I'm planning to write more about what happens in the interim between this scene and my last scene (Fleirzon: 19)
but at the moment, it won't come to me.
However, it should still make sense. Do enjoy!
....
Gattlin’s wings were heavy in the cold air. It was growing dark, and the lights of Old Locher shone from its window, like faint glimmers of hope being swallowed by the depths of fate itself.
Gattlin shivered in the wind, his feather cloak wrapped tightly about him. He felt disgusting; it had been over three days since he’d changed clothes or slept in a bed.
He followed the curve of the tree through the air until he reached the familiar crook in the branches where his home rested.
He alighted, approaching the rear wall where so few days ago he and his mother had stood together.
He stood at the back door to the house for a moment, resting his fingers against the moss-covered wood, wood filled with memories that hurt with a deep, desperate longing.
He closed his fists, squeezing his eyes shut, as he raised the bar that held the door shut. Inside, the air was cold, the coals in the hearth long-dead. The entire house for a moment, seemed to be suspended in a separate, unchanging world of cold.
Then a sound broke the silence, the orange glare of flames searing his vision.
Jonalla came tearing down the stairs with a torch in hand.
“Who are you? Get out! We have no money—“ Her eyes were wild in the light of her torch.
“Jonah. It’s just me.”
She stopped, turning to look at him more closely.
She put one hand on her hip, brandishing the torch. Her brow wrinkled in derision.
“You! Where have you been?”
He shook his head, not saying anything.
“I asked you a question! Where have you been! It’s been three days since the funeral! You just left! Up and left us here alone! What kind of man are you!”
She placed the torch into a bracket on the wall, turning away, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I don’t know. But I’m back now,” he trailed off, sighing.
“So. Where were you while your sister mourned her mother?”
The words were like ice.
He winced visibly, but she did not see him. Instead of answering, he deflected the question like a fighter dodging a blow.
“How has Aspen been?”
“Aspen is fine.”
He turned to go into his room, but she was leaning against the door.
Jonalla did not meet his eyes. “You have much audacity coming back.”
His mouth fell open, his breath coming in a gasp.
“Wh-wh-“he stuttered.
“What do you mean by this? I sat here for three days, alone with my young son, while you ran away. Then you fly back, and have nothing to say for yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Jonah, but I’m back now. Now let me in my room. I’ll find something for you and Verdeyan to eat—“
“Oh, you needn’t worry about your wench. Nor about food. I’m marrying tomorrow. And your wench is with a new master. You’re welcome to this disgusting farm, but I don’t see what you would do with it. If you don’t want it, let me know. I’m sure there is some fool who would take it for a few hundred johls.”
“Jonah! What did you-“
She cut him off again.
“Yes, I can take care of myself. I do not need, or want, you. So stay here tonight, but I will be leaving in the morning.”
Gattlin’s voice was cold. “Who did you sell her to?”
“Remember the man at the funeral with Lesu? He is a merchant from New Locher, and he needed a slave.”
“No, you...” He turned away, walking towards the door of the house.
“Where do you think you’re going?” She grabbed him by the shoulder.
“To do what little right I can in this world of wrong,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him.
……
Blood-soaked Feathers
….
Gattlin’s footsteps echoed against the boards as he stepped into the shade of the merchant’s shop. The sign outside the door read New Locher Trading Company. A clerk behind the counter quickly came out from behind a curtain.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” His gaunt face looked tired as if he hadn’t slept properly in days.
‘Yes, I was told this shop belongs to Rosh.”
“Yes of course, the finest merchant’s in New and Old Locher. Might I help you with anything? We take only standard size johls, blue required for sums exceeding a hundred orange, no bartering or—”
“Yes, of course, but how might one contact Rosh?”
“He works in the office upstairs—”
“Thankyou.” Gattlin strode towards the staircase.
“Wait, I implore you don’t bother him—” began the clerk, but Gattlin was already running up the steps.
He paused momentarily at the door at the top of the steps. What was he to say?
How would the man respond? His entire plan hinged on this.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
A man at a desk inside sat poring over a document, scratching notes with a quill pen.
For a moment, he was silent, absorbed in his work, then, slowly, looked up.
“Might I ask what you are doing in my office?”
“I’m here to negotiate a contract.” Gattlin struggled to keep his voice even as he reluctantly made eye contact with Rosh.
“I don’t recall you having an appointment. You have a bit of audacity walking into my office demanding my attention.” Rosh broke his gaze from Gattlin.
“Please hear me out.” Absently, Gattlin wondered if it had all been in vain.
“No. Besides, from the way you dress, you don’t have much money.” He laughed.
When Gattlin winced, he continued.
“ Oh, fine. For merit of your sheer audacity, I’ll give you a bit of my time. But make it worthwhile.”
“You bought a red-haired slave from a woman in Old Locher. The girl isn’t in the best of health. She has cuts on her wings that I doubt you’ve taken the trouble to tend to. I suppose you wish you hadn’t paid the forty blue johls for her.”
Gattlin’s heart pounded.
Rosh folded his arms, staring at the man in front of him.
“How do you know this? Who are you?” His voice was cold.
“I’m Gattlinain. I’m here to make you a deal that I might buy her freedom.”
Rosh scoffed. “How could you possibly afford it? You don’t seem to be able to afford new clothes, much less a slave!”
“You’re right. I haven’t a single johl to my name. I am willing to make a contract with you that she will be released and I will work for you to pay the sum it would take to buy her.”
“Why?” Rosh laughed oddly.
Gattlin didn’t smile. He gazed straight into Rosh’s cold eyes.
“I mean what I’ve said. I will work off the amount she is worth as my indenture.
If you will let her go.” Gattlin stood, unflinching.
“You traitor. She’s a Sleveten. You’d trade your freedom for that of your enemy!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I am no traitor, and she most certainly is not an enemy.” He stared at the ornate rug on the floor.
“You’re serious? Because I do not play games with fickle men.”
“My word is as grave as death itself. Will we make a contract?”
“No. Get out of my office. Leave this town, or I shall have someone after you.
I am son by marriage to the Vahlein. Find another man to pester!” Rosh stood as if to fight, motioning with a closed fist towards the door.
Gattlin now turned away silently, his heart falling.
…
Footsteps echoed in the darkness. Verdeyan sat up, her head pounding with fear in her blood. The stiff pain of the lashes on her back ached. Someone was at the door to her closet now. Their fingers fumbled with the bar bolting the door. She cowered in the corner, her hands pressed over her face.
“Please!” She cried, tears beginning to burn in her eyes. The door swung open, silver-black shadows pouring in.
“No!” She began to sob.
She tensed, anticipating the painful crack of a whip over her shoulders, the blunt blow of a kick to the head—but instead, she felt only hands softly cupping her shoulders, lifting her.
“Please,” she trembled, “don’t hurt me anymore-“
She peered upwards, fearful. Instead of the blocky form of the overseer, she made out the profile of a younger man. Gattlin.
....
Thanks for reading. Reviews are most welcome.
~Voxina
