal to undo all they had gained.
He again pondered the handsome, brown-haired man who strode behind. Gareth sensed no malice there. Though he was very unsure if the man had completely confessed the entire truth during the rough interrogation. This Jormugar seemed very independent and calm, he looked strong and capable and if he could be trusted, a worthy addition to the tribe’s warrior rank.
Gareth had spent some time the night before perusing the young man’s possessions that were stowed in his saddlebags. This self-confessed bounty hunter was certainly not an individual of scant means. He possessed gold and plenty of it. Unlike others, he displayed none of this wealth on his person. Choosing wisely to keep his abundant riches out of plain sight.
Gareth had returned all of the man’s belongings to the saddlebags, handing back to Jormugar his rabbit cape, and bedroll. The young man had received the items gratefully, for the nights were still very cold. Though desirable Jormugar's wealth was not Gareth’s to distribute, but that of his leader Wezley Bennett. The wealth did mesh with the story of hunting scalps, Gareth knew very well that there was good coin to be made with that unsavory and dangerous work. Though instinctively Gareth still felt the young man had not revealed everything.
*****
Dahlia had not been herself since the fall of the black rain. Though nothing here had appeared to outwardly change. Except perhaps her little ones were forbidden to go outside into the manicured gardens, where despite the cold they had so loved to play.
With this change in the woman's attitude, Aran began to realize his freedom by winning the maiden's heart was possibly an illusion. He was seen not as Thorne was, an equal, a paramour, he still held no more status than a slave. He contained no thoughts or motivations that mattered to Dahlia. She never inquired of his past life, feelings, or preferences. He was simply an empty vessel to be used and put away.
Privately Aran had begun to despair, he feared being a slave deeply and had taken to looking at the brand in his thigh with a new revulsion. He vowed silently when he was freed he would cut it out even if it killed him.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
*****
Aran had woken to the gaze of a child. Koemi, or ‘little laugh’; her inquisitive eyes taking him in with all innocence. She had dropped her doll, and it lay invitingly close. As he took the toy into his grasp he could see it was fashioned expertly from rags and hand-sewn in the manner of antique toys of yesteryear. The expert work clearly that of Koemi’s talented mother.
He held the toy in his large hand as Koemi looked on, to his amazement from her round face framed in silky black hair a pair of bright blue eyes peered forth. She had the best of both world’s beauty and would grow to be a striking woman for sure. However, that was not the real tact of Aran’s thoughts that day. He listened and scanned the room swiftly, he could not afford a mistake. Koemi’s elder sister Kokoa sat reading her lessons as her mother had instructed. Seemingly unaware her younger sibling had wandered into Aran’s vicinity to play.
He smiled at the child who seemed uncertain, he was a forbidding and unusual stranger after all. Though Aran was sure the little girl was quite used to the rough and fierce men who formed the Finks that her mother seemed to command. Carefully he smiled again, trying his best to be reassuring as he proffered the toy. Koemi in her innocence edged closer. Aran’s green eyes furtively sought out her elder sibling to sense he had not been detected. He offered the doll again hoping the little girl would edge a fraction further. Obligingly she did.
Aran’s strong hands closed on the tiny body swiftly. The girl cried out in terror and surprise struggling in his sure grasp. The bars of his prison were sturdy but placed wide, Aran with his muscled bulk could not escape, but the tiny frame of Koemi he pulled easily inside.
Kokoa looked up, crying out loud as she registered her little sister in Aran's clutches. At three years of age, the little girl was too small to fight, and quite helpless in Aran's arms. Kokoa screamed shrilly for her mother, and Dahlia came running into sight as fast as her flowing traditional mode of dress and wooden sandaled feet would allow. She looked across at Aran in a blank-faced stare, unreadable as always.
“Release me Dahlia.” Aran demanded. Suggestively placing his great fist about the child's neck, so that her mother might see better the merit of his request. He had no issue breaking a grown man’s neck, or strangling a struggling woman, Koemi would perish easily.
Dahlia stood in silence, she said not a word though Aran could read the language of her nervously twisting fingers.
“Free me Dahlia, you have had your game. Free me and I will return your daughter unharmed, and go on my way. I ask no more than that.” It seemed to Aran’s direct way of thinking, a pretty good deal.
Dahlia pressed her remaining daughter behind her and proceeded to cross the chamber, toward her unruly property.
“Release my daughter, slave.” She whispered. “Do so and I will forget this happened. Harm her and you will know the most hurtful slavery that you shall never escape.”
Aran looked at her coolly. He was not used to being threatened, and never by a female. Koemi had ceased to struggle and lay gently at Aran’s great breast, pretty blue eyes staring upward. She was too tiny to completely register her peril or the tension between the two adults, as her life hung in the balance.
“This is your last chance slave.” Dahlia stated.
Her voice did not waver but her body language did. Aran was good at reading human posture, he relied on it extensively in his art of war. She was afraid, but crazily enough the woman was prepared to lose her pup to get him to stand down. He had not anticipated this at all.
Suddenly things were not so clear. If he slaughtered the child he remained a prisoner. Though perhaps he would earn a clean death. However, had not Dahlia just said dying would be too good for him? Aran was beginning to wish he had not snatched the child. However, he could not find it in himself to rescind Koemi to her mother.
He did not believe Dahlia’s assurances for one moment, that she would meekly forget this. Suddenly he did not know what to do. Perhaps he thought Dahlia did not believe he had the stomach to butcher an innocent? Aran smiled whimsically, as he knew quite otherwise. War, is not the kindest mentor.
Dahlia caught the warrior’s unsettling expression. She said no more, instead gathering up her kimono along with her remaining child and leaving the room as swiftly as she had entered.
Aran decided to stand. Koemi gazed up at him, Aran found himself wishing she was older, he was most curious at what her beauty would be. Arresting likely. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. He supposed he was afraid, yet he told himself it was just his body being ready. This was not like battle, even faced with uneven odds he had not felt this way. He was caged, and that was not likely to change, he could kill the child but what then? It dawned on him he had quite possibly made a huge mistake based on a head full of stereotypes of what a woman should be.
They were not long in returning. Dahlia the delicate flower with the ice-hard mind, surrounded by a knot of capable and rough men. “Attitude Violence.” The club motto announced embroidered in faded golden embossing on black leather hides and laced waistcoats, the King’s Jester in accompaniment.
The party advanced on Aran as he stood eyeing the impassive and bearded faces of every man there. Mostly his sights came to rest on Dahlia, she had nothing in her hands, unlike the ragged bunch of men who comprised her court. Metal bars and lengths of bright chain promised pain.
Aran stood his ground, hand placed strategically about the child’s throat. Koemi had once more begun to cry, more stridently this time. He would not surrender the child the warrior had decided. He would goad Dahlia’s force to kill him. They would presumably have pistols stowed discreetly in their clothing, and be forced to shoot him cleanly if they thought Koemi’s life was in peril. If he could not be free he had decided, then death was what he sought.
He positioned the child so the men would have a clear shot at his heart, and waited for the bullet. Dahlia did not demand anything more this time. She stood quietly, her black eyes boring into Aran’s own green-eyed gaze as though communicating her wishes with no more than her mind. She seemed to Aran’s mind, very disappointed.
Dahlia was not communicating anything, however. She was merely looking one last time at a possession that she was not destined to keep. She recalled a well-recited Buddhist saying that was often a source of comfort to her.
‘In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.’
Dahlia knew Aran was one of these things, and that she must let him go. She prayed Koemi would be safe, and that it was her destiny to raise two daughters to womanhood. She turned away then, for Dahlia was not the kind to look back, and departed from the room.
Aran watched her scarlet form depart. The woman's resoluteness and pride would have matched that of the greatest general. The warrior felt great respect, and that awe for the moment had caused him to lower his guard.
On the periphery he registered a man move, he made to turn, and there was something red in his hand, a canister... White smog exploded forcefully in his face, though the man was some feet away. Aran was disorientated, it was hard to breathe, and he labored to do so. Keys grating in a lock, he tried to orientate himself, where was the girl? Did he still have hold of her? He had fallen, he could not make top from bottom but could taste the distinct flavor of metal in his mouth.
He shook his head to be rid of the confusion but it didn't help much, and that’s when he felt the first of the hands on him. The sound of the screaming child was by now no place in his immediate vicinity. He had lost. He was going to pay Dahlia’s price.
The first hard blow jarred him across the back, and he tried to rise only to be struck again. The iron bar was heavy and inflicted large damage. It would have broken the bones of a lesser man. There was a succession of steel-capped boots jabbing him in the ribs, sparing no quarter.
Disorientated he tried to fight, a length of chain wrapped itself around his wrist, he felt lightning pain as the sturdy links collided with his knuckles and arm, but he still had the presence of mind to try and pull on the length of chain to down the wielder. It was no use, there were too many men, and he had fought from the outset greatly disadvantaged.
Someone kicked him in the mouth, and he pulled back his face from the attack with a swift reflex. The sharp blow cut the length of his lower lip badly on his teeth, he spat blood, his tongue was cut also, and bled even more profusely. He growled in anger, there was no need to spare himself and again tried to rise. Men were shouting overhead. Aran through the haze of fury and pain could not distinguish the words. He had become a beast, devolved into a strong animal only fighting for its existence.
The brutal struggle ensued for some time. Blood traced the floor, as though someone had sloughed it in great swipes with a careless mop. Breathing in ragged gasps the blond warrior struggled, someone had placed a stout length of rope about his neck and was tightening it in the style of a garrote.
Kill me! His mind screamed. Aran could think of little else. To gain his wish Aran attacked mindlessly, any limb, face, or vulnerable body part that came within reach was fair game. However even the strongest man cannot fight without air, and as the rope tightened to an unbearable restriction, Aran almost unconscious slumped to the floor. He was then bound.
Above him, the men spoke almost casually in between panting with exertion, and inspecting their wounds. Someone had his boot on Aran’s back as though he were a prize hunt being displayed.
“Fuck! He can fight, never seen the like. That fire extinguisher should have made that easy.”
“What did you expect he was a pit fighter.”
“Dahlia was crazy to have bought him.”
“Yeah Blade, but sometimes you got to let the lady just find out for herself...” Their voices trailed off as the familiar sound of wooden sandals entered.
It hurt Dahlia to gaze at her property. She did not enjoy seeing perfection despoiled. Indeed she had sought to avoid such visions by creating this sanctuary in the first place. A place where she and her daughters may live a full and meaningful life. Thorne’s last gift to them all. She missed him, his absence tore her heart. Dahlia realized at that moment it had been folly to even try and replace him. She would not be so foolish again. She would close her heart and her passions, and give her husband the respect he was due. Her bold experiment with men was over. At least, though shaken, Koemi was safe, destiny despite Dahlia’s error had been kind.
Aran breathed slowly and tasted his own blood. The vision of her white-toe socks and sandals swam before him. She has such tiny feet he observed, and yet nothing was tiny about this woman.
“Take this man somewhere useful.” Dahlia said. “I do not want to see him ever again.”
Aran made a supreme effort to look up. He felt the downward pressure of the boot increase on his back. “Dahlia?” Aran entreated hoarsely. “How can I know you when you cannot see me?”
“I see you,” she said. “You just wanted my confidence so you could cheat me and leave. A liar who has no true heart. Take him,” and with a rustle of silk, she was gone.
*****
Aran was shaking in soreness and the aftermath of the brawl, and medical attention was not granted. Though he was hardly surprised at this. Dahlia wanted him to suffer and she would enforce it. He was taken to an underground basement and chained by his neck to a steam boiler unit. He was advised gruffly he must keep it fueled, and that failure to do so would result in more beatings.
It was dark here, the only light that leaked out to stripe the floor in orange lines was that of the molten firebox, which sat on squat legs before him. Provided was a dirty blanket on the floor covered in ash dust, it smelled sour from the body odor of the previous occupant, and a metal bucket that stood a short distance beyond emanating a foul stench. Both these ‘conveniences’ were reachable by the length of the chain he was afforded.
The boiler ate the wood eagerly and Aran found he had to tend it often, the positive aspect was that at least he was not cold. He passed mindless, timeless days here, his only distraction was the procession of gaunt men who brought him barrows of wood, all slaves such as he was, and the occasional poor-quality meal he was served.
Aran didn't want to be beaten again, so he complied. This was mindless work, but relatively easy. Slowly his bruises and lacerations healed, but his meager rations both demoralized and disturbed him. He was ever hungry, and he realized over time he was rapidly losing condition and vigor.
He was a big man and needed a considerable intake of good food to remain in reasonable shape. With Dahlia as his mistress, he had dined very well. Aran tried to convince himself initially, that it was just he had grown soft, used to good food and variety, and that he would get used to this in time.