38 Ash, 121
It had started with the rain, breaking through the overcast sky. Rivin had woken in a good mood, thrusting himself from bed, his windows showed that the day was windy but fair enough to allow him a long run before he called for his breakfast. Stripping out of the small clothes he'd slept in he donned a fresh set and then trousers he'd had made specifically for running, forgoing shoes and throwing only a thin shirt over. It was growing chill, but he could outrun the chill. Feeling the grass of the lawn, the dirt of the paths, the fallen leaves shattering beneath his heels was one of the freest things he could feel.
He'd gotten as far as the entrance to the courtyard, letting the guard know his intended route so the man could position himself where he might observe most of it without having to chase his charge. Stretching was important so he went through the process before jumping into the air a time or two, stoking the fire in his muscles so he could race as he wanted. Then the wind whipped around the courtyard that opened into the gardens proper, howling like one lost. The sky answered by opening itself, releasing all the moisture it held in thick sheets that hit the ground so hard it sounded angry.
Rivin had stood, staring out at the waving grey mass of water-filled space that had, a moment before, been his race track. Frowning he glanced at the guard. The man shrugged, entirely unhelpful, as if he did not care one way or the other. Knowing that he did not care one way or another somehow added insult to inconvenience. It pushed past his skin the knowledge that the person who he spent the most time with, who knew him better than any other living creature, was entirely indifferent to the thwarting of his plans.
Drooping his shoulders and casting a disparaging look towards the clouds that might have been for them, and might have been for whatever fates or gods were looking down he walked back to his room and changed again. His hunger seemed to have fled away down the path he was now not allowed to run after it down so he did not send for breakfast. Opting to read away the morning hours instead was a mistake. The fictional book he had allowed himself that week took a turn into the ridiculous, and not in an amusing way. Tossing the book aside in disgust he decided to go to the laboratory and see if Ilex had begun work yet. He hadn't been called for, but while they were in the middle of a project his help was generally expected.
The doctor was not usually at his work until an hour or two before noon so Rivin did not think before walking into the room he'd spent analyzing reports in for the last week or more. Ilex was there though, speaking to a woman that Rivin recognized but could not remember from where. They both looked up abruptly as he entered and the look on the doctor's face told Rivin he had made a mistake. A gesture was enough to have him jumping backward out the door and closing it behind him. Pressing himself to the wall outside it had taken a long moment of breathing evenly before the adrenaline that had skittered through his heart to disperse through his limbs released him from its grip. That look on the doctor's face meant pain, almost exclusively. Rivin could hope that the infraction had been minor enough, or the woman's information interesting enough, that it would be forgotten in the day's work.
Slipping down the hall on silent feet he tucked himself back into his room, hoping that unseen, unheard, would mean forgotten. Just after midday, two more guards arrived at his door, thrusting it open without a perfunctory knock. His own guard was with them, a resigned look on his face that was just tinged with something a little like worry as the three of them stepped over and pulled Rivin up from his chair. Fear rose stronger than bile in his throat, burning its way up to choke off his breath and down to crackle in his chest.
No.
Not again. Never again. He couldn't be helpless.
Though he knew it was pointless he began to struggle, thrashing almost against the iron grip of each guard. He could not relax enough to speak, or even scream.
In that place, the only emotion stronger than his terror boiled up to drown the freezing fear. It hit him so strong and quick that he grew dizzy, his vision blurring for a moment. When it returned the edges were already red, seeping over everything tinting it like blood. He had only a moment before the narrowing of his normal vision would be overwhelmed and he would lose all control. Looking up into the face of his normal guard he used the arms of the other two men, one on each of his arms to hoist himself up and kick the man with both his feet. The guard flew back through the open door and Rivin had just enough time to reach out and yank it shut before the two still in the room with him could react.
He knew no more.
~~~~
When Rivin had returned to his room after Ilex had told him to never try to contact the spirits again without permission he had not been afraid. The fear of the encounter had passed in the walk back to where his mother waited, to be replaced with something new.
He had been tormented by the spirits. Their coming had been the worst time of his life, except when he'd been beaten, and almost as bad. The helplessness had been almost complete, unable to make them stop, communicate with them, or even sleep through most nights. It had been his mother who came to his rescue; their combined effort that had allowed him to regain some level of control. Now the doctor was demanding that he give up something that had cost him fearing his sanity.
Why should he?
The only answer was that, if he did not, he would be shattered again.
His petulance and displeasure had been obvious as he'd stomped back into his room. Tail lashing from side to side in an unusual show of strong emotion from the normally placid boy. His mother had asked, at once, what had happened. His retelling of the conversation had been loud enough that the guard had opened the door to check on them. She had tried to quiet and soothe him, but it wasn't comfort he wanted. The word was not in his head that night, but what he wanted, was justice. It was not fair that the one thing he had done for himself, without Ilex's help was taken from him the moment it was discovered. The self-disgust he felt at his own innocence, not even trying to conceal his new ability from the doctor, exacerbated his feelings until he was pacing and shouting.
The door had opened and the guard had said that he was to return to the exam room. Fear had come, but it had been eaten in its infancy by the rage beginning to hollow out his beating heart. He told the man no. His mother had said his name sharper than he'd ever heard it before. It sounded like a shard of glass, edges so thin you wouldn't even feel them till after they'd sliced deep. It was fear in her voice, he realized in a part of his mind that was disconnecting itself and reeling in the lines. The guard stepped forward and, ignoring Rivin's childish attempt to fight, had scooped him off the floor and lifted him from the room. The last thing he saw before the door closed was the heartsick look on the face he knew best.
The hallway, seen sideways from the way he was being carried under the guard's arm began to look odd, pinkish. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear them even as he realized he was screaming, wordlessly before words filled it. Despite his best efforts to blink away whatever was maring his vision the coloration spread inward. The island of clear thought floating farther and farther from what he was feeling seemed worried about it, but Rivin only felt heat in his heart, his body, and lighting his mind. He burned so hot he wondered his the man carrying him like a sack did not feel it.
They arrived at the exam room and the boy was tossed down onto the floor. Ilex was there, standing with his hands clasped behind his back in the same way he had stood before having Rivin beaten. It didn't matter.
Leaping from where he'd been sprawled into a crouched position, Rivin looked directly at Ilex and hissed. The surprised look on the doctor's face was the last thing he saw before the slow crawl of red closed swallowed him and he knew no more.
The next thing he knew was darkness. A darkness so familiar that at first, he did not bother to fully awaken. A tiny, wakeful part of his might that might have been the remnant of the island of rational thought wondered if he was dead. If he was dead, he thought, it was comfortable, and he wanted to stay. Then something shifted beside him and his body began to regain awareness.
Rivin hurt. It wasn't a single hurt, nor a series of small hurts encompassing a large part of him. He was pain. It felt like he was being split open a hair's breadth at a time, throbbing to a beat that he eventually realized was his heart. If his heart was beating, he must not be dead, and if being dead hurt so much, he decided, he did not want to stay.
His mother's voice came from the darkness, singing to him one of her songs. He tried to reach for her, as he might have when he'd been very small, but the shift would have been blindingly painful, had he been able to see. Unconsiousness reached out to take him into its arms again and he embraced it.
The days that followed were a blur. His mother woke him to make him drink, but otherwise, let him sleep as much as he could. When he finally regained a greater level of consciousness he realized, from the sounds and smells as well as the darkness that he must be back in the cell, or one like it. It did not upset him, felt rather like relief. Perhaps everything outside had been a dream. But as his memories came back he realize he knew too much for it to be a dream. Trying to move was a journey over a landscape of learning new things about what his body could endure.
He was bruised over a significant portion of his body, including most of his ribs. He had hit his head, at least once, against something quite hard, and his right arm was broken. His wounds had been seen to, in as far as splinting and bandaging, but nothing had been done about the pain. When he had drunk more water, assisted by his mother's steady hands, he had managed to croak out a question.
What had happened?
She did not know, only that he had been taken from the room screaming, and then there had been commotion, guards running, shouting. Sometime later they had come to take her from the room to the cell where they now were. She had found him there, on a straw pallet bruised and broken, but medically seen to. There had been blood at the time, but the made healer had come to see him every day for the first three, until she said she was sure he would not die. It had been more than a week since then.
He had slept again, and when he woke, he had explained to his mother about what he remembered, being carried, the bleeding of his vision, the anger taking over. When he was done he had asked her if she knew what had happened to him. She was quiet for a time, petting his hair, but her body stiffer than she usually sat. When she did answer it was quiet, but there was anger in it.
It was another gift, she said, but not as though it were a gift; from his father.
It had started with the rain, breaking through the overcast sky. Rivin had woken in a good mood, thrusting himself from bed, his windows showed that the day was windy but fair enough to allow him a long run before he called for his breakfast. Stripping out of the small clothes he'd slept in he donned a fresh set and then trousers he'd had made specifically for running, forgoing shoes and throwing only a thin shirt over. It was growing chill, but he could outrun the chill. Feeling the grass of the lawn, the dirt of the paths, the fallen leaves shattering beneath his heels was one of the freest things he could feel.
He'd gotten as far as the entrance to the courtyard, letting the guard know his intended route so the man could position himself where he might observe most of it without having to chase his charge. Stretching was important so he went through the process before jumping into the air a time or two, stoking the fire in his muscles so he could race as he wanted. Then the wind whipped around the courtyard that opened into the gardens proper, howling like one lost. The sky answered by opening itself, releasing all the moisture it held in thick sheets that hit the ground so hard it sounded angry.
Rivin had stood, staring out at the waving grey mass of water-filled space that had, a moment before, been his race track. Frowning he glanced at the guard. The man shrugged, entirely unhelpful, as if he did not care one way or the other. Knowing that he did not care one way or another somehow added insult to inconvenience. It pushed past his skin the knowledge that the person who he spent the most time with, who knew him better than any other living creature, was entirely indifferent to the thwarting of his plans.
Drooping his shoulders and casting a disparaging look towards the clouds that might have been for them, and might have been for whatever fates or gods were looking down he walked back to his room and changed again. His hunger seemed to have fled away down the path he was now not allowed to run after it down so he did not send for breakfast. Opting to read away the morning hours instead was a mistake. The fictional book he had allowed himself that week took a turn into the ridiculous, and not in an amusing way. Tossing the book aside in disgust he decided to go to the laboratory and see if Ilex had begun work yet. He hadn't been called for, but while they were in the middle of a project his help was generally expected.
The doctor was not usually at his work until an hour or two before noon so Rivin did not think before walking into the room he'd spent analyzing reports in for the last week or more. Ilex was there though, speaking to a woman that Rivin recognized but could not remember from where. They both looked up abruptly as he entered and the look on the doctor's face told Rivin he had made a mistake. A gesture was enough to have him jumping backward out the door and closing it behind him. Pressing himself to the wall outside it had taken a long moment of breathing evenly before the adrenaline that had skittered through his heart to disperse through his limbs released him from its grip. That look on the doctor's face meant pain, almost exclusively. Rivin could hope that the infraction had been minor enough, or the woman's information interesting enough, that it would be forgotten in the day's work.
Slipping down the hall on silent feet he tucked himself back into his room, hoping that unseen, unheard, would mean forgotten. Just after midday, two more guards arrived at his door, thrusting it open without a perfunctory knock. His own guard was with them, a resigned look on his face that was just tinged with something a little like worry as the three of them stepped over and pulled Rivin up from his chair. Fear rose stronger than bile in his throat, burning its way up to choke off his breath and down to crackle in his chest.
No.
Not again. Never again. He couldn't be helpless.
Though he knew it was pointless he began to struggle, thrashing almost against the iron grip of each guard. He could not relax enough to speak, or even scream.
In that place, the only emotion stronger than his terror boiled up to drown the freezing fear. It hit him so strong and quick that he grew dizzy, his vision blurring for a moment. When it returned the edges were already red, seeping over everything tinting it like blood. He had only a moment before the narrowing of his normal vision would be overwhelmed and he would lose all control. Looking up into the face of his normal guard he used the arms of the other two men, one on each of his arms to hoist himself up and kick the man with both his feet. The guard flew back through the open door and Rivin had just enough time to reach out and yank it shut before the two still in the room with him could react.
He knew no more.
~~~~
When Rivin had returned to his room after Ilex had told him to never try to contact the spirits again without permission he had not been afraid. The fear of the encounter had passed in the walk back to where his mother waited, to be replaced with something new.
He had been tormented by the spirits. Their coming had been the worst time of his life, except when he'd been beaten, and almost as bad. The helplessness had been almost complete, unable to make them stop, communicate with them, or even sleep through most nights. It had been his mother who came to his rescue; their combined effort that had allowed him to regain some level of control. Now the doctor was demanding that he give up something that had cost him fearing his sanity.
Why should he?
The only answer was that, if he did not, he would be shattered again.
His petulance and displeasure had been obvious as he'd stomped back into his room. Tail lashing from side to side in an unusual show of strong emotion from the normally placid boy. His mother had asked, at once, what had happened. His retelling of the conversation had been loud enough that the guard had opened the door to check on them. She had tried to quiet and soothe him, but it wasn't comfort he wanted. The word was not in his head that night, but what he wanted, was justice. It was not fair that the one thing he had done for himself, without Ilex's help was taken from him the moment it was discovered. The self-disgust he felt at his own innocence, not even trying to conceal his new ability from the doctor, exacerbated his feelings until he was pacing and shouting.
The door had opened and the guard had said that he was to return to the exam room. Fear had come, but it had been eaten in its infancy by the rage beginning to hollow out his beating heart. He told the man no. His mother had said his name sharper than he'd ever heard it before. It sounded like a shard of glass, edges so thin you wouldn't even feel them till after they'd sliced deep. It was fear in her voice, he realized in a part of his mind that was disconnecting itself and reeling in the lines. The guard stepped forward and, ignoring Rivin's childish attempt to fight, had scooped him off the floor and lifted him from the room. The last thing he saw before the door closed was the heartsick look on the face he knew best.
The hallway, seen sideways from the way he was being carried under the guard's arm began to look odd, pinkish. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear them even as he realized he was screaming, wordlessly before words filled it. Despite his best efforts to blink away whatever was maring his vision the coloration spread inward. The island of clear thought floating farther and farther from what he was feeling seemed worried about it, but Rivin only felt heat in his heart, his body, and lighting his mind. He burned so hot he wondered his the man carrying him like a sack did not feel it.
They arrived at the exam room and the boy was tossed down onto the floor. Ilex was there, standing with his hands clasped behind his back in the same way he had stood before having Rivin beaten. It didn't matter.
Leaping from where he'd been sprawled into a crouched position, Rivin looked directly at Ilex and hissed. The surprised look on the doctor's face was the last thing he saw before the slow crawl of red closed swallowed him and he knew no more.
The next thing he knew was darkness. A darkness so familiar that at first, he did not bother to fully awaken. A tiny, wakeful part of his might that might have been the remnant of the island of rational thought wondered if he was dead. If he was dead, he thought, it was comfortable, and he wanted to stay. Then something shifted beside him and his body began to regain awareness.
Rivin hurt. It wasn't a single hurt, nor a series of small hurts encompassing a large part of him. He was pain. It felt like he was being split open a hair's breadth at a time, throbbing to a beat that he eventually realized was his heart. If his heart was beating, he must not be dead, and if being dead hurt so much, he decided, he did not want to stay.
His mother's voice came from the darkness, singing to him one of her songs. He tried to reach for her, as he might have when he'd been very small, but the shift would have been blindingly painful, had he been able to see. Unconsiousness reached out to take him into its arms again and he embraced it.
The days that followed were a blur. His mother woke him to make him drink, but otherwise, let him sleep as much as he could. When he finally regained a greater level of consciousness he realized, from the sounds and smells as well as the darkness that he must be back in the cell, or one like it. It did not upset him, felt rather like relief. Perhaps everything outside had been a dream. But as his memories came back he realize he knew too much for it to be a dream. Trying to move was a journey over a landscape of learning new things about what his body could endure.
He was bruised over a significant portion of his body, including most of his ribs. He had hit his head, at least once, against something quite hard, and his right arm was broken. His wounds had been seen to, in as far as splinting and bandaging, but nothing had been done about the pain. When he had drunk more water, assisted by his mother's steady hands, he had managed to croak out a question.
What had happened?
She did not know, only that he had been taken from the room screaming, and then there had been commotion, guards running, shouting. Sometime later they had come to take her from the room to the cell where they now were. She had found him there, on a straw pallet bruised and broken, but medically seen to. There had been blood at the time, but the made healer had come to see him every day for the first three, until she said she was sure he would not die. It had been more than a week since then.
He had slept again, and when he woke, he had explained to his mother about what he remembered, being carried, the bleeding of his vision, the anger taking over. When he was done he had asked her if she knew what had happened to him. She was quiet for a time, petting his hair, but her body stiffer than she usually sat. When she did answer it was quiet, but there was anger in it.
It was another gift, she said, but not as though it were a gift; from his father.
