My dearest Hazel, wrote the pen upon a scrap piece of parchment, let the gods proclaim that I am alive! You must know that my breath still lingers, and that my heart still beats ever in your favour! Oh, my precious Hazel! My beloved Hazel…
Christel Saan let out a dismal cry when his stupid, jittering hand knocked over his only inkpot. A man, once so brave and valiant, now wept over his own words as the spilt ink smothered them, in the same manner as a great black cloud smothers the sun. Swift and agitated, he cast his pen aside and lifted the parchment, but it was too late.
In a terrible flash he had a vision. He saw her eyes – yes, her wonderful, desperate eyes. Tears rolled down her rosy cheeks like diamonds, and he heard her voice growing ever distant. He wanted so desperately to remember the sound of her voice as it was: so confident, a melody as sweet as the taste of her lips. For some reason he remembered the taste of honeyed wine. And then her screams cut through him like a great-sword. She was calling to him.
“Hazel!” he screamed, as his mind returned him to the darkness of his cell. He scrunched up the spoiled parchment and tossed it aside, before rolling on to his flea-ridden bed. “Hazel…” he whispered.
Sleep did not come easily to Christel that night, as he was tormented once again by his own thoughts. But there were other things, too, that disturbed his rest. Often, when the moon was full and bright, pale streaks of twilight would shine through his barred window and land in a puddle on the cold stone floor. There were noises; a dripping tap, a squealing door, a distant groan or a shadowy cry for help. Christel struggled to distinguish real from mere visions.
His cage was small, although large enough for him to stretch his arms and pace back and forth (which he did very regularly). This space housed only a small bed and a chamber pot. From behind the black iron bars Christel had a feeble view of a brick hallway, illuminated only by the flame of a torch that licked graciously at the foul-smelling air.
He dreamt of her again, when at last sleep took him, and it was at once both a blessing and a curse. He knew that for some time his memory had been faltering – and at the whim of the baron who held him here – and yet in his dreams he seemed to always find the truth. That being said, they were often vague and disjointed.
She was standing upon the tall dunes of the Morroak Desert east of the city of Eden. The wind was pulling at her dress and Christel remembered the day they first met. She had worn that dress, as red as the petals of a blossoming rose. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils and the ring of clashing swords echoed somewhere in the back of his mind. “So are you going to tell me your name?” echoed a voice, faintly. “Hazel…” replied another voice. Suddenly the wind swept the sand from under her feet and she appeared right in front of him. In her hands was a necklace of grand benezian crystal and it glimmered brightly until like the sand it was swept away. Suddenly Christel could hear crying – an infant squirming in her arms, soothed by her soft sweet voice…
When Christel awoke it was morning. Lemara, one of his gaolers, was standing outside his cell. Despite her pretty complexion, her gaze was somewhat unpleasant and her voice was stern and hard. “Get up,” she demanded. “The baroness has summoned you. We have orders to make you look clean and presentable.” Christel was lying with his hands behind his head, and he managed a smile. “Sweet dreams?” said Lemara.
He sat up and turned to her. “Oh, remarkably sweet! Wonderfully sweet! Like honey, my dear.”
“Alright. Alright. You need only say it once-”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday, today. Did you know?” He recalled the strokes he had carved into the floor beneath his bed. They had not permitted him to keep a calendar, so he kept it in secret. Today he would mark his three hundred and sixtieth day. To think that one year ago he had held his newborn child in his arms. He recalled how soft and warm her skin was, and how she smiled a toothless smile, bearing eyes just like her mother’s. “My beloved Carolyne,” he whispered. “How beautiful you must have grown.”
“Happy bloody birthday,” Lemara scowled, and she unlocked the door to his cell. “Now come this way; and no tricks or I’ll break your legs.”
Christel smirked, “Then you’d have to carry me.”
“Shut up! The baroness has invited you to breakfast. Seems she wishes to talk to you.”
The ragged thief took a quick step back and glanced down at the stump on his right hand, where half his little finger used to be. He shuddered at the memory; the old baron’s men holding him against the table as the bloody cleaver crushed through flesh and bone. He shook the thought away, covered his mutilated hand and forced himself to smile. “I’m flattered, really, I am. Um, I don’t suppose I can refuse…” his finger started to ache. “The barons aren’t exactly great at conversation.” His stomach then started to groan. When had he last eaten? “Oh, but I am hungry.”
Naturally then, Christel could hardly remember when the last baron had allowed him to bathe, but it had certainly been a long time. His skin, once smooth and tan, was now dirty and oily with filth. As was his hair, once neat with golden curls, it was now a shock of dust and fleas. They had invaded his scrabbly beard, too, and it itched constantly. Interestingly, though, his dark groggy appearance brought out the colour and beauty of his eyes, which were like blue pearls.
Christel winced when the baron’s serving maids forced him into the tub of scolding hot water. They then proceeded to scrub his skin until it was red and raw, and they seemed to show no mercy while doing so. While his skin was being cleaned, another lady tended to his hair, and he hoped she would shave him completely so as to remove the fleas that irritated him so much. She did just that. When he was clean they dressed him in a black doublet and trousers (not his preferred attire) and returned him to the guard Lemara so she could deliver him to the baroness.
Lemara tilted her head, hmph, when she saw Christel, as she had never before seen him in such a state. In just a short time, the thief had turned from a pitiful slob to a handsome man – although, he was not quite the same without his golden hair. He thought he noticed a slight affection in her gaze towards him, but whatever it was it died quickly.
“How do I look?” Christel said, with a touch of a smile. Lemara once again scowled at him and urged him to follow her.
Christel’s cell existed in a labyrinth of hallways and rooms. Based on the grim gothic architecture and the fact that the moon often shined above his window, the thief assumed that he was being held in some kind of old castle. That made escaping no less difficult, as this labyrinth was capable of riddling the mind, and in all the time that he had spent here, he was yet to gain any kind of bearing.
And yet, as he was led down the dark and foreboding hallway, Christel recognised a particular scent; blood and chocolate, caramel and decay, honey and tears. The thief was yet to meet this new baroness, but he was long to forget the atrocities performed by the last baron. Her sweetness would not cover up the foul truth of this place. He sensed a trap.
Through a massive, groaning set of doors he entered the dining room. The light of the morning sun shot through a stain-glass window and bounced off the shining tiles, casting the entre room in gold. The room was grand enough to fit a grim chandelier upon the ceiling, and a long rectangular table, placed strictly in the centre. Upon this table was an assortment of sweets and fruits, pasties and jugs of spiced wine or pots of tea. “So the baroness has a sweet-tooth,” Christel mused, as he at last made eye contact with the woman who held him here.
He noticed first that her eyes were of jade, but they were almost unnatural, as if they were rare gems emblazoned into her pale ash-coloured skin. Her stare, and her smile of crimson lips, hid passively behind the lush coils of her hair, which was as black as pitch. The baroness brushed it away in order to lift a teacup to her lips; she sniffed the beverage first, sipped at it, and then set it back down. “Christel,” she called, “you’re late. I’ll have to call for a new pot of tea.”
Christel smiled. He could at least admit that while the baroness may be perhaps no less evil, she was at least prettier than his last captor. “My apologies, my lady,” he inclined his head as he spoke, as if it were a question. When the baroness did not react, he continued. “You see I had some trouble picking the right doublet. You have very little range here in regards to modern fashion…” This was a clue that Christel had dawned over for some time. Whatever this place was, it was old. Even the baroness wore a subtle green dress to match her eyes, and a string of diamonds around her neck. “Have you never been to Taelliwey?” he continued. “The people there have the most stunning displays.”
The baroness’ eyes were fixed on the young thief, and her red lips twisted into a smile. “Thank you, my dear Christel, but I did not invite you here so you could give me fashion advice.”
“Then why did you invite me here?”
The baroness interlocked her fingers and placed them under her chin, and for a moment she reminded Christel of a child. “To chat.” The words seemed to glide from her lips; they had a nauseating effect. “And, of course, you must be hungry.” She gestured towards the masses of food spread about the table. “I heard that the baron was not so generous with his food.”
Christel chuckled. The baron knew exactly how much to feed him; just enough to keep him alive, but never enough to still the pain of starvation. “And how is the baron these days?” Christel asked.
The baroness raised her eyebrows at him. “The baron? You drove a fork through his eye, how do you think he is?” Christel remembered the surprising weight of the silver fork he had stolen, and the icy thrill that came over him as he charged the baron with it. What followed was a great deal of blood, screams and beatings. “He’s alive,” the baroness said bluntly. “Oh, but he does have a dashing eye-patch now.”
“I think it’s a shame. He always did have such pretty eyes, though I don’t quite regret what I did.’
“Beside the point. It was agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to have the baron removed from duty. As you know well, he has a short temper, and we couldn’t risk letting him kill you. But now we’ve wasted enough time already. Sit down, eat, we have much to discuss.”
A butler approached – a kindly old man with an odd scar upon his cheek – and he sat Christel down in a chair opposite to the baroness. He then offered the young thief some tea – chamomile and spiced apple. Christel drank it down, and then without thought he began to have his fill of the food set out before him. He could feel the baroness’ eyes crawling over his skin.
“Let us get the formalities out of the way, shall we? Because I have now assumed the baron’s position I expect you to play by new rules. For starters, you may address me as ‘my lady’ or ‘ma’am’ if you like. As you can imagine, I’m not at liberty to reveal my name, nor any aspect of my true identity. Understood?”
Christel smiled and tossed a grape into his mouth. “Absolutely, my lady.”
“Good. Now I’d like to inform you that I am going to be kind to you Christel. I believe that the baron’s methods of obtaining information – torture – is barbaric and undoubtedly ineffective. But don’t let that mislead you. If you try anything against me, and I mean anything at all, well, I have ways of inflicting pain that even the baron doesn’t know about.” As she spoke she drove a silver knife through a small fruit pie, letting the sugary purple mince spill onto her plate. “Understood?”
Christel moved his left hand to the stub on his little finger. “Yes, my lady.” And then he shook his head, sipped at his tea and said, “So I can assume you are still looking for it, then?”
“Oh, so you do recall why you are here? I was afraid of how much of your mind the baron might have broken off.”
Sudden dark flashes invaded his mind, and he recalled being tied down as syringes dug into his skin. Christel smiled and pulled a plate of sweetcakes towards him. “I’ll admit that my memory is broken. Whatever the baron did to me, it affected my mind. I can only assume he was trying to make me forget myself entirely.”
The baroness lifted her head, and Christel caught a better glimpse of her jade eyes. “The baron’s methods were weak,” she declared. “But it wasn’t you he wanted you to forget.” She paused for a moment; unlike the baron this lady seemed capable of choosing her words carefully. She slipped a grape into her mouth. “Let’s talk about what I want. I’ve been remarkably ill-informed of your circumstances, although I am most intrigued by you. Tell me, do you still remember her face? Or is she now but a shadow fading away in the back of your mind?”
With wide eyes, Christel whispered, “Hazel…”
A smug smile touched the baroness’ lips. “You must miss her. I know what it’s like, I was in love too once, believe it or not. I bet you are wondering about your sweet daughter, too.” She noticed this time that Christel made no sly remark, no fake smile or witty comeback; he only sunk back into his chair, frightened. “I know you’re losing them. The mind is fragile and yours is gravely wounded. But I can help you remember them.”
“In return for the key?”
The baroness smiled. “Oh, you needn’t worry about holding your tongue. Unlike the baron I have more subtle ways of getting the truth.”
She gestured towards the food laid out before them and at first Christel didn’t quite understand, but then he dropped what he was eating. “Poison…”
“A truth serum, actually; courtesy of your old friend Devin Shephard. I want you to tell me what happened.”
At that Christel managed to laugh. “What happened? You guys just spent a year scrambling my brain and now you want me to tell you what happened? That’s rich!”
“Try to focus, Christel. I want to know everything; about Merida and the other goddesses, about Grey Skull, and the anomalies (your friend Arlandra included), and I want to know about the war as well.”
“By the divine, you really have been living under a rock, haven’t you?”
Although Christel saw the genius in the baroness’ plan. She wanted to become his friend – to use words rather than pain. At the same time, he knew that he would die if he didn’t eat (and he didn’t plan on dying) and yet so long as he accepted her food he would be forced to tell her everything. She left the decision to him, and he was tired of being hungry.
ns 172.69.59.150da2