Forsaken: The Chosen Trilogy - Book One

Chapter Five: Part Two

It was in her home that I met Vitric.

He was the middle child in a brood of sisters, about a year older than I, and openly friendly despite his mother's obvious disapproval. His hair was fair and curly, his eyes the shifting colors of the distant sea, of which I had only ever seen pictures, and he watched me as I worked with a lopsided smile. He followed me wherever I went, telling me stories I pretended not to listen to, and asking me questions I refused to answer. I had never had a friend outside of my brothers and sisters, and was afraid to make one, worried he might find out my secret.

For that is what I had come to think of Father as: something shameful, to be hidden behind false smiles and empty words, trapping my fear of him within my skin where no one could see it. The people of Desperation thought Malachi to be a tragic hero, admiring him for raising six children on his own after the death of his wife. No one knew of his madness or his addiction, save the Crone. What they thought of the bruises that so often appeared on my skin, I did not know, for they were never spoken of in my presence. Most likely they were written off as a well-deserved punishment; children are more harshly treated in those outlying villages than in the larger towns and cities, for life is severe and ruthless, and we must be strong enough to face it.

It was only Vitric who ever seemed curious.

He found me outside one day, laboring to pull weeds from Allis' garden in the wet, sticky heat of midsummer. My sleeves were rolled up, my shirt unbuttoned as low as I dared, and still the sweat rolled down my neck and back, making my clothes cling to me uncomfortably.

I could feel his gaze upon me like a weight, and scowled at him from beneath my lashes. His presence made me nervous for some reason, and I resented it, wishing he would leave me to my gods-forsaken chore in peace.

"Why are your arms covered in bruises?" he asked abruptly, kneeling beside me so that I was forced to look at him. His eyes were blue that day, clear as the skies above us, and held no trace of judgment or malice as he examined the dark marks on my forearms.

He was close enough that I could smell the sandalwood oil that lingered on his skin, recognizing the scent from the jar by the tub I cleaned upon every visit. Something in me stirred, and I glared at him in response. "They're nothing. I fell."

"Onto a pair of hands?" His fingers were gentle as he touched my bruises; still, I flinched, and he frowned. "It looks as if you were helped to fall."

I jerked away from his touch and the strange feelings he created in me, remaining silent and sullen as I returned to weeding. Let him think what he would; I did not want his pity.

Starsday is the day we worship Diona, our creator, and it was still my own. That day I cherished, for it was my only full day with my siblings. Though I spent most of it catching up on the work that was neglected while I was in the village, I was able to spend the late afternoons with my brothers and sisters upon our porch or in front of our fireplace, telling them exaggerated stories of the villagers I worked for, and listening to their tales of what had happened on the farm while I was gone. Strangely, I could not bring myself to tell them of Vitric, though I repeated the stories he told me, my heart fluttering oddly when I saw the joy it brought to their faces.

On Sunsday, I at last cleaned for the Crone.

Her home was filthy, though not quite as bad as Malik's, and filled with strange books and instruments and bottles that I feared to touch. More than once I would lift something- such as a doll made of feathers and blackened wax, or a jar labeled bloodroot- only to have it snatched quickly out of my hands. Once, I moved a book, written in pictures instead of words, and felt as if my soul had been jerked within my chest. I dropped it immediately, but it left me nauseous and shaking. The Crone had screamed at me for touching it, and sent me back to the farm without finishing my work.