Knightshade Ch. 01

It is cold. Cold and dark.

The darkness is not the worst part. No, darkness I could deal with. Even as a child I knew that what lived at night breathed during the day as well. It is not the darkness. It is the soft plop plop of a liquid dripping against the hard floor that I am laid out on, too cold to move. Too useless to move.

Useless. Just like my words, my pleas, my entire being here. It is all useless, like a bad dream that does not seem to want to end.

I breath and stare above at the nothingness. There are other sounds than just the droplets. Sometimes the crack of bones and screams. Sometimes the whimpers of those slowly dying. After they die, they are not burnt or buried. No, the prisoner's bodies are left to rot. I try not to stare at them through the gaps of my cage, instead I look towards another caged woman. She looks back at me, and through our silent stares we share our pain.

Today she is turned away, and I am left with my thoughts.

I think I have fallen into a fantasy world. It is the only way I can explain the antiquity that surrounds me. It would explain the fear the strange people had towards me. I do not look, or sound like them. It would explain the torture, the horror at the sight of my revealing clothing, my tattoos.

I fear that I will never leave this place, but I also fear that they will not allow me to die.

Breathing in the cold air, I shudder at the sudden echo of footsteps that stop beside my cell. The door is swung open, and I try to shut my eyes against the shadow of my torturer, but the rough tug on the snarls of my hair forces my eyes open. There are two this time. The new one, taller and broader that the wiry figure of my torturer, says words. The other lets out a grunt of agreement, and I am dropped. I try to roll away, but my ankles are caught, and my body is pulled closer to them. A swift kick collides with my side, followed by the same question that I have memorized but do not understand "et unde venis et quo vadis?"

I groan, coughing at the mixture of blood and spit that clogs my throat.

I have given up trying to beg. My words, and their own confusion, only seem to aggravate them further. Instead, with painful effort I roll to my side in an attempt to breath. Each inhale is painful and sharp.

Before I can satisfy my lungs, rough hands grab my arms to hoist me up. I am pushed to lay on my back. My torturer hovers near, speaking rapidly as the new man digs his fingers into my bruised collarbone, then lower to grip my breasts.

They have not stripped me yet, have not seen the rest of my tattoos or piercings. What already shows is enough for them to make some sort of assumption about me.

The cold air hits my legs as my dress is pushed up to rest around my stomach. This is different. This is new. Struggling against the torturers hands that push back my shoulders, I try to buck the new man off of me. I am slapped, my head hitting the stone beneath me and dark speckles mar my sight. My skin burns at his touch, stings from the long cuts he is making on my thighs. I moan in pain, but I cannot move my limbs.

The sound of a knife clatters to the ground, and the feel of fingers touching higher and higher make his intentions clear. I need to stop this. I need to get away. I need to move.

But I cannot make my body listen. Instead it lays limp as the man's fingers grip my panties and rip them away from my body. I do not breathe as he roughly thrusts fingers into me. His face is so close to mine all I can see is his grin at his actions.

I groan with pain as I try again to buck him from me, but this only allows him to slide his fingers deeper and eggs him on.

Minutes pass, and his fingers continue to roughly move within my dry channel. It burns. I cry out as he fingers me once more roughly before finally withdrawing his hand. I hope he is done.

I hope this is over.

As the sound of clothing being removed echoes in my small cell, I realize that it is not over. The cry of pain that is tore from my throat as he suddenly enters me is horrific. The man slams into me, saying words that I do not understand. He seems to enjoy my agony.

His hips rub the cuts that he made on my thighs, tearing them open more and more. We are both bloody, the wet sounds of him pounding into me echo around us.

Turning my head to look away, I stare instead at my white lacy panties contrasting against the dirty cell floor.

I think I hear the other caged woman yelling, pounding against the bars of her prison for this hideous crime to stop. I think, but I am not sure. I cannot keep up. I cannot understand.

...

My name is Juliette. I was a writer, before... all of this.

Writing had always been a passion of mine, so given the opportunity straight out of college to work at a small publishing agency seemed almost like fate. James, my husband, had been more ecstatic than I was, I think. We had been high school sweethearts. We had watched each other grow, been there when we tried and fail, and tried again.

Life had started moving the way it was supposed to, we were finally getting where we wanted to be.

Only, the writing world was not what I had built it up to be in my mind. I quickly found that it was biased. It was who you knew rather than the quality of your work.

The more I found my view of this world as being inaccurate, the more disillusioned I became in becoming an author myself.

In truth, I was angry. Angry and bitter at the years I had spent working towards something that I know knew would never happen. Although angry, I believe that I would have kept at it, I would have kept trying, if Jamie hadn't...

If he had not been so reckless that night, had only slowed down a little as he drove down that crooked road. If he had not drank that last drink before heading home. I know I should not blame him; I know it was a mistake but even after two years in the grave I do not think I have forgiven him.

I do not know if I ever will.

I believe that is what drove me to want to escape, to finally move from my home in the States, to a small town in the middle of nowhere Britain in order begin my new career of waitressing at 25 years old.

I am now 27, just a waitress and a run-a-way from my past.

But, then it happened. I cannot explain how it happened. It had all been so sudden. Living in the countryside was something that I adored. It had become a habit of mine to walk in the mornings and explore the broad hills that made up this country.

It had rained the night before, making everything so green. I wore my long white sundress, a wide-brimmed hat settled on wild curly hair, my yellow rainboots. I had not thought to question how slick the trails would be. I had not thought that I would hit my head quite so hard against the stones.

When I finally woke, I was in a field surrounded by people, strange people whose words I could not understand. They had parted for men in armor. These men had taken one look at my bare tattooed shoulders and thin dress before they apprehended me.

I should have run. I should have fought harder, angered them into killing me right then and right there.

Now, instead, I live in pain. It has been nothing but pain for days now.

...

This new man visits multiple times. I can no longer move, no longer think.

...

I believe I am finally dying. I do not believe in angels, but the cool touch that gently caresses my cheek is not human. It is heavenly.

It is taken away too soon.

...

I feel strong hands on me, and I try to struggle against them. But I have not had food or water for days now. I can tell that my body is failing me.

The grip that has pulled me away from the ground is solid, no matter how much I wiggle I cannot seem to get them to release me. I wonder what they are doing with me, have they found a new way to torture me? A new way to pull secrets from my mouth that I do not even have. Feeling a sudden surge of fear, I flop myself around once more.

I feel myself falling, I am slipping through their arms before they stabilize themselves and me. Then there are soft whispers in my ear. It is in a language that is familiar even though it is not my own, I cannot place it, but it stills me.

I listen to words as I fall slowly back into darkness.

...

I wake gasping on frozen air and cringing in pain.

The ache of my injuries shoots through my nerves, making my fingers scrunch the soft fabric of blankets. Blankets? My eyes shoot open at the unfamiliar feel, and I blink back against sunlight.

It is too bright to see, but I feel that I am moving—swinging in time with the sound of wheels. The brightness and movement are so different from what I have become accustomed to that it does not make any sense to me.

Is this heaven?

No, I cannot be dead. If I were dead then my body and between my thighs would not hurt so much.

I do not know how long I have been unconscious, but I know I am no longer in my cage. This confusing knowledge and the sudden heat that burns across my body is too much. I need to think. I need to cool off in order to think.

Quickly sitting up, I begin to tear off the layers of blanket that is tucked around me. I feel erratic in my movements, my arms seemingly moving on their own and my focus zoomed only to the feel of cloth between my fingertips, but I know that I will die if I stay under the heat of these blankets. As I get to the last layer, I feel a hand restraining my arms. My eyes have adjusted enough to the light that when I turn my head, I see it is the other caged woman who holds me still.

In the light, I see that she is thin from imprisonment, but she has the composure of a queen as she looks me in the eye. Her long dark hair curtains us as she whispers to me soothingly, her thin hands rubbing my arm. The rhythm of her words and the sway of wheels make me tired. For some reason more tired than I have felt in days.

Somehow we have escaped, somehow we are still alive. I might survive this strange world. Hope begins to bloom in my chest at the thought of perhaps finding my way home. I think she can read my mind when she smiles softly. I smile back and find her hand to clench it. I cannot describe the feeling that tightens in my chest, but I feel the light relief that is accompanied by the knowledge that I have found an ally in this strange world.

A deep voice interrupts this moment, and I turn towards the sound.

Sitting close to us is two men in armor. One is large and bald and the other has dark curls framing his face. I feel the fear beginning to return to clog my throat as they stare at me.

The woman is talking again, only this time it is to them and it is hurried. They listen, and I catch as their eyes move from her, to me, to my bare shoulders, and finally to fall to my lap with looks of disgust. I feel ill and ashamed of what she has told them, what they now know.

The man with curly hair turns to speak to me, but the woman interrupts, shaking her head as she talks. He speaks back to her, over her, and she growls in response. I try to follow their words, the inflections, the tone, in order to understand what relationship they have. To understand whether we are in danger, but I am distracted by the large bald man who is moving towards me. As he stops right beside me, leaning on his heels, he grabs the blankets to begin tugging them up and away from my legs.

Although only moments before I had craved the feel of the fresh air, I now feel the coverings are necessary for protection. But I hesitate. The man is concentrated on removing them, ignoring me, and giving me a brief opportunity to inspect him. His face is scarred, and battle worn. A fighter, a killer. My heart races with fear at the looks of him. I do not think the woman would allow this scary man to hurt me, but I cannot think properly. It is too similar to before, and I can't contain myself.

"No, please!" I scream, pulling the blankets tighter around me while scooting as far back against what I now realize is the inside of a wagon, "don't touch me."

My words draw the attention of the curly-haired man and the caged woman. She is beside me in a second, soothingly explaining something while pulling the blankets to cover my upper body. Moving swiftly, under the cover of the blanket, she pulls my sundress over my head and I realize that is it soaked in blood. My blood. I cringe as it hits the floor with a wet thud.

I am still staring at the red against my white dress when I feel air hitting my legs. Before I can protest, the woman is holding me down as I feel the cleaning burn of alcohol and bandages being wrapped around my cuts.

I understand that my wounds need taken care of, otherwise I will die. I understand that this is necessary so that my cuts will not fester and rot, but I hate the pain, and I hate them, and I hate this horrid world in which I find myself.

I feel the puncture of a needle as the bald man in armor begins stitching my cuts.

I try not to scream.

...

They are knights, I figure out, saving us from something—someone—chasing us.

Despite the serious circumstances, the knights act silly and brotherly towards each other. A bald one, a different one from my healer, and one with long blond hair push and tease a younger one. They goad the young knight with bushy hair and light fuzzy facial hair into reacting, and then they laugh at his reaction.

I watch them from my place in the wagon, fascinated by their comradery. The bald man that healed me rides with them. He smiles at their antics, but does not join in. The curly-haired knight that spoke with the other-caged woman is the leader, I think. He speaks with a handsome knight as they ride, but from their faces I can tell they argue.

What about? I cannot tell.

Sometimes I see another knight, the last knight of this group. A man with long dark hair, braided. His face is tattooed, and he looks feral compared to the others. He speaks little, and too low for me to hear. When he rides past, I feel his stare on me.

Only once I stared back, but when his eyes met mine I felt that he could see everything, knew everything. Now I avoid his look, I sink lower into the blankets in fear that he will pinpoint how out of place I truly am here.

Since my wounds have been taken care of, no one has tried to speak to me. Occasionally, as I listen to the others, I catch words that I understand. They do not speak the language that my torturer did. They speak something else; it sounds like distorted Welsh. But some words are not so different than the ones I learned in college. If I could only get the hang of the similarities, perhaps I could talk to them.

I try to be patient and listen, learn. There is nothing else to do as we move slowly, but surely, up the mountain.

I wish that I knew exactly where I was, but the customs appear medieval and I begin to wonder if I should be wondering what time I am in rather than place.

Finally, after what feels like days, it is time to camp. I am allowed to walk around the encampment wrapped in my blanket. I avoid the knights and the people for fear of their curious looks. Instead I choose to weave my way through the snow, into the engulfing quiet of this winter.

It is clean here. So unlike the winters that I have experienced in my own home. It seems so untainted here in comparison. It would be beautiful if I were not so scared and alone.

Distracted in my thoughts, I wander back. My head is down, and my snarled, curly hair covers my face as I walk towards my wagon. Not watching where I head, I run into someone. He utters angry words and I peak through my hair. It is an older man in robes, I recognize him as the lord of the land I was imprisoned within.

He turns towards me in disgust and pushes me away, making me stumble. "Ipsa est pythonissam!"

I do not know what it means, but when he moves in to grab me by the hair and begins pulling away the blanket I am wrapped in I panic. My fingers scratch at his hands, his face, but he continues until the cloth falls to the ground and I am left shivering naked.

Despite the cold, I feel heat rise in my cheeks as the stares of the knights weigh against me. What they see must be savage to them. My shivering body is covered in black tattoos. A swooping dragon graces my stomach, a snake wraps around my hip, the falcon across my shoulder and collar bone connect with the bouquet of hemlock that falls between my breasts and down my breastbone.

Worst of all is the barbells that I have pierced through the nipples of my breasts.

I want to scream that body-modification is normal where I am from, but I know that the added strangeness of my language will only prompt them to kill me with their sharp swords on the spot.

I crumble under the weight of his throw, my body hitting the frozen ground below me as he screams, "Malefica!"

That I understand. I realize suddenly that I am not savage to them, I am pure evil.

A witch.

A religious man that I know rides with the knights, begins praying to the cross he holds in his hand, terrifies eyes turned towards me.

I sit up quickly, moving away from the cold snow to a crouch. "no, I am not!" I whisper as I shake my head, hands out in a meagre defense.

I do not think I can take anymore torture. I look pleadingly towards the large man that has healed my wounds, but he only stares back. As I turn towards the other men, I feel fingers in my hair; they pull me back until I am leaning against a leg. I begin tearing at the hand that holds me still until the shine of a blade is rested against my throat.

I feel the prick and, knowing I am going to die, I close my eyes. I wait, but the pain never comes. Instead a whirring sound forces my eyes open and I see the other woman in front of me. A long bow is in her hand. A thud sounds behind me, I am released, and I understand where her arrow has gone.

The lord is dead, the arrow sticks out from his chest. I feel his lifeless hand that has fallen on my leg, see his glazed over eyes. Feeling sick to my stomach, I crawl a little away from the body and my blanket which it has fallen on.

At the sound of angry screams, I turn away from the body.

The once-caged woman looks like an angry goddess as she berates the knights, her hand indicating towards me. They look ashamed but they do not move to help me from the cold snow. I understand that they still fear me and my strangeness. I think that, because of that fear, they will leave me here to die.

I hurt so much from the impact with the ground that I wonder if the numbness from the cold a blessing in disguise will be. I know I will not survive the cold, and I already feel myself giving up.

Then, I am being lifted; a warm cloak is wrapped around me.

I open my eyes to find that I am in the arms of the knight with dark braids that I fear. He does not say anything as he looks down at me.

His dark eyes are examining my face, then the falcon tattoo that covers my shoulder and collarbone. It makes me nervous and uncomfortable for him to inspect me so. I do the only thing I can think of, and I lift my fingers to follow the shapes tattooed on his face. Trying to, in some way, communicate that I am not so different. He stills. His eyes stare into mine briefly before he moves us away from the clearing and towards his horse.

As we walk past the religious man, he hisses something to the knight. The knight ignores him and continues. He is so warm, and I tuck my face into his chest, the tears falling freely through the pain, and cold, and the humiliation.

Although I still fear him, I understand that without his kindness, I will die.

...

Neither of us acknowledge the other as we ride a little while away from the main encampment. I do not think this is out of routine for this knight. I rarely saw him linger too long around the others, and when he did it always seemed for a purpose. From his interactions with the leader, I had surmised that he is some sort of scout. He checks the areas towards which the knights lead the people to safety, checks for whoever it is we are running from.