Warnings for this chapter: MATURE (Under 15, please move), Dark themes, Violence and sexual content.
Also to note, all of my chapters are subject to revisions at any time.
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Winds Of Change Volume 1: The Oncoming Storm
Chapter 3: Unforgivable
“There are those in this world who lack privilege, power, and wealth. Blame not the gods who watch over us, blame the past self that sinned enough to cause your ill-fortune.”-Annals of the Divinity.
“There are things out there far worse than demons,”-Unforseen Dangers of Adventuring.
They wouldn’t have time to skin the rats before the storm, so he put them on one of the rocks to the side of the house. They’d get wet, but there was nothing else he could do. Carver wouldn’t allow them in the house. They’d stink up the place fast.
When Spark went home, he heard Carver around the back of the house. He was bending over something small and dark and making quick furtive movements. Spark walked up to him, tugging on Carver’s arm when he went unnoticed. Carver jerked, spinning around rapidly to face him. He must have spun too fast, because he fell with a curse. A knife fell at his feet, and his right hand clutched his gimp leg while his left held something tight to his chest.
Spark blinked in shock, “Carver?” Something was wrong; Carver was acting strange, tense.
“Boy? Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Carver’s relief turned quickly to anger. His face was still stiff and tense. “And help me up, this is your fault.” Carver quickly stashed the whatever-it-was inside his shirt.
Spark moved forward and knelt down next to him. Then he pulled Carver’s arm around his shoulder. Carver used his shoulder to lever himself to a sitting position, then slowly maneuvered himself up with a wince. His face still looked tense and drawn.
Spark thought, at first, it was because of the coming storm. They had to cover the ‘chimney’ before the rain began, which meant they also had to put out the fire. That meant a cold night for them, more than enough to make someone unhappy. Unpleasant as it was, it was something that had to be done. If not, the smoke would build up and they would choke, and that’s if something didn’t catch fire.
“I’ll cover the roof, you can go inside,” Spark said. But when he started to move to cover the hole in the roof, Carver waved him off.
“Don’t bother. When I was putting out the fire, I dropped something in it. Go get it out. It’s more important. And my leg’s acting up again.” He glared as Spark as though it was his fault, even though it had obviously been hurting before if it was this sensitive.
So the tension is because Carver was in pain. Hopefully that meant no practice tonight. Just because they wouldn’t have light, didn’t mean they wouldn’t do verbal practice.
He went into the house, noticing how the only light came from the hole in the roof and the still open door. The moonlight wasn’t strong, so most of the room was in shadows. Only the center of the room had enough light to see by. Instead of going to the fire pit first, he checked the hiding place. There was nothing in there; Carver must have already taken it out. Maybe that was what Carver had been working on. Spark sighed, his curiosity left unsatisfied, before going to the fire pit and glancing in. Wonderful. Carver had put out the fire with river muck. Well, it was better than wasting drinking water on it, but it would be unpleasant to search through.
He knelt down next to the open hole and put out his arm, giving himself a shock. His arm was translucent in the moonlight. He shivered for a moment, he’d forgotten about the [Conceal] ring. He wondered for a moment how Carver had seen him before remembering that the ring didn’t work on people you were in contact with. He almost laughed, no wonder Carver had been shocked. Obviously it had done nothing for his already-bad mood. He gave a momentary thought to waiting in the shadows to scare Carver later, but threw it aside; he’d definitely be beaten for that.
He reached into the sludge, grimacing in disgust at the feeling of muck sliding between his fingers. He searched around a bit, discarding twigs and rocks to the side of the pit as he went. His fingers brushed up against something solid and slimy. Thinking this was what he was searching for, he grasped it.
It moved.
Spark sprung back with agility that surprised even himself, fear a potent motivator. It was far too late. The river snake had already sprung towards him. He saw a gaping mouth lunging at his face and turned his head away, before fangs pierced the side of his neck. Inertia carried him back against the far wall. His head hit the stone with a crack that left him seeing stars. He collapsed into the corner, his heart still racing and his head spinning.
His body was already stiffening from the venom. He couldn’t cry out. He was dizzy and disoriented, so he doubted he could speak even without the venom paralyzing him. It only took a few seconds after his collapse for him to be unable to even twitch. He’d never felt more vulnerable, more helpless. Not even the time he’d been in the caves and the Rune on his staff had run out of mana. Venom from a river snake could put a full-grown man down for hours. Spark was much smaller, so he’d probably be unable to move for half a day or more. He’d have to wait for Carver to find him.
The snake squirmed against him, detaching itself from his neck. Spark would have shivered at the sensation if he had had any control over his body. How had it even gotten there? River snakes were called RIVER snakes for a reason. They didn’t leave the river banks. Carver must’ve scooped it up when retrieving the muck. Spark was trying to escape reality again, the snake had slithered under his clothes and curled up against him, apparently deciding it liked his body warmth. His heart pounded painfully at the sensation.
He heard a thump from the back followed by a rough swear. Carver must’ve dropped something again. He heard the tell-tale thumping of Carver’s walking stick against the ground as he came around the side of the house.
Carver came in through the door hurriedly, setting her cane against the wall and putting the board in place. She moved to their hiding place, shoving in the whatever-it-was that she’d stuffed in her shirt. Then, she looked around for a moment, before setting herself beside the blocked off door. What is she doing?
It was only moments later that he heard it, the heavy footsteps of booted feet. A chill of dread swept through him. Nobody from the outskirts wears boots. It only took moments before someone was banging on the door. Carver set herself to the side of the door, a knife in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Spark didn’t know what was going on. Why were they under attack? What happened? His still-pounding head made it even worse.
It only took moments for them-for there were three of them-to bust down the door. At the moment the wood splintered, Carver lunged forward, attempting to plant her knife in one of their bellies. Only, her leg made her lunge weak, she only managed to stab into the man’s side, rather than gut him. He swore, jerking away and attempting to grab her wrist, at which point she jammed her walking stick into his wounded side. He collapsed, but before she could bring the knife or stick to bear on his head, the other two men had pressed forward. Surprise had made them slow at first, but now they were prepared for a fight.
One of them used a club to knock the knife from her hands; it clattered across the floor toward the pit. Carver reared back from them, grabbing the staff Spark had discarded and brandishing it. They separated, moving to each side of Carver. It was clear they had done this before.
She was obviously favoring one leg, and the other two took advantage. The one on her good side lunged at her. She swept the staff up and crashed it into the man’s arm. Or tried to, he deflected it with his own club. The other man took that chance to charge her, tackling her low. She cried out as they fell, and brought her club to bear on the man over her, jabbing it into his shoulder. He jerked with a curse as the shock swept through him, but something that can stun a rat doesn’t do much damage to a man. He shook it off and rammed his elbow into her crippled leg.
Carver screamed and spasmed, agony filling her. Her body curled in on itself. The man still standing stomped on her hands to force her to release the staff and walking stick. The other one pushed her onto her belly. He pulled her arms behind her and dug his knee into her lower back.
Spark could only watch as all of this happened. Why? Dammit. Why can’t I move? Why now? He wasn’t so naïve as to think he could take down the men alone, but Carver had taken out one on her own. If they were working together, with him [Concealed], they should be able to take on all three.
“Search him and make sure he doesn’t have any tricks.” Spark recognized those voices, the broker’s thugs. “Damn cripple. Making us go through so much trouble.” The man, Ronald, walked back to his fallen comrade. From his behavior, he expected his orders to be followed. The other man was a subordinate then, or at least lower ranking than him.
Carver struggled and squirmed, trying to get free, until the man holding her grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the ground a few times. “Hold still, bastard.”
“Damn, he killed Trip.” Ronald swore. The other man grunted, maneuvering the silent Carver around to better search him.
“So what? That just means more for us.”
Ronald grunted, “What are we going to do with the body?”
“Leave it here, too much trouble.”
“Can’t do that, boss’ll get mad. We’re supposed to leave an example, what message does this send? Three vs. one and one of us died? Against a cripple? We won’t get paid at all for sending a message like that.” Ronald pointed out.
“We’ll just throw him in the river after, or the caves. Gods know the rats’ll take care of him.” Those spoke so casually about getting rid of their friend’s corpse, as though it was no different than talking about what to eat for dinner.
Ronald made a sound that might have been an agreement, and apparently the matter was settled. “Well, nothing?”
The second man had started at the tunic and was working his way down. “So far. What were you expecting? Him to have it on-what the hell??” Ronald jerked around at the shout.
“What? Find something?”
“No, nothing.”
“Don’t shout like that then, bastard.”
“I mean there’s nothing between the legs.” Spark stiffened, or tried to, attempting to move and failing. He didn’t know exactly what they were after, but nothing good would come of this. An observation like that would only make things worse.
“What?” Ronald was dumfounded.
“Who knew? The Cripple’s a girl.” He sounded surprised.
“That’s a shitty joke,” Ronald laughed.
“I’m not joking, come check for yourself.”
Ronald did just that, kneeling next to the two figures and putting his hand between Carver’s legs. Carver was starting to regain awareness at this point, she pulled her legs together feebly. Ronald suddenly started laughing. “Well, what do ya know. He’s really a woman. This makes things more interesting.”
“Well, we’ve gotta make her pay for killing Trip.” The other man said after a moment’s consideration.
“She’s supposed to be made an example, anyway.” The two of them were grinning, teeth glittering sharply in the darkness. The one was still holding down Carver’s arms. An example? Had they been planning to kill her from the start?
“Might as well have fun while we do it.” Carver had regained some more strength and the second man had to work notably harder to hold her down. He moved behind her, pinning her hands above her head. No. He knew what that meant, just like he knew what prostitutes sold in dark alleys.
Ronald straddled her and trapped her legs beneath him. He grabbed the top of her breeches and pulled them down. He whistled, “Damn, that’s one nasty wound,” the old injury to Carver’s thigh was swollen, red, and puckered. Noticeable only because there was still moonlight coming from the hole in the ceiling. “Well, still not as bad as your face, but nobody’s gonna notice in the dark.” He reached up to grab her chin; she jerked her head down and bit him hard enough to draw blood. Stop it.
“Hell, you bitch. And here I was being nice.” He backhanded her so hard that something cracked. She let out a muffled moan. Stop stop stop. Spark struggled against the venom, but it was hopeless.
“That’s a nice sound, now just hold still.” He grabbed her shirt and ripped it open, displaying the wrap around her chest. “Ah, that’s a relief. Here I thought you were flat as a board.” He pulled it down, not bothering to rip through the thin material. She didn’t have much; it was a common trait with elves. They only developed breasts after they’ve given birth. There was only the barest hint of softness. Spark knew; he’d felt them against his back enough times. Held against her on cold nights, the only time he felt safe.
Ronald squeezed them, “There’s not enough to play with,” he seemed almost disappointed. “Oh well, let’s just get on to the main event then.” He stripped off her underclothes, baring her completely before him. No.
Next he pulled down his breeches enough to take out his member. He used one hand to stroke it and the other to dip between Carver’s legs. No no no. Stop. But he didn’t stop. He released himself long enough to pull her legs apart and get between them, and then guided himself forward. He thrust in, and Carver made one last broken sound. That was when the tears started. Spark closed his eyes. The only movement he could make. His head was spinning, his stomach roiled. He didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to hear it, just wanted it to stop.
“Ah, with your looks I thought for sure you’d be a virgin, but I suppose even you were pretty enough back before you pox.” He said it cruelly, deliberately. He wanted to hurt her more. After that, he didn’t speak again, either too absorbed in getting his pleasure, or maybe he did speak, but Spark was too far gone to hear him. But that didn’t mean it was silent.
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For what seemed like an eternity, the room was filled with wet sounds, harsh grunts, and pained moaning. There was the occasionally egging of the second man for him to hurry up. There was the slapping of skin against skin and the thumps from Carver’s hands and head hitting against the floor. There was also thudding from fists hitting flesh and, at one point, a snapping sound.
He couldn’t even turn away. He couldn’t cover his ears, he couldn’t even sob. All he could do was keep his eyes shut tightly and wait.
Finally, the man finished with a grunt, pulling out with a wet squelch. A musky scent was filling the room, Spark couldn’t breathe, wanted to gag. It was too much. White dots started to appear on his eyelids, he hoped that meant he was going to pass out.
“My turn now. Switch me.” There was a sound that might have been Ronald pulling up his pants, and sounds of movement as they switched places. Not again. Please God not again. It was one of the first times Spark had ever prayed. But Spark didn’t have a god, he’d been born an unblessed mixed-blood, and nothing came of his desperate pleas.
“I don’t think she needs held down anymore,” Ronald said with a laugh. “I must’ve been too good for her.”
“Next time, I get to go first. It’s not as fun when they’re all broken like that.” The man he didn’t know the name of complained. As though someone had scuffed his boots instead of THAT.
There was more rustling followed by more wet sounds, but Carver was ominously quiet.
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After they had both finished, they left her there. They left her filthy and naked. She was too still, too silent, obviously dead. Then, they searched the bedding like they’d searched her body. They were looking for something, but Spark couldn’t bring himself to care what. Once, one of them came close to stepping on him.
They said something about searching other places she had been, and then they left. Spark was beyond thinking about it. He couldn’t think about what kind of thing Carver had gotten involved in, or why they would have her killed. It didn’t matter to him. Knowing wouldn’t bring Carver back. What he did know is who killed her. He knew their voices; he recognized them. He knew where to find them. It didn’t matter to him what bad things Carver may have done, what mattered was that she was dead and those two killed her.
There wouldn’t be any more practices. Dead. No more being cuffed for coming home late. Dead. No more curling up against each other in cold, dirty rags. Dead. She wouldn’t scowl at him anymore. Dead. Wouldn’t order him around. Dead, broken, gone... If he left, she wouldn’t be waiting for him when he got back. No more stories. No more sharing the little they had. Both of them hungry, pretending they’re not.
Spark felt something cold welling up in him. If this was how the world was… he didn’t want to be a part of it. This was too cruel. Too malicious. He had wanted to do something, but he’d been robbed of his ability to act. His strength had been stolen from him just before he needed it most. The snake was still coiled against him, making things seem more surreal. If not for it, he could have helped. He could have saved her. He knew, at that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill them. How could someone do that to his mo-not-mother? She’s not my mother. He imagined that she would have hit him for thinking like that. For thinking that she needed anyone to save her, for thinking that he had a right to her.
The cold spread, making him feel numb from the inside. He distanced himself from it all, the cold ground beneath him, the slimy coil on his chest, the musky scent in the air, and the scent of death slowly overwhelming it. The pattering of rain on the roof and into the room seemed a cruel reminder that the world doesn’t stop for just one person. There was a sudden flash, and the room lit up. Carver was staring at him, her eyes open and glassy, her jaw askew. Blood dripped slowly from her slightly open mouth. The tears and rain had rinsed away some of the pox on her face, leaving a striking difference of smooth pale skin.
It was an image Spark knew would always haunt him. The crash of thunder came shortly after the lightning. Nature was raging just outside these walls. There was cold coming from outside as well as inside now.
While he lay there helpless, he had a lot of time to replay the scene that had just happened. Plenty of time to mourn, to regret, to despair, and to hate. He also had a lot of time to think about what he would do next.
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He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, he heard curses. It was still dark out, so it was either late at night or several hours before dawn. The rain had stopped. Spark tried to figure out why he was on the floor. He tried to move, but only managed a slight twitch. It hadn’t been long enough for the paralysis to wear off. There were two figures in the door, but their outlines were blurry for some reason.
“By the gods,” one of them said softly. Oh, right. Memories of last night crashed on him.
Spark looked where the man was staring, at Carv-the corpse. The eyes were still wide and staring emptily at him, only now there were bugs crawling on them. The stench had permeated the room, which must be why Spark’s eyes were watering.
“Damn, where is he?” Another voice shouted. Spark recognized this voice too. He was tired of that. Voices from faces he couldn’t see. They were looking for him, obviously. Good thing he was still invisible.
“Looks like someone got here first, Cy.”
“Tch-He won’t be around here if he came back to that. Search the area; ask anyone if they’ve seen him.” It was Cy and one of his cronies, Spark felt like the other man’s name started with a B. It was an idle distracted thought. There was something wrong with him, he knew.
“Got it.”
“Dammit, I’ve already paid for him.” Cyclops and his second left. Spark’s world stopped. What? His thoughts spiraled dizzyingly. Cy…had paid for… Carver sold me? He felt ill suddenly. It was too much to process after everything.
This time, he really did pass out.
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The next time he woke up, he was able to move. He was stiff and sore, but he managed to get up. He carefully removed the river snake from him. They become catatonic after being out of water for too long, so it wasn’t too difficult. He immediately relieved his bladder. The pain had kept him from remembering. The open air was oddly sickening after being trapped with the scent of death. He breathed it in before going back to what was left of their doorway. There was a dark smear of reddish black right across the threshold. A souvenir from Trip. The blood had soaked into the ground, and there was a trail as though the two had dragged him out by his feet. He numbly walked forward, blanking out momentarily.
He, somehow, was back in front of the body. There were more injuries than he’d noticed the first time. It was daylight now, more than bright enough for him to see what he’d missed the night before. The broken jaw, split lip, bruises on her hips, thighs, and wrists. She had struggled a lot before she died. One of her arms was twisted strangely and there were dark bruises around her neck. He also noticed, with a strange detachment, that the rain hadn’t been able to wash away all the fluids, hadn’t been able to cleanse her. He grabbed some rags from the bedding and covered her carefully. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her directly, so he left her eyes open under the cloth. Then he remembered the rest of the night.
I was sold. Carver sold me. He stood in front of the corpse of someone he would have called mother. He realized, with a cold sort of distance, that he wasn’t as surprised as he thought he would be. Carver sold me. He had always considered it, his worth. Carver sold me. Carver… was not his mother. There was no reason for her to have cared for him this long. My own mother didn’t want me, why would she? She was only being kind, soft, traits he knew she hated. Carver sold me. It was to be expected, that he’d be abandoned after he’d proved his usefulness ended. Carver sold me. He would have done the same thing, had been planning the same thing. He was going to leave this place some day, leave Carver behind. She sold me.
He had never been a good son anyway. Awful enough for her to sell me? He was stubborn, willful, and sometimes disobedient. A brat, a burden. One Carver carried for 8 years. He probably didn’t deserve the care she’d given him for so long. Sold sold sold, like livestock, like merchandise, like a whore. He vomited. The bitter taste of bile and salt filled his mouth. She sold me. He tried to shake those thoughts out of his head. Tried to remember the important parts.
Cy had come to visit yesterday. He was leaving when Spark got back. Making an offer? Maybe he told her about earlier, the rune, the assassination. Was she disgusted by him? Cy might have threatened her. Or just offered her enough. Carver had sent him out right after that. Keeping me busy? He never found any mushrooms. There weren’t any. She might have been tiring him out. It would have been easy. He could see it; all she had to do was go to the river while he was gone. A short distance, even for someone crippled. She’d take the pot with her and scoop up the serpent with enough muck to hide it. She sold him. She put it in the fire pit and waited. Planned out, to get as much as possible from him first.
Once he got back, she just had to tell him to get something from the pit. He’d reach in. The river snake would react to being touched, to any movement really, it was only coincidence that he’d still had the ring on. She could have taken it, been wearing it. She wouldn’t be dead now if she had it. That wouldn’t have-He vomited again. Then all Carver had to do was hand him over. Helpless, vulnerable, the best condition for a new slave to be in. Cy was probably still looking for him. He already paid, after all. I can’t stay here.
His body was so difficult to move. He felt slow, sluggish, exhausted. He wasn’t going to leave empty handed though. Those two had left Carver’s knife, no doubt difficult to find in the dark for pure-bred humans, or it was too poor quality for them to bother. Probably the latter, it was a carving knife after all, the blade wasn’t very big. Big enough to kill though. He scooped it up; he’d have to find a sheath for it later. Then he went to the hiding place, and pulled back the rotted wood. It was strange to think he had been so curious yesterday and today he didn’t feel anything at all.
He reached in and pulled out what was inside. First was a bundle wrapped in cloth. He opened it. A boot, two tunics, and a pair of breeches were inside. One boot, the other was still in the rotted opening, he noticed. He dug that one out too. Now he had a pair of boots and new clothes. They were all of good quality, not something seen a lot in the outskirts. He put on the clothes experimentally. The tunic and breeches were nice and thick, too big for him, but that was nothing new. Next were the boots. They were several sizes too big, so he stuffed them with extra rags. He would stand out too much wearing something like this in the outskirts, so he put on his old dirty clothes on top of them.
The clothes were probably worth several silvers, more than he could make in weeks. The boots on their own would cost at least 10 silvers, or 200 coppers. None of them were good enough for those thugs to kill over though. Then he noticed what was in another fold of the cloth, coins. There were the coppers they’d saved up, but those weren’t of interest to him. At the bottom were 25 silvers. He recognized the cuts in the corner of the sigil. That was Cy’s way of marking his money. He knew his worth now, 25 silvers. It was more than he had expected. Maybe even enough to get an escort to the next town over, if you found someone cheap enough and sympathetic enough. Or if you found a merchant going that way you could pay to accompany them.
He held the bundle to his face for a long moment. Boots, clothes, and money for traveling. This was supposed to be her escape. This was evidence that she’d planned to leave in advance. He should’ve been angry at Carver. He should have blamed her, hated her, despised her. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even after everything, he couldn’t do it. Because even though selling him was unforgivable, what those bastards had done to her was even more unforgivable.
And, though he didn’t realize it, there was a small part of him… that thought that he deserved it.
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I'm sorry.
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