Fugitive (sequel to Becoming Atlantian)

Fugitive - Chapter 18

A groan echoed through the room before Tiberius's eyes fluttered open. His muscles tensed, his gaze darting around the sterile room with heightened assessment. It was bright and warm. Almost too bright after his time within captivity. The floors were clean and dry; there was no trace of his blood soaked into the stone. No bucket in the corner for him to relieve himself in.

It was almost strange not to be surrounded by the pungent scents of blood, urine, and faeces. He had almost become immune to them. Yet, the air carried with it the tinge of ointments and disinfectant; the scents burning into his swollen nose.

He drew in a deep breath, his chest aching in response.

From the hard backed seat beside his bed, Aubrey slowly reached out as if she were approaching a timid beast. Then, ever so gently, she rested her hand on his shoulder. It was one of the few parts of his body not shrouded in bruises, cuts, or bandages. Even without an electronic machine to tell her, Aubrey could sense his heart thundering within his chest.

Still, despite her gentle touch, he flinched. Aubrey did not withdraw her offer of comfort and reassurance. Instead, she murmured, "It's okay, it's just me. You're safe."

Tiberius's eyes took another wary glance around the medical wing. After a moment, he forcefully relaxed back into the bed. And it was forceful. She could see the way he commanded each muscle to unclench. It was such a contradiction as even when his head was buffeted by the soft pillow, and he was seemingly at ease, Aubrey had never seen him look more alert.

Her chest ached. They had done this to him. They had damaged his body. They had tried to damage his spirit. Yet Tiberius was a warrior. He had come through it. The question would be in what form.

Already his Atlantian heritage was working to erase the signs of his torture. The bruising had transitioned to the ghastly yellow colour and the cuts in his skin looked several days old. Soon there would be little to no sign of the trauma he had gone through. At least on the outside. Aubrey's heart ached at the internal fight he would yet face.

"What happened?" He croaked out at last, his eyes warily resting upon her.

She tried not to shift under his gaze. Reaching up, she went to nervously tuck a strand of hair behind her each but stilled when she remembered it was missing. Her hair was clean, the black shoe polish washed out, and her natural red colour shined through. Yet, it was short. Too short.

It had been an impulsive decision. One carried out during one of the brief periods she had been left alone. After being on edge for so long, she had felt restless. Before she knew it, Excalibur was in hand and her red curls were falling to the floor. Now, she wore a frizzy pixie cut that sat around her head like a fuzzy halo. Aubrey could only hope her Atlantian healing also applied to hair growth because the cut did nothing for her features.

"Aubrey?"

Shaking her head, Aubrey offered him a small smile. "I saved you."

Stretching out a hand, she brushed a strand of his dirty hair from his forehead.

"How-?" He paused, his gaze falling on his disciple for several long seconds before he drew in a shuddering breath. His lashes fluttered as recognition set in, a content smile forming on his lips. "Matriarch."

Aubrey shook her head. "People keep saying it but I still don't know what they're talking about. The Matriarch is dead."

"And a new Matriarch has been chosen." Tiberius replied just as quickly.

She ignored the lurch within her stomach. It felt right and yet, it was not her. It couldn't be.

"What is that supposed to mean?"