ventilate
First they had bound his hands with twine. It was rough and it was only a few hours before his wrists had begun to bleed from his struggles. The cloth they had put in his mouth had begun as white, but now was a mixed brown and yellow, the color of sweat and blood. He had lain prone in the damp concrete cell for what had seemed like an eternity, their voices echoing in the dark hallways as they discussed what to do with him, and where to put him when they were done. In his mind he catalogued their voices, memorizing each intonation, each slight variation in dialect and pitch. One of them lisped, each s and t melding, words sounding more choked on then spoken. He imagined a pock marked flunky, rags barely covering his shoulders, open sores on his arms and legs leaving a trail of mucus as he walked. There was a woman with them as well. She spoke eloquently occasionally, but mostly sounded as if she tried too hard. Her face was soft in his mind, hiding years of beatings just as the stolen Paige uniform covered the marks of the stun sticks which had burned her thighs. She had been the one to suggest they just let him go.
Footsteps rang out in the empty hall outside his cell. There was a whirr of machinery, the sound of a keypad being depressed, and then the door was open. A musty yellow light poured in obscuring the bulky shadow that loomed above him. He heard others in the hallway, waiting outside the door, and a voice in the distance. “Grab him. Make sure you don’t put your hands near his face.” It was the woman.
Firm hands picked him up. From all around there was the smell of sandalwood, of dragons breath, the type of smells that the groundlings used to cover up the muck of the sewage they were forced to bathe in. He was lifted, almost gently, over this giants shoulder his gut embraced by a well muscled arm. Now he could see there were six of them, three men and three women including the one that now held him. He would have had to stretch to see their faces, and that was still too painful due to the wound on his neck. To his right the woman addressed him.
“If you do not fight you may live to see another sunrise. I swear that on my father.”
The woman turned and briskly walked down the corridor, followed by the others, the giant bringing up the rear. Other cells lined the hallway, their doors a thick dull metal with a single opening near the bottom for food and other pleasantries. They passed one where he heard, between sobs, a child singing a song that he had heard only months ago when they had traveled through the Cormanian highlands. It was a nomad song called Mary Madonna. As they passed one of the procession in front of him banged on the door, the voice falling silent. That is the man with the lisp, he thought to himself. That is the man that said he wanted to see my insides.
They walked for quite a while, the corridors of the dark prison twisting and turning in on themselves. They are trying to confuse me, he thinks, trying to make sure I don’t know where I am when we get to wherever they are taking me. After a time he heard the sound of machinery in the distance, shouts behind that. They were close to a factory.
“Put him in there,” the woman barked.
The giant turned to an open doorway and casually threw him to the ground. When he landed he heard a crack from his hip, but he bit his tongue to ignore the pain. Before he had his bearings he heard the metallic slam of the door and footsteps in the corridor.
“Leave me for a moment, I want to address him alone.” More footsteps fading, the smell of a cigarette burning. “Are you hurt? He set you down pretty hard.” Her voice was different now, softer.
“I’m okay. Nothing the medicrats couldn’t fix in a few moments.” He rubbed his hip, and then realized his head was bleeding again, the wound from his capture reopened by the impact.
“Where is he Tethriel?” The voice not only sounded softer to him, it sounded familiar.
“Who are you?” Beads of sweat began to trickle down his brow. They had talked before they came to the city, made a promise that if they were captured that they were on their own. The image of Jason running as the mob carried him away, beaten and bruised, was still etched into his skull. Suddenly he was filled with contempt, the thought of that elegant bastard running through the dark alleys never to see him again sending him reeling.
“I’m a friend, Teth. I always have been. I’m not surprised you don’t recognize my voice, it has been a long time. What is it now, two, three worldsets? You were my favorite the last time, you know that right?” He could hear her smiling.
One beat. Images flashed behind his eyes, scenes of faces and people and places, ones he knew he hadn’t seen but yet were so familiar. He saw the rise and fall of a great city, a thousand years flash through in but an instant. He saw the knife.
“Does that help?” There’s the sound of a keypad, and the familiar whirr of gears.
Vyvyan smiles, the shotgun at her side touching her shins. And in one moment Tethriel remembers.
“It’s good to see you again, Vyv.” There is the sound of the twine on his wrists and legs ripping, the smell of oranges as the wounds on the back of his neck and his bruised body heal themselves. “What took you so long?”
