Anger
danced up and down Timmuth’s spine like an air elemental, picking up flecks of
resentment as it blew along. When would Zarnian see that he was no longer a
child? She treated him like he was still at House Naggarath, tugging on her
armor and asking to be a gladiator. Life had changed – he had changed – and he
was not helpless. Yet, instead of leading a caravan to Urik, which he should be
doing, he was ordered to go start teaching Stila how to fight. He resisted the
urge to break something. That was what Bay would do. The realization of that
filled him with conflicting emotions to immediately do that very thing and
avoid it.
Stila
was where he last saw her, in the corner of the warehouse near the kitchen with
her knees drawn into her chest. Zarnian had given the girl new clothes to
replace the tatters she arrived in, and even a bowl of water to wash with, but
those gestures did little to erase the girl’s hollow eyes or the bruises that
peppered her thin body. He knew her from sight in the village and even
exchanged a few words when Zarnian had him help her family harvest their crops
last year. She handed him a few carrots, fresh from the ground before walking away.
Seeing
the shell of her now, his first thought was how was he supposed to teach such a
weak creature how to fight? Athas was for the strong! But, orders were orders
and Zarnian would never give him more responsibility if he did not go the
simple tasks she assigned.
Approaching
her, he asked, “Stila?” the girl flinched at the sound of her name. She locked
eyes with him. The room melted away. He
was not himself, but in the village, there were soldiers all around, screaming
and blood. Hands on his shoulders, his mother (not his, hers) telling him to run.
Running, turning back to see mother disappear in a sea of men, then hands
grabbing, and being crushed, hurt… Timmuth fought to break contact, to stay
calm. They were her memories, not his. He could escape her mind… tied to the bed. Hungry. The crushing man
laughs when they eat and toss scraps on the floor… Gathering what focus he
could, Timmuth pushed her mind away. But he knew it all, and she knew that he
knew.
It
looked like she was going to cry, which made him horribly uncomfortable.
Timmuth was reasonably sure he was allergic to his own tears, and positive this
included the tears of others. He had to say something that would help. Bay had
a wife, so he must know how to talk to women. What would Bay say? “Life is
hard. You have to be strong to survive.” Stila nodded once, as if in agreement,
then burst into tears. She buried her face in his shoulder Ah, the tears burned! and wept. Bay’s approach did not work. What
would Zarnian do? He reached out and smoothed her hair. “He’s dead,” he said
quietly. He did not have to explain who. “He can’t hurt you anymore. No one
will hurt you here. I’ll protect you, but I’ll also teach you how to fight.
That way, you can protect yourself.”
She
sniffled, pulling her face from his tunic. Wiping her face with the backs of
her hands, she said, “You’ve changed. You used to scare me, when we were
smaller. You’re different now. Better.”
Her
words made him horribly uncomfortable. Instead of answering, he nodded. “We
should go get you a spear so you can practice.” Rising, he held his hand out to
her. He was different now than the spoiled noble, the weapon of mass
destruction, the slave, or even the protected merchant prince he was supposed
to become. He was his own creation now. That freedom was a gift from both his
adopted parents. A gift he would pass on to this damaged girl.
No comments:
Post a Comment