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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 𝟸

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕟 𝕠𝕗 𝕄𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕪 𝕚𝕤 𝕌𝕟𝕚𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕝𝕪 𝔸𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘.

𝒩𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒾𝑒𝓁 𝒦𝓁𝑒𝒾𝓃: 𝒟𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇, 1998.

Rotated at an uncomfortable angle over the back of a sturdy wooden chair, my shoulders ached. I’d been alone for hours. Left bound and blinded, waiting in silence. Distant heat and the earthy smell of burning wood originating somewhere to my left warmed the room. It took the chill from my bones and dried the melted ice from my clothes; but that was the only pleasantry.

Forced to remain in a seated position for so long, I wanted nothing more than the opportunity to stretch my strained muscles and joints as they protested the unfair treatment. The cloth over my eyes was irritating. It had been tied too tight and pressure rang in my ears until it was all that consumed my thoughts. I cursed the barbarian guard that put it on as my head swam.

Restless and peeved, I closed my eyes as I tried to focus on something else. The surrounding air was heavy with magic. It ebbed and flowed in a repetitive pattern as if it were breathing, and tickled my senses. From the precision of the rhythm I speculated it must have been a well written spell, but it was difficult to determine its strength. I would have to see it to make a more accurate assessment.

Growing agitated again I flexed against the ropes binding my wrists, as if that would give some respite.

“Ropes too tight?” I froze in place when he spoke. His velvet voice was hard to mistake, the oleander plant of a Vanir had come to see me. How long had he been there?

Few short footsteps crossed the room, and the fabric covering my eyes loosened a moment later giving instant relief. It fell away soundlessly to land in a folded pile beside me and as he stepped away I drank in my surroundings. I was bound to a chair in the middle of a military tent. The walls were made from layers of thick animal hide held up by long bone or wooden poles, and the floor was nothing but well-trodden dirt.

Etched in the ground beneath me, as if it were written by a child with a pointy stick, was the vast sprawl of a binding spell. The design was painfully deliberate under its guise of crude carelessness, and pleased me as much as curdled milk. It stretched into a mosaic of circular runes and intercrossing lines that bisected at angles so precise the dirt looked laser cut. A master spell writer had to be responsible for this atrocity. It would take days to read it in full, assuming I even could.

Soured, I turned to survey the rest of the room. A smokeless fire burned low in a shallow pit ringed with stone, a makeshift safeguard against setting the place alight, but it kept the cold from outside at bay. In the far corner, a flat mattress lay on the floor covered in a loose tangle of sprawled furs and pillows. Cozy, in the same way moldy bread might be filling. It probably housed fleas. Past it was the only other furniture in the room; a wooden desk buried in papers with weapons slouched against its side, and clothes poking out half closed drawers.

To some, the gentle crackle of fire and the earthy scent of burning pine in this dimly lit, rudimentary dwelling might have been warm or inviting. But I couldn’t overcome the cramped closeness of everything, or the dirt. The Vanir never fail to prove themselves heathens. To think anyone lived here, even temporarily, was appalling. Their spell writers might be well practiced, but their brand of civilization is primitive at best.

My captor returned to view from somewhere behind. He dragged a second chair over, and turned it to the side to sit facing me. In his hands he held a small knife, and a red apple dotted with yellow freckles. He said nothing as he began to delicately cut a circular slice off the side, and I eyed him warily. His intentions couldn’t be good.

“Are you hungry?” he asked at last without looking up. His fingers nimbly turned the fruit as he leveraged the knife through it, and when I didn’t answer he continued, “You’ve been tied up for a while, so I thought you might be. I lose track of time and forget to eat when I’m fighting, I bet you’re the same. No one mentions how hard it is to find a moment to stop for lunch in the middle of a war…”

He spoke without formality, like I was an old friend, or a guest he’d invited over for a pleasant conversation. But his relaxed manner was deceptive, and I knew better than to let my guard down as I waited for the trick. When he had finished cutting, his gaze lifted to mine and he extended his hand out to offer me the slice of apple off the blade.

Despite the emptiness in my stomach, I dared not take it. I’m no fool, and I wasn’t about to accept anything he offered. He’d just as likely stab the knife into my face if I tried.

The Vanir waited a moment longer before giving a soft snort, and sat back with a hollow chuckle of amusement. “You look like I offered you an old sock. Relax, it’s just an apple, there’s no need to be nervous.”

It didn’t matter what he said. I’d played these kinds of games before, and I knew better. It was probably poisoned, or maybe he intended to cut my tongue out? Whatever the case, sooner or later he would show his true hand, I just had to wait.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he assured as if reading my thoughts before biting into the apple slice himself. His teeth sank into it with a pleasant, brisk, crunch and I turned away. Maybe that was the cruelty he intended… offering food, only to rip it away at the last moment, just to see if I would fall for it.

He cut another piece and held it out for me again. When I still didn’t take it, his feigned patience disappeared. The savage stood, wedging himself between my legs, he turned my face toward him with his free hand, and I recoiled. I had wondered how long it would take to erode the mask of kindness to show the monster beneath, evidently, not long.

I wrenched free of his grip, and clenched my jaw shut. If he wasn’t holding me in place with his thighs around one of my knees, the chair would have flipped over backward. “Stop it,” the Vanir ordered, he sounded offended, as if I were the one inconveniencing him. “I’m not going to hurt you unless you make me.”

He set a hand on my face again, but used no force. His thumb stroked my cheek, and a wash of confusion overcame me as he gently guided my head back toward him.

“I’m sorry, I moved too quickly… I wasn’t trying to frighten you. There’s no trick here, this apple is for you, I won’t hurt you with it. Please eat…”

The serenity in his voice left me dumbfounded, and when he pressed the cold back of the knife to my lips I found myself accepting the apple off it before I could think not to. As crisp as it looked, sweet juice welled under the pressure as I bit into it, and an odd mixture of grief touched by hate knotted my stomach. I was more starved than I wanted to admit, and the sweet slice felt like the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me.

“You see~? No tricks,” the Vanir commented. He sat back in his chair with a smug smirk of satisfaction that made my lip curl in disgust.

‘No tricks’, what a lie. I understood too slowly what had happened. In addition to their pension for not remaining dead when killed, and making plants grow, Vanir magic has an innate ‘charm’ to it. Made more potent by touch, speech, and eye contact, this ability hijacks one’s sensibilities and lowers inhibitions. He had caught me under all three, I should have been more careful.

“Oh, don’t look so upset. It’s going to get unpleasant after this, there’s no need to do it on an empty stomach, and you weren’t willing to eat without a little encouragement.” He read my face and cut a new slice of apple for himself before offering me another.

I took in a controlled breath as I decided whether to trust it or not. Admittedly he was correct, I was hungry and there seemed to be no harm to the food. I took it with trepidation and he smiled, claiming another victory. This snide little brat.

“Did you know that only Fae nobility have long canines like yours?” he continued with casual disregard, as if speculating why hens lay eggs while claiming they don’t.

Perfidious intelligence coiled in the depths of his mind, hidden behind those long lashes and relaxed mannerisms. He’d fed me to see my teeth, there was no deceit in the food or intent to harm, it was a simple method of observation on his part. He wasn’t boastful with his intellect the way Markos was, so I’d assumed he had none. I’d underestimated him, and that wouldn’t happen again.

After having fed me the majority of the apple, he balanced the remaining core on the tip of the knife and carried on the conversation without me, as if I didn’t matter. “If you’re not a noble yourself, I’d be very surprised, and not just because of your teeth. Every other fae captured with you was trembling with fear. But not you. I could see the calculations in your eyes. You were counting how many of us there were, estimating the distance to the trees, and your sword. Plotting an escape.

Generals are the same, only they care about their soldiers. You didn’t so much as flinch when I let the rest of them go, and not you. Did you suspect it was a trick? Or did you not care? Would you be upset if I told you none of them made it? That they were a training exercise, I sent my soldiers out after them for a fun hunt through the woods.”

He paused, waiting for me to interject. Expecting outrage or maybe despair at the fate of my kin, but I gave him nothing. Two can play games.

In the space of my continued silence, his eyes searched my calm expression, analyzing, and recalculating his approach before he began again, “You’re really an arrogant asshole aren’t you? Other nobles are all too eager to tell me their lineage, how important they are, how strong their families are but you have nothing to say? Not one word?”

Did that bother him? The hairline crack of true agitation in his voice suggested it did.

“Pretend all you like,” he shrugged as if his tongue wasn’t sharp. “I know what you are and why they sent you. Did you really think you could earn your honor back this way? Your best option here is me. Bargain with me. No one wants a traitor back, they don’t care what happens to you, but I can give you a new life. Even if you weren’t sent but fleeing, I can help you.”

“What makes you think I’m a traitor?” Surprise drew the question from me before I could stop it, and a sly smile spread across his face.

“Ahh, you can speak. That’s good to know,” he purred, pleased with himself in a way that made my collar grow hot with irritation. I shouldn’t have said anything. He leaned forward to tug on a lock of hair hanging by my ear, jolting me from my regret for the shock of it as he answered, “Your hair is cut short. I’ve heard Fae only do that as punishment for those who have killed their own kind or committed treason at some level. So which is it for you? Who did you betray to earn short hair?”

I twisted my neck, pulling my hair from his grasp against the restraints. “Perhaps I just prefer it short,” I answered dryly, taken aback by his presumption that he could touch my hair.

“I’m sure,” he rolled his eyes. “Which Fae castle are you from?”

Spiteful of the cheerful sarcasm in his voice, I ignored his new line of questioning in favor of my own demands, “I want to speak to Mercury.”

The inquiry blunted the lightness from his demeanor like I’d slapped him, and for the first time since we began, his silence was prolonged. He twisted the apple corked knife thoughtfully, as if it held the answer to my question, before standing. He moved past me out of view, and my skin prickled.

I squirmed in the chair, contorting myself as I strained to see where he had gone, and what he was doing. The soft scrape of metal on metal raised the hair on the back of my neck. Was he gathering instruments to torture me in earnest now? He had been waiting for me to speak, and now that I had, his quiet response was insidious.

Had I pushed too far with only one question? Was it the mention of Mercury that catalyzed this change? With a subtle roll of my shoulders, I tested the strength of my restraints again. I could probably break them if need be, but I didn’t know the mechanics of the wretched spell below. It might shred me for trying. Deciding against doing anything too hasty, I refocused my mind on the Vanir.

I knew almost nothing about him. Not his name, nor rank. I hadn’t seen him fight to know his skill or how much magic he possessed. He could have been nothing more than a grunt sent in to test the waters, or Mercury himself, if I was unlucky. The boy didn’t seem like the irrational mastermind behind legions of brutes, but one never can tell with savages like him.

Unable to bear the uncertainty anymore, I tried again, “Where’s Mercury?” I asked with careful calm as I waited on pins and needles.

Another muted clank came before he answered, “Are you sure you want to know?”

My pulse was rising with anxiety, and I slowed my breathing to control it. I hated this damn brat for this stupid game, but I wouldn’t let him see the stress. “It would be redundant to ask a question if I didn’t want to know,” I responded with forced serenity.

“And if I told you, you were already speaking with him?” The faintest hint of playful amusement returning to his tone melted the tension in my muscles, he wasn’t Mercury. He was just toying with me like a cat with a bird.

“If you were, I wager I’d be dead by now,” I countered.

“Probably,” he agreed with a short laugh. His footsteps were returning, and I prepared myself for the worst.

If he was done talking, the true interrogation would begin and I let myself sink into the well-worn paths of mental resistance. I concentrated on my breath and heart rate. Slowing them both as I let the harrowing anticipation of agony dissipate through acceptance. Pain is a temporary state, and fear amplifies suffering.

I tracked him with my eyes as he came back into view from my peripherals and felt no surprise when I saw the knife he carried. It was a finer, longer blade than before, made for filleting with its smooth sharp edge. He twirled it carelessly in his hand, and came to a stop beside me.

“You look like you’ve done this before,” he commented with a bashful smile that let me know he was no stranger to torture either.

“Perhaps,” I agreed, giving him no emotion with the word.

“Then let’s not play pretend. You know the consequences of refusing to answer questions, so I won’t waste my breath on threats.”

I acknowledged his statement with a nod. Past his modest exterior, it wouldn’t matter what he said, this vile creature was blood thirsty. He would hurt me no matter whether I cooperated or not.

He gave a sweet smile in response, and to my shock, sat in my lap. He readjusted until he was comfortable, stabilizing himself with one hand cupping the back of my neck. Absolutely egregious. My composure wavered and heat flooded my ears, what on earth did he think he was doing? The side of a cool blade against my cheek snapped the world back into focus.

A pretentious smile tugged at the edges of his lips. “Should we begin?”

“It’s not as if I have a choice,” I reminded him as he readjusted the knife in his fingertips.

“We always have choices,” he mused, moving to cut my chest as I held my breath anticipating the sting to come. With skillful precision he angled the weapon under the top button of my shirt and sliced through the threads connecting it to the hem. It fell away like a sailor jumping ship, and I stared after it in dumbfounded confusion. Was that really necessary?

He cut a second button away as he went on speaking, “For example, I can choose to cut your clothes, not your skin so long as you talk to me.”

A cool breeze hit my bare chest, but I kept the astonishment off my face. “Do what you like, I won’t tell you anything useful.”

“We’ll see. Now, let’s try this again, what is your name?” he pressed the knife under the next button threatening its safety.

“… I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” It was a risky rebuttal in the face of sacrificing my clothes.

The flicker of humor behind his eyes tugged the corners of his mouth into a forbidding smile. “Fine, fair is fair, my name is Mercurisson.”

“You shouldn’t try to cheat a Fae,” I hazarded a coy remark in return, intuitively sensing the half-truth as I pushed it further, “What’s your first name, what do your friends call you–” I stopped as a knife pressed against the underside of my throat. I’d ventured too far.

“I am the son of Merkuríus Linnæus, so they call me Mercurisson, and I would be a fool to tell a fae my true name.”

My jaw clenched as the back of the blade pressed into the soft flesh of my neck. “I wasn’t asking for your full name,” I clarified, remembering the reputation of my species for trickery using names.

“You shouldn’t be asking anything,” he mused, removing the blade to cut the next victim from my shirt. “But I like that you’re talking, so I won’t punish you too harshly for it.”

I made note of the line not to cross.

“I’ve heard the fae in this area are led by twins, do you know them?”

“… Yes,” I tendered with a small delay as I calculated the harm of the answer against raising his temper. Information is a two-way street, if I could get him to trust me with inconsequential details, maybe he would let something important slip.

“Are they as strong as rumors suggest?”

“Yes.”

He paused, mulling over the three-letter word like it was a puzzle missing a piece. “… What happened to their father? Lazarus ruled for some time, we were disappointed he was no longer in charge.”

“His sons rebelled.”

“Why?”

“Their father was cruel, and when they grew big enough to stop him, they did. Not all children stay quiet,” I stated with targeted malice.

If Mercurisson noticed the jab, he ignored it. “Are the twins cruel as well?”

“That depends who you ask, and of which twin you ask about.”

“Interesting,” he murmured distantly to himself.

With only one button remaining, he delayed. Twisting it back and forth with the tip of his blade, deep in thought while all I could think about was how heavy he was getting in my lap. Eventually he took in a deeper breath and lifted his eyes to meet mine.

“What do you think of the twins? Do you like them?”

I stared back, numb with confusion wondering if I had misheard. “You’re asking for my opinion on the twins?”

The Vanir nodded. His hand slipped from the back of my neck and he brushed my cheek with his knuckles. “Don’t hold out on me now, green eyes, you’ve done so well.”

Fearing the sway of charm magic, I recoiled from his touch and the chair teetered backward. He balanced us, placing a warm hand on my chest as he did so. “Careful,” he warned. “Falling backward when I have a knife in one hand is a recipe for disaster.”

“Get off me,” I sneered, having become fed up with this game.

Mercurisson gave a forlorn sigh as if I had disappointed him. He cut the final button as punishment, leaving my chest and stomach exposed as it too fell away into the dirt. Not that it mattered, the shirt was already ruined. “And to think you were being so good until now. Truly a shame,” he shook his head in feigned indignation.

This contemptuous little pest, treating me like I was his play thing, how dare he?

With the shirt hanging uselessly off my shoulders his attention traveled down my body, and I fidgeted self-conscious under scrutiny. His gaze lingered at the hoof shaped bruise on my side, but he made no comment before reaching over to pull my shirt closed again.

“That’s enough for today,” he spoke more softly, catching me by surprise.

I regarded him with suspicion, looking for some indication of duplicity, a tell of his deceit as I waited to be stabbed. He straightened the shirt on my shoulders, and patted down the collar as if that would keep it together without the buttons.

“… That’s all you wanted to know?” I couldn’t hold the question in any longer.

“I can’t spend all day with you, I have other things to do,” he flashed a mocking smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re disappointed?”

Analytical thought left me as chagrin heated my cheeks and anger boiled the blood. Actions that didn’t match words, threats that didn’t align with conduct—he was good at dismantling mental fortitudes, and more dangerous than I wanted to admit.

“Hold still now,” Mercurisson warned, waving the knife in my face as a reminder before he leaned forward.

Every muscle locked up as he pressed close. He reached over my shoulder, his hair brushed my neck, and I twisted away from the pleasant tickle of his breath that sent butterflies cascading down my spine. He smelled good, like the forest after rain, and I scrunched my nose in offense. This had to be his charm at work corrupting my senses. Vanir are not pleasant creatures, and neither was this one, I wouldn’t let myself be fooled.

After a long moment, the pressure binding my wrists slackened, and I felt the rope slip away. With a jolt of surprise I turned back to glare, but he was already moving away. The absence of his warmth left me cold, and the impression of his hand on my chest lingered as if it had marked me.

“Why?” I demanded with plain mistrust.

“Why not? You’re not going anywhere,” he gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Awfully confident, aren’t you?”

Mercurisson smiled, lowering his voice to a whisper as he backed out of the barrier, “You’re the one who allowed yourself to get caught, and you probably don’t even realize how much of a mistake you’ve made. Try not to hurt yourself too badly trying to escape, I’m not done with you yet.”

The sensation of danger prickled my skin. How much did he know?

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