Isak
I opened my eyes to the prison cell. Again. I never stayed this long in any one place that wasn't my own home. When I announced that my name was Frank the Brown, after a day or two of it, I truly regretted it. Every time someone wanted my attention, they'd call out 'Frank the Brown.' I struggled to keep my laughter inside. It was a serious battle with myself, one that had a few near misses, but it was also one of the few amusements that I had in this place. So, regret? Yes. Amused, still? Of course. Would I do it again if given the opportunity? Probably not.
After the man who called himself Charzaphir left me in the cell, the man he called Ghimizar stayed behind and proceeded to ply me with foul-tasting liquids. He packed and bandaged my wounds. The man even pulled out a needle and stitched the bigger lacerations. I felt tired at the end of it all and wondered if he slipped in a sleep aid with the pain reliever. I laid down on the concrete slab feeling drowsy. He wrapped me in a stiff scratchy blanket and left me lying there. It was the first blanket I had since arriving, but I was still cold.
When I woke, Charzaphir's man still stood there. He argued with another white-haired man that I hadn't seen before. Ghimizar dropped his hand to his sword. The other scowled as he backed away, snapping at him in the foreign language. Ghimizar just observed him, not moving. I got a distinct feeling that Charzaphir anticipated this and did what he could to head it off. Why were they so interested in me?
I may not have been around the world a dozen times, but I still had a basic concept of how the world worked, at least how it was supposed to work until my wonky ability threw in a few cogs and bolts and broke the whole machine. This might have led me to believe that there was some sort of protection in this place, provided I could make myself interesting enough to want to protect in the first place. I initially thought it might have been from an interest in his direction, strange as that may have been. However, it was fairly obvious that I was merely made healthy to carry out physical labor.
Hauled out with several other groups of prisoners, I greeted each morning with a series of mundane tasks. They separated us into groups and off we went. Mine was chopping wood. Yes, really. I'm not sure what everyone else did to get put in this medieval chain gang and it wasn't like I could ask. My high school Spanish did nothing for me here.
Each cold morning, I donned a moth-eaten woolen wrap that itched like a bitch and did very little against the cold given that the bugs got more of the material than I did. Staying active in the cold helped, but only a bit. It was still bitingly cold. I got a few raised eyebrows and strange looks as I jumped up in down in place, chains rattling, trying to stay warm, but the blisters-my poor hands could not get used to the blisters.
They split spilling a clear serum onto my palms, making the handle slippery and painful to close my hands around. I tried to bite the pain away by chewing on my lips, and the insides of my cheeks, but my hands dropped the ax a third time. It got the attention of the grumpy guard assigned to watch me. Charzaphir wasn't my guard. It almost felt like he actively avoided me, but that was my imagination. He had his man patch me up to go to work, not from sympathy. Practicality. I saw the point of it even when I got the raw end of the deal. So did my hands.
I stooped down to pick up the fallen ax. The guard walked up behind me and shoved me. I sprawled inelegantly. Glaring at him, I got to my feet, muttering to myself and trying not to curse him aloud. He shouted and shoved me again. How many times did I need to demonstrate that I did not understand their language? He shoved me a third time. Once again I hit the ground. What the Hell? My shout caught the attention of Charzaphir. He rode up. His voice was loud as he exchanged terse words with the guard. It didn't mean anything to me. I was lost, in more ways than one. Maybe I did this to myself. The guard pointed at me. Damn it.
Okay, maybe it did involve me, but hopefully-the hope immediately died as Charzaphir donned his helm rode off leaving me in the care of his fellow guard who looked extremely irritated with me. I had no idea what was said, but given the angry expression on his face, it didn't bode well for me. Until they dumped us back in our cells, he was on my ass like an uncomfortable rash, a permanent shadow that fell on the ground while I chopped wood, close enough to smell his stink, so I wouldn't forget he was there, but not so close that he would get injured. The intention was clear. He stood there grumbling the whole time, slapping a club against his palm, watching me and trying to intimidate me. I may have sucked at mine, but he was very good at his job.
Until I saw the cell that evening, I wasn't sure that I'd actually not meet with an unfortunate injury. When I saw Charzaphir, I thought maybe I was wrong, but when he rode off, I realized I wasn't. I know it was crazy to hope that I had a protector here. If not that, at least a chance of a friend. We weren't even in the same league. Plus, I couldn't talk to him. How is one a friend if they can't exchange ideas and thoughts? It was lonely and I was stuck in a nightmare.
Each morning I opened my eyes to another day of hard labor with each day more painful than the last. The blisters peeled on their own, causing crusted-over sores to break and run immediately when the work started. Covered in dirt and sweat, there was nothing I could do. The blisters festered. Not screaming became my feat of strength because the moment I tightened my grip, my hands were on fire. This was especially true given there was a man a few feet away aching for any reason to beat on me. Eventually, with the swelling, my ability or lack of it, steamrolled my desire to avoid a beating. I just couldn't do it anymore. My hands would not close around the handle.
I wish I could say that I stood there proudly and met my fate standing tall, taunting them. I'm not a liar. Instead, I cowered on the ground while he struck me a few times across the legs and arms. I tossed my hands up to ward off more blows. My head turned away and looked at the ground. I heard someone ride up.
"Frank the Brown."
I raised my eyes to see Umecaem sitting astride his unicorn. He was in his armor, but he removed his helmet so no one would mistake him for Charzaphir. He did it so that I knew it was him. Who had told him my name? He shook his head clicking his tongue in a tsk tsk motion, mocking me. He turned to my tormentor. A moment later the guard stole a glance at me grinning maliciously, smacking his baton against his palm. He stalked over to me as I tried to avoid him, scrambling backward to avoid his blows. Another mounted soldier rode up and the guard immediately halted and dropped to a knee.
The rider shouted angrily at Umecaem. He responded by shrugging with a bored expression. The armor looked like Charzaphir's, but I couldn't be positive. The fact the guard knelt before him, also indicated that it was him. The stranger gestured at me and my hands. Did he want to see them? I slowly opened them and held them up. They saw the angry red bleeding palms. He removed his helm. It was him. He turned back to Umecaem with an accusatory glare. Charzaphir looked back at me and motioned curtly for me to follow. I glanced at the others before hurrying after the mount.
I had trouble keeping up. He slowed his pace without saying anything. Why would he? I was a lowly slave. Perhaps not a slave, but I was the next thing to it. I couldn't come and go on my own, no more than I could at home. He brought me over to a temporary canvas enclosure and jumped down from his mount. He took me by the elbow and led me inside when I stopped before the entryway and looked up at the sign over the opening.
The marks were like nothing I'd ever seen. Letters? Numbers? Was it their writing system?
Dumbfounded, my mouth hung open. How could anyone learn the language to be able to talk to one another? He glanced back at me and then followed my gaze. Smiling, he said the word aloud. I shifted my gaze to him. He said the word as though I'd automatically knew what he said. I couldn't even begin to reproduce the sound he made. I took another look at the writing on the sign and entered the dimly lit room thinking it was a tent, and it was, as in the way Aston Martins and Lamborghinis are just cars.
The tent connected to other rooms. I thought about the old movies my step-father, Paul, watched and realized it was almost like an old movie set of M*A*S*H*, a show that he enjoyed. I giggled to myself as I compared it to my last camping trip. My poor vinyl tent. It rained and it soaked everything. There was little danger of that here though. I swallowed the hilarity at the look that Charzaphir gave me. He had no frame of reference, just a giggly boy thinking about old television shows that these people had never heard of. Immediately struck with homesickness, I wanted to cry. I kept it hidden. These bastards, including that good-looking one, weren't going to see me cry anymore than they already had.
The building may have been temporary, but it housed sick and injured. I wondered why they weren't being treated in the Keep until it occurred to me that the only men present were the men who were prisoners like myself. I wondered what the others did. I followed Charzaphir into a third room and then into a rear area where Ghimizar stood with his back to us. I watched the brief exchange before Ghimizar beckoned me forward.
He motioned for my hands. I winced as he spread my fingers. He clicked his tongue at my injuries and turned behind him. I could hear the clinking of bottles. He turned back with some type of liquid. I hoped it wasn't more of the awful drinks. Instead, it was some kind of tincture. I felt reassured for about three seconds.
It burned unbearably. I dropped to my knees trying not to scream. I expected smoke to pour from my acid-eaten skin only to discover that my hands were not, in fact, melted. They were wet and pained, but still intact. He dipped some cloth in another glass container. I pulled my hand away, shaking my head, trying to ignore the pain as it grew warmer in my palm. He tried to grab me again, but I dodged the grasp and tried to head for the door. I stumbled as my eyes watered, tearing heavily.
Ghimizar grumped at me and called to Charzaphir. He came up on my side and tried to grasp my hand and pull me toward his man. I was done with the torture. There was nothing but pain in that place and I lay on the ground clutching my hand into a tight fist, shielding it with the other, gasping like a dying fish. Charzaphir grasped my hand in his as he forced me to remain still as Ghimizar came around the table.
"No! Please, no!" I cried.
Charzaphir knelt on my elbow. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but rather to immobilize. I flailed about. He sighed and straddled my rib cage while holding my hand still. He slapped away my free hand and yelled something at the other man.
Ghimizar grunted and pressed the cloth to my hand. Instantly the burning sensation was gone, leaving behind a sore hand. Tears poured down my cheeks. Charzaphir immediately released me and stood. I heard them talking softly as disorientation from the pain kept growing. Charzaphir gently shook my shoulder, but I couldn't form any ideas that didn't dissipate like smoke. Quickly handled, no pun intended, I felt like my hand had been placed against a brick oven. I kept peering at it expecting to see burns appear on top of the broken blisters, but nothing was there. My mind floated, hovered lazily about. What was in that second jar, I wondered and my eyes closed moments later.
Charzaphir
The fool struggled so hard that he ended up suffering needlessly. We tried to help him and all that happened is the boy hurt more. The pain from an acisas burn is ranked as an effective method of interrogation, even if it's not the most inexpensive method. The pain can be effectively neutralized if applied immediately following the application of acisas. Neither of us counted on Frank the Brown fighting against our help so vehemently. For such a crafty thing, he has quite a bit of strength hidden within his limbs. I made note of it for the future.
"Never underestimate what fear can do to you," Ghimizar commented dryly.
"How could I forget? You drummed it into my head at every training session," I retorted.
"Exactly! A man can be controlled by his fear. It added more pain instead of him allowing our aid!"
"Well, his reception hasn't exactly been welcoming, has it?"
He grunted again as I angled Frank the Brown upwards and held him into a sitting position as Ghimizar approached with another batch of herbs. He worked them into a mash and added a few drops here and there of his various tinctures and whatnot before wrapping the boy's hand. I watched Ghimizar for a moment before lowering my gaze to Frank the Brown.
"So should he apply that reasoning with Umecaem and let him assist him?" I muttered.
Ghimizar looked at me aghast. "Do you want him to die?"
"So, he's troubled either way."
He wrapped his arms around Frank the Brown's side and helped me haul him to his feet. "Yeah, but we're not the ratdog egg-sucker that Umecaem is."
"Are we something worse?"
Ghimizar scoffed at me. Frank the Brown's head lolled between us before dropping into the crook of my neck. His breath was warm against my skin. It sent goosebumps down my neck and shoulders. I gasped lightly. I struggled to keep a blank expression. I called him a boy, but he was no child, just not as old as me.
"Let's get him to a cot," I said stiffly, trying to ignore the sensation.
"What about Umecaem?"
"Send someone for me immediately if he visits."
He nodded. "He shouldn't bother coming here. His delight in the sick and wounded only goes so far."
"Nothing is ever so simple," I said, feeling Frank the Brown's cheek against my neck. "When I removed Frank the Brown from him, he had a conniption."
"Conniption?"
"Remember his teacup?"
Ghimizar chuckled as we moved Frank the Brown to the cot and eased him onto it. I pulled a cover-up to his chin. The rough material made me cringe, but there were no places that would allow a cloth so soft that it didn't take a layer of skin with each use. I knew of the medicine that Ghimizar had used. It was potent and chilled the body. He needed warmth. I gazed down at him. I untied my cloak and stripped away the burlap replacing it with the wrap instead. Ghimizar watched me as I walked away without saying anything.
"A cloak, Charzaphir?" I ignored his chuckle as he hurried behind me. He put his arm out to stop me. "It's okay to care," he commented, his tone serious.
"I don't," I snapped. "Keep it up and I'll go back in there and leave him with the burlap."
He nodded and didn't say anything further as I marched out of the tent. What had possessed me to cover him with my cloak? Doing so made him a more exciting challenge than he already was with my protection. I didn't need anyone to point it out to me. Umecaem's presence made that abundantly clear. He never bothered with mundane tasks. I sighed and took the reins of my caryrusal and mounted it. I ruffled its fur and slipped my helm back on.
I took a last, troubled, glance at the healer's tent and then in Umecaem's direction. He focused on Frank the Brown because of my attention. I merely wanted to stop the abuse. I hadn't meant to draw the scrutiny; however, Umecaem already drew his ire from the first day I brought him here. I truly regretted it. Now, if I ignored the boy, it wouldn't matter. It was a diversion to Umecaem and if I didn't indulge it, serious harm would come to Frank the Brown. I was glad my helm was on. The concern on my face would definitely have made it back to my close-kin and it would have made the situation worse.
Each day was more challenging than the previous as my guilt gnawed at me, growing at the same rate. At this point, it didn't matter if Frank the Brown was an enemy or not, and I didn't think he was, not with the information my people obtained on him or hadn't. He was an enigma, but I still didn't believe he was a danger. With Umecaem's approach to interrogation, Frank the Brown would swing by his guts and it would have little to do with him being a threat. It was about the reaction or how Umecaem thought my reaction would go if he pushed forward. That was the real fun for Umecaem. Frank the Brown was an innocent spectator in this.
Our childhood was much of the same. Umecaem would break my toys, not because he wanted to play with them, but rather because he never wanted me to have them. I learned to never show interest, lest he try to wreck whatever I was after. I was good at it until this time when my attention made him think that Frank the Brown was important to me and Umecaem wanted to ruin him.
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A/N:
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