The Second Word He Taught Me Was Anguish
Aug 3, 2015 18:57:23 GMT -8
Blake Sterling Jr., RomulusGloriosus, and 1 more like this
Post by Cristiano Orisha on Aug 3, 2015 18:57:23 GMT -8
He stood before the mirror, face wet and dripping with the remnants of his shower. He ran a hand over his smoothly shaved head, same as it had been for hundreds of years. He looked at the mirror and watched as the steam in the mirror curled around his body. A mirror empty of reflection.
Around him the brightly lit bathroom held the trappings of wealth and prosperity.
The last time he'd seen his reflection was so long ago. Longer even than his last sunset.
The ship groaned and creaked around them, swaying in the stiff winds of a building storm. He knelt on the ground, a heavy iron collar around his neck. His hands were bruised and raw with the work from above decks and his limbs trembled not with fear but with fatigue. With thirst.
Across the room the other man sat, his body illuminated by the nearby lantern but his face hidden in shadow. Next to him was a glass. It was a thing of some considerable value, he knew. But those things usually cost so very much. Such treasure...
But not more valuable to him than the liquid within.
Water.
The day had been grueling. And the day before that the same. And for two days he had worked and toiled without... Water.
The man reached out and tipped the jeweled glass and a sway of the boat caught the liquid. A drop splashed onto the deck. He felt the chain heavy around his neck as he reached out as if to try to stop the waste.
The man in the shadow whispered and the sound carried across to him. He did not understand, could not. But the man's gesture was clear: come.
He got to his feet and struggled forward. The chain drew taught suddenly and he was pulled from his feet backwards. The chain jerked around his neck, dragging him along the dark wood under him. The chain stopped and grew slack.
He lie on his back staring at the ceiling and the cobwebs above. In this dim light they glimmered, swayed in the rough rocking of the ship.
Again he spoke. And almost as if a hand had reached into his chest and drew him to his feet he stood. The world around him blurred and his mouth tingled with the promise of being ill.
The man gestured again but this time the chain did not grow taught. He moved forward, one trembling step at a time.
Water.
The word was lost to him. All words save for one. The only word he had been taught: fear.
As he moved forward, he heard Whispers. Harsh and soft voices murmuring in his ears in a language he did not understand. Again his chain tightened just steps away from the man and the glass next to him.
There were screams. Sudden and sharp. The boat lurched and would have lurched him forward but again the chain on the collar around his neck tightened.
He leaned forward. The gleam of the glass just steps away. Again. Babbling, panicked screams. Whispers and Whispers and Whispers echoing in his mind. And it stopped.
He stood before the man who's eyes were as black as night. Darker. And then darker still. The man took up the glass and held a hand over it. With his thumb he drew a line across his palm, splitting open the flesh. A few silent, rocking moments passed until a single drop of black ichor fell into the glass.
The man held out the glass.
The battle inside was swift. His thirst was all consuming. Before he could think, he snatched the glass. He hesitated only the time it took for the black ichor to dissolve into the water before he drank.
The man stood, turned and left.
The next day was the same toil. And the day after that. The sun rose, hot and unforgiving and set, barely providing relief from the heat.
And then again. The man. The glass and the chain. Was it strength the man sought? Determination? Whatever the man wanted, water was the result. But this night there was more of the ichor. Enough to cloud the glass. Enough so that a shadow grew within.
He did not care. It was water. There were Whispers again. Again the screams, as if the spirits themselves were warning him. Pleading with him. And as he reached the man, silence but for the creaking of the ship around them.
And on it went. Days of toil and water infused with whatever it was that came from the man's blood.
And then.
And then..
The man was there. There was no glass this night. Instead, where it had once been, the man's hand lay.
He knelt on the ground, watching the man for any sign. Waiting to see if a crew member would bring the water. But it did not come. He felt the idea turning in his mind but only a hint, a shadow of the thought. But...
The night wore on, the man in the chair like a statue, his eyes like dark pools, pulling in the dim light from nearby lanterns. And then the man left. There had been no glass, no water. A crewman came down sometime later and led him back up for another day of toil.
The next night he could feel his mind turning the idea over and again as the man sat there, his hand calmly resting on the table.
And the next night.
Until he snapped. The man's eyes hardened across the room. He knew, he saw. But still he would have to walk to him. He had to make the choice. He stood on legs nearly too weak to hold him. But he would not crawl. He took a careful, measured step. He would not stagger.
The man watched him. The screams, the pleading, the Whispers. They filled his ears until it was a roar. His collar jerked with resistance but he still moved forward. Still drew closer to the man.
And the screams stopped.
He took up the man's hand. He had the sudden twist hallucination of a large cat dragging a zebra into a den. Before he could consider. Before he could think, he brought the man's hand to his mouth and bit.
Cold. Dark. Death. Passed through his lips, but it saved a thirst. A desperate need for something that he knew only the man would provide. Here on this ship days away from shore, the man was king.
He felt a hand on his head pulling him away. The man spoke and a crewman entered the room. Without a word the man walked over to a wall and slid it aside.
There, a woman stood, her skin dark like his. No, she did not stand, a bloody rod thrust into her chest from behind and held her up. The man continued to push aside the wall, along its track in the wood. Another man, impaled, this one paler in death long past. And still more.
It was as if lightning were coursing through his body. He recognized the woman and the man beside her and the other bodies impaled on rods some through chests or necks or heads. There was a word that he'd lost that he'd known since before he knew of speech and this woman was it. She was...
He took a step forward and jerked to a stop, the chain attached to his collar taught. The woman jerked against the rod. He moved again. Again the jerk reflected by the woman.
He noticed for the first time chains around the dead's bodies. One body was slumped over enough for him to see that the chain threaded through the pillar attached to the rod and snaked along the ground, disappearing into the far wall. He turned to see his own chain disappearing into another far wall.
He turned to the man who watched him with impassive eyes. He brought his hands to his collar and gently tugged the chain. The woman shifted.
The man leaned forward, his breath cold and voice flat. "Anguish."
And that when he began screaming.
Around him the brightly lit bathroom held the trappings of wealth and prosperity.
The last time he'd seen his reflection was so long ago. Longer even than his last sunset.
The ship groaned and creaked around them, swaying in the stiff winds of a building storm. He knelt on the ground, a heavy iron collar around his neck. His hands were bruised and raw with the work from above decks and his limbs trembled not with fear but with fatigue. With thirst.
Across the room the other man sat, his body illuminated by the nearby lantern but his face hidden in shadow. Next to him was a glass. It was a thing of some considerable value, he knew. But those things usually cost so very much. Such treasure...
But not more valuable to him than the liquid within.
Water.
The day had been grueling. And the day before that the same. And for two days he had worked and toiled without... Water.
The man reached out and tipped the jeweled glass and a sway of the boat caught the liquid. A drop splashed onto the deck. He felt the chain heavy around his neck as he reached out as if to try to stop the waste.
The man in the shadow whispered and the sound carried across to him. He did not understand, could not. But the man's gesture was clear: come.
He got to his feet and struggled forward. The chain drew taught suddenly and he was pulled from his feet backwards. The chain jerked around his neck, dragging him along the dark wood under him. The chain stopped and grew slack.
He lie on his back staring at the ceiling and the cobwebs above. In this dim light they glimmered, swayed in the rough rocking of the ship.
Again he spoke. And almost as if a hand had reached into his chest and drew him to his feet he stood. The world around him blurred and his mouth tingled with the promise of being ill.
The man gestured again but this time the chain did not grow taught. He moved forward, one trembling step at a time.
Water.
The word was lost to him. All words save for one. The only word he had been taught: fear.
As he moved forward, he heard Whispers. Harsh and soft voices murmuring in his ears in a language he did not understand. Again his chain tightened just steps away from the man and the glass next to him.
There were screams. Sudden and sharp. The boat lurched and would have lurched him forward but again the chain on the collar around his neck tightened.
He leaned forward. The gleam of the glass just steps away. Again. Babbling, panicked screams. Whispers and Whispers and Whispers echoing in his mind. And it stopped.
He stood before the man who's eyes were as black as night. Darker. And then darker still. The man took up the glass and held a hand over it. With his thumb he drew a line across his palm, splitting open the flesh. A few silent, rocking moments passed until a single drop of black ichor fell into the glass.
The man held out the glass.
The battle inside was swift. His thirst was all consuming. Before he could think, he snatched the glass. He hesitated only the time it took for the black ichor to dissolve into the water before he drank.
The man stood, turned and left.
The next day was the same toil. And the day after that. The sun rose, hot and unforgiving and set, barely providing relief from the heat.
And then again. The man. The glass and the chain. Was it strength the man sought? Determination? Whatever the man wanted, water was the result. But this night there was more of the ichor. Enough to cloud the glass. Enough so that a shadow grew within.
He did not care. It was water. There were Whispers again. Again the screams, as if the spirits themselves were warning him. Pleading with him. And as he reached the man, silence but for the creaking of the ship around them.
And on it went. Days of toil and water infused with whatever it was that came from the man's blood.
And then.
And then..
The man was there. There was no glass this night. Instead, where it had once been, the man's hand lay.
He knelt on the ground, watching the man for any sign. Waiting to see if a crew member would bring the water. But it did not come. He felt the idea turning in his mind but only a hint, a shadow of the thought. But...
The night wore on, the man in the chair like a statue, his eyes like dark pools, pulling in the dim light from nearby lanterns. And then the man left. There had been no glass, no water. A crewman came down sometime later and led him back up for another day of toil.
The next night he could feel his mind turning the idea over and again as the man sat there, his hand calmly resting on the table.
And the next night.
Until he snapped. The man's eyes hardened across the room. He knew, he saw. But still he would have to walk to him. He had to make the choice. He stood on legs nearly too weak to hold him. But he would not crawl. He took a careful, measured step. He would not stagger.
The man watched him. The screams, the pleading, the Whispers. They filled his ears until it was a roar. His collar jerked with resistance but he still moved forward. Still drew closer to the man.
And the screams stopped.
He took up the man's hand. He had the sudden twist hallucination of a large cat dragging a zebra into a den. Before he could consider. Before he could think, he brought the man's hand to his mouth and bit.
Cold. Dark. Death. Passed through his lips, but it saved a thirst. A desperate need for something that he knew only the man would provide. Here on this ship days away from shore, the man was king.
He felt a hand on his head pulling him away. The man spoke and a crewman entered the room. Without a word the man walked over to a wall and slid it aside.
There, a woman stood, her skin dark like his. No, she did not stand, a bloody rod thrust into her chest from behind and held her up. The man continued to push aside the wall, along its track in the wood. Another man, impaled, this one paler in death long past. And still more.
It was as if lightning were coursing through his body. He recognized the woman and the man beside her and the other bodies impaled on rods some through chests or necks or heads. There was a word that he'd lost that he'd known since before he knew of speech and this woman was it. She was...
He took a step forward and jerked to a stop, the chain attached to his collar taught. The woman jerked against the rod. He moved again. Again the jerk reflected by the woman.
He noticed for the first time chains around the dead's bodies. One body was slumped over enough for him to see that the chain threaded through the pillar attached to the rod and snaked along the ground, disappearing into the far wall. He turned to see his own chain disappearing into another far wall.
He turned to the man who watched him with impassive eyes. He brought his hands to his collar and gently tugged the chain. The woman shifted.
The man leaned forward, his breath cold and voice flat. "Anguish."
And that when he began screaming.
