No Hands but My Own

Chapter 12 - Hate

I kneeled in an ashy clearing and bowed my head.

We had not stood a chance. Every time I closed my eyes I could watch the ultimate horror unfold. Reliel crumbling, the untrained running but not escaping, us fighting with sticks and stones against an unstoppable wave of death. When we had battled on our turf, we had had a shadow of success that had managed to have kept us safe. We were not so blessed now.

That mischievous Assadar who always could brighten up any situation. The young Yishus who had been so proud of finally completing his training just a few months ago.  Alrira, who had always been eternally curious and dead set on exploring every inch of he world. Gone.

My brother; the one who taught me the secrets of disappearing without a trace, who taught me to leap over flame, who was an unerring voice of reason and calm. Reliel - gone. So many were gone.

Only a handful of our clan remained; some pups, Gahnenal, Ralerin, Shira, and Sle.

And I. The one that should have prevented it all or should have at least expected it. Failure seemed to be following me like an unwanted, mangy mutt. It had dug its teeth firmly into my flesh and was determined to make my suffering last as long as it could. Despair had made itself even more comfortable than before, nestling deeply into my heart. The shame of still being alive while my family lay dead around me was overwhelming. And if our captors had not bound me into immobility, kneeling in mocking worship, I would have ended my life then and there.

Wallowing in misery, I barely looked up while some tormentors mocked us, struck us, shamed us. The few riders who had captured us goaded amongst themselves while we knelt shamefully and silently. The sun was finally peeking out from over the horizon, washing the ground strewn with people in a bloody glow. 

When silence rippled out across the group of men as new footsteps approached. I did not look up though I could feel tension rising among my clan. Several boots entered my vision, yet I determinedly stared at the ground. These new torturers were of no interest to me.

"My, my. How the mighty have fallen." A youthful voice assaulted my ears. It was a voice I knew.  Ithellyn.

"Well, Ayri? Answer him." The command rumbled out like thunder. And I prayed that the voice I heard was a mere imagining.

Silence echoed for a mere moment then one of the speakers crouched, boots protesting, to match my height. I felt a hand caress my head and turned away from the action, with my eyes still riveted to the earth. The hand tightened its grip and pulled at my hair, straining my neck to face the crouching man. I did not raise my eyes to his though, for a moment, I wanted to. Instead I examined the toes of his boots, splattered and encrusted with bloody mud.

"Come now," Scepte's lacquered tones mocked, "that's not how you treat an old friend, is it?"

"He is no friend of mine." I spat at the ground.

 "Funny." The man across from me growled, "I would have never thought you afraid to look an opponent in the eye."

My resolve broke and I stared into the face of my brother.

"See. It's not that hard." He smiled. My face remained impassive, eyes boring into his.

"You know," his voice, though quiet, enveloped the entire clearing. "You always did have the nicest eyes out of everyone in the clan. So strange to see those rings of golden brown and green in anyone's eyes."

"Testing to see if you can talk a woman out of her chains? Or maybe just kill her with your inane chatter? Because if you are, it's not working."

He threw back his head and chuckled, "You never know when you've lost, do you? When will you learn?" He drew a blade lovingly from the scabbard at his side. "Maybe it's time for a lesson."