The Seeker Ch. 03

Hi readers, thanks for sticking with me through the long plot-building. This chapter gets pretty dark, so please skip if you need to. Those of you who like things a little dark, I hope you enjoy.

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She sat back in the oversized rocking chair, her legs crossing at the ankles, using the large bed as an ottoman as she faced the door. Her left hand twirled her dagger, spinning it mindlessly from hilt to blade to hilt again. Occasionally she tossed it up in the air and caught it by the blade between two fingers. Her right hand dangled over the arm of the chair, holding the ceramic cup by the rim. She hummed the melancholy tune of an old Oden mourning song.

A knock sounded at the door. She neither flinched nor acknowledged it, knowing perfectly well it was just old Sonya bringing her another tray of delicious food. Her good friend Sonya, she was indeed a fantastic cooker of soup. The reisnaig had not been lying about that. She raised her cup in mock salute to her absent tormentor and drank the rest of the benyecca down. Coward, she thought again bitterly.

Since that first night, when she had awoken to this room in the cabin that now made up her entire world, she had not seen, heard or felt from the reisnaig at all. She guessed it had been a week since then, but she had no way of knowing. Through bewitchment or trickery, the window in the room was dark whenever she was awake, so she had to rely on the passing of meals and the number of times she slept and woke. She gave him credit for his manipulation and predation. How intimidated she had been, how imposing and dangerous he had seemed. She laughed at it all now.

The door opened, and old grey eyes peered in. "Sonya," she crooned. "Let me guess. You've brought me soup."

Sonya's head bobbed up and down twice, the cook's wrinkled and oversized earlobes wobbling in time to the nod. Her head disappeared and a moment later, a large and perfectly round backside pushed the door open as she walked in backwards, a wooden tray balancing between her two gnarled hands. She turned around and set the tray down on the round table that now sat in the center of the room. With a critical eye, she peered down at it. Apparently judging the amount of soup sloshed over the side of the bowl to be inconsequential and obligatory, she nodded once to herself in satisfaction, and looked up at Laiyla, beaming. Laiyla felt her face break into a genuine smile, despite her best efforts to remain brooding and bitter.

What the reisnaig had failed to mention when he had bragged to Laiyla about Sonya's excellent soup making abilities was the fact that Sonya hardly made anything other than soup, aside from the accompanying bread. Actually, Sonya hardly did anything at all other than make soup and bread. That first night, Sonya had pushed herself backwards into her room to bring her a tray of sausage and spice soup. Laiyla had cast her net over her and had felt a simple mind swirling with thoughts of ingredients and cooking instruments. Sonya had approached her fearlessly, despite the Fae's defensive stance with her newly gained back dagger in her hand, held out as if to strike. Sonya wasn't human, but she wasn't Fae. Laiyla suspected she was a mix of perhaps Elvin and Dwarf but had felt neither the dark cunning of the Elves, nor the mindless violence of the Dwarves.

Sonya was kind and gentle with her. She came to Laiyla often, not just to bring her meals. She also helped her bathe and, although they fit her no better than the oversized shirt she had first woken up in, had brought her some of the same simple gray fabric dresses that Sonya herself wore in the kitchens.

"Thank you," Laiyla said to the beaming cook now standing proudly by the table, hands on her busty hips. Sonya's eyes looked down to the cup in her right hand, and a crease furrowed her brow. She shuffled over to where Laiyla sat, concern clouding her grey eyes. A high-pitched whining sound escaped the cook's open mouth as she pressed two fingers to Laiyla's forehead. Laiyla saw an image of herself in the large chair, eyes glazed and haunted, and felt the worry the cook was feeling for her.

"I'll be all right, Sonya. Thank you for the soup." Sonya regarded her for a moment longer, then reached out and again pressed two fingers back to her forehead. An image of the reisnaig wearing a lady's floral gown, fanning himself with the back of his hand and fluttering his thick lashes at her, appeared in her mind. Laiyla burst out laughing before she could help herself, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes still dancing with laughter, she motioned to Sonya to stop and leave. The cook's eyes crinkled in delight, and she turned at last to waddle out the door.

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He had barely crossed the threshold of the main cabin entrance when he felt a formidable presence barreling toward him. His head snapped up just in time to see Sonya descending upon him, her grey eyes burning with undisguised anger. Surprise hardly had time to register before she was on top of him, her thick arms shaking with fury as she repeatedly jabbed two fingers up into his chest. He could not fathom what in the hell was happening to make his simpleminded mute cook attack him with such fearlessness, and he nearly fell over backwards as she continued to advance.

"What the fuck is going on, Sonya?!" He bellowed, recovering enough to stop walking backwards and grabbing her forearms before she could jab at him again. High pitched wailing mimicked the infliction of his words back to him in a mocking manner. He choked, staring at her, and began to look for signs that this was all just a very strange dream. She held up a crooked finger to him and he eyed it cautiously, finally tilting his head down so that she could touch it to his forehead.

For a few sickening seconds, he waited passively as an onslaught of images flashed into his head. He felt the grave sense of responsibility Sonya had felt after he had asked her to care for Laiyla when he had been called away unexpectedly early. He watched as Sonya showed him how she had been like, the kindness she had shown to his cook. Sonya showed them eating together, Laiyla pushing images of dazzling winter mornings and stunning autumn afternoons in the forests of her clan into Sonya's delighted mind, humming while she communicated wordlessly and easily with her. He understood the cook's growing fondness for the Fae girl as the days passed. He started to pull away from her finger. He was pleased that his cook had found such pleasure in the Laiyla's company. Sonya had always been a good and loyal servant to him, but he would not allow even such a good and loyal servant to chastise him for things that were absolutely none of her concern. He looked down at her and was about to begin shouting when the look in her eyes brought him up short. Her grey eyes threatening violence he did not think her capable of, she held her finger out toward him, once again.

More images rushed into him. Laiyla's door opening one morning, the young Fae's curious expression as she peered around the corner, smiling at Sonya as she recognized her friend and began to walk forward. Then her expression changing to unease as someone stepped in front of Sonya toward her. Raul, one of his men, the one who had first caught up to Laiyla in the forest. The one who had thrown her so violently against a tree that she had been unconscious for two nights. He pulled his hands into fists, his temper still flaring at the memory of finding her crumpled form at his men's feet. He watched on, warily.

Laiyla's palms held out in front of her in a gesture of innocence, her soothing voice beginning to explain she only wanted to find the kitchens to see Sonya. Raul grinning wickedly as he reached her, pulling something from his pocket. A silver leaf pendant on a chain necklace. Raul throwing the pendant at Laiyla's feet. The look of confusion on Laiyla's face giving way to dawning and dread as Raul spoke the words, "She begged me to fuck her, in the end, if it would save your life." Laiyla falling to her knees, her fingers closing gently over the necklace at Raul's feet. Raul grabbing her up by the hair and throwing her back into the room, Laiyla's wails echoing against the wooden door.

He staggered back, catching himself against the wall. Fury and dread pounded fists into his stomach. He looked at Sonya. She beckoned him sadly back toward her again, still more to show him. Resignedly, he lowered himself once again to her touch.

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She took a last swig from the cup and placed it gently back upon the table. She wanted to throw it across the room, shatter it into a thousand pieces. But why? Sonya would only have to clean it up after her, and it would accomplish nothing. She sighed. Even such a small act of anger was a luxury she couldn't afford, not now, not when it all mattered so much and so little all at once. She hiccupped, and then giggled.

She pushed herself slowly to her feet and staggered slightly. She had never been drunk before. She had never done a lot of things before. For a Fae, she hadn't lived very long, or done very much. She considered this, decided to find it funny instead of sad, and then worked to climb up the giant bed. Sonya's simple grey cooking dress felt more cumbersome than comfortable in the climb, so she shed it over her head, throwing it to the side in a flourish. She chuckled, and then sobered when she caught site of her bare wrists.

She hadn't noticed that the marks had been removed until the night after Sonya had first visited. The markings were tattoos, a disguise. But they were created with magic, and only magic could have removed them. Only strong magic. She wondered at it again, rubbing the smooth skin on the inside of her wrists. She shrugged to herself and climbed back up the bed.

Reaching the middle of the mattress, she reached over to where she had placed her dagger near the pillow and dragged it next to her. Sitting crosslegged, she held the dagger in her hands, considering it for a serious moment. She reached back under the pillow and pulled Eila's necklace out, winding it around her fingers. Humming, she threaded the necklace over the hilt of the small blade. When she was done, she grasped the hilt in her palms, Eila's necklace burning into her small hands, and held the tip of the blade over her wrist. She summoned memories of Eila's beautiful white-blonde hair, her gleaming ocean blue eyes, the gentleness of her voice. Tears ran down her cheeks as she pressed the point against her skin. A drop of blood traced a line from the blade down to her elbow. She took a deep, shaky breath in as she thought of what that evil bastard had told her had been done to her friend. How Eila had fought for her until her dying breath, how she had given everything of herself, everything, to save Laiyla and her secret. She had never betrayed her, not even at the end. Laiyla shuddered with rage at the thought of the bastard forcing himself on her even as he cut into her.

There was only one way she could honor the death of her friend now. Alive, her actions could continue to jeopardize the clan. If she did something to anger them, what would stop them from going back and exacting their revenge? There was no escape for her now, except for death. There were limited ways a Fae could die, but it was possible, especially with the right intent. Laiyla had Fae blood but also Seeker blood. The combination was rare, and powerful. She only knew of one other, and that other was long dead. Her death would bring the end to so much, including, she hoped, the threat to her friends.

She grasped the hilt with her thumb and index finger, lifting the rest of her hand to press a kiss to the silver leaf pendent, and said a prayer for the dead. She brought the blade to above her heart, grasping the hilt with both hands, thumbs pointed inwards, and began to pull it into herself.

A deafening roar ripped through the air around her. The room shook, and she went sprawling. Searing pain shot through her shoulder. The dagger was ripped from her hands and clattered to the floor, the necklace gone. For a moment, the world was still. She blinked, confused. Had she done it? Was she dying? She had expected more pain.

She felt herself being lifted up from off the bed. She went limp and closed her eyes. Perhaps this was some sort of out-of-body experience, a go-into-the-light type situation. She was ready for it. She felt herself being gently placed upright on her feet. Hands grasped her shoulders, then fell away. A finger tilted her chin up and a male voice asked, "Are you hurt?"

Anguish overtook her. She knew that voice. She opened her eyes, knowing before she did so what she would see. She had failed. She hadn't acted quickly enough, or with enough resolve. The reisnaig stood before her, his black eyes scanning her for signs of harm. He pressed a piece of fabric to the mark on her chest where the blade had briefly pierced the skin.

She threw his hands aside and attacked him blindly, her small fists pounding against his chest and slapping at his face. Hot and angry words rushed from her mouth, the old Oden words mixing with the common language. He stared down at her, his eyes narrowing slowly as she let her anger flail against him in a mindless torrent of insults and death threats.

"Kill me now, reisnaig, or I swear with my last breath that I will kill you first and make you suffer tenfold what you did to Eila!" she screamed.

"Laiyla," he purred, a warning putting a sharp edge to his voice.

"Torri, you bastard, you reisnaig shit! My name is Torri!"

"Your name is Laiyla," he said simply. She rammed her fists into his chest and snarled when he grabbed her wrist to keep her from scratching deep groves into his face with her nails.

"My name was Torri! You bastards took that from me like you took everything else from me! The clan you ran me off from, my family, they knew me as Torri! EILA knew me as Torri! Nobody knew who I was except for Eila, and now she's dead!"

"ENOUGH," his voice boomed. She stilled and glared up at him.

"Laiyla," He said, more gently. "I am sorry for Eila's death. I only just learned of it. Raul will be punished for his actions."

"And the others?" she snapped. "Did Raul take those deaths upon himself as well?"

"No," he said simply. "I ordered the others killed for my own reasons."

Her eyes widened at his words. "But not Eila."

"No. Not Eila." He repeated.

Hatred filled her eyes. "Reisnaig liar," she seethed. In a blink, he brought the back of his hand down across her face. Her head spun, and she would have fallen if he hadn't grabbed her to him, shaking her. "Enough of this," he growled.

She pushed her arms against him, and he let her break away from him. She took a few steps out of his reach and then crumpled to the floor. Heaving sobs racked her small frame. She could do little to hold it back. She hated herself for it, hated herself for failing her friend so completely. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she struggled to regain control. She began shaking.

She felt him sit on the ground behind her. Large, warm hands wrapped around her waist and pulled. She let herself be held against his chest as she continued sobbing. His fingers combed through her hair as he started humming, the sound vibrating through her. She didn't know it, but something about the melody was familiar in a comforting way. Slowly, her breath became more even. His hand began drawing wide circles across her back. She quieted, hypnotized by the feel of his hands and the hum of his voice. Her head swam from the drink and the sobs. Continuing to hum, he shifted and stood, carrying her the few steps back to the bed. He set her down softly and then laid out beside her, pulling her back close to his chest.

She kept her eyes closed as his warm hands drew lazy circles across her stomach. She tensed slightly when his big thumb grazed the underside of her breasts. His humming paused as he reached his arm over her head to brush her hair away from her neck and ear. He lowered his lips to the curve of her neck and continued humming. Her breath caught when the hand on her stomach dropped to the inside of her thigh. She felt his calloused fingers exploring the folds of her sex. She cringed and tried to move away. Letting him bring her back from the verge of a suffocating panic was one thing. Allowing him to touch her in this way, to violate her the same way Eila was violated, was another entirely.

She moaned in protest as he swirled his thumb around her clit and moved her hips up and legs together to block his access to her, but with unsettling ease, he pushed her legs apart and continued his groping. She felt dizzy and sick. Her veins coursed with the icy heat of intoxication. Something in the back of her head itched at her, and she knew it was of vital importance that she put a stop to this, now.

She hated him for what he had done to her adopted family, how he had robbed her of her freedom. She suspected he was somehow tied to the dark creatures now plaguing the forest she had called her home. It was a mistake to have thought he was anything but her greatest enemy, even if for only the few minutes it took to regain her composure. She struggled to get away from him with real effort, but he simply held onto her tighter.

She felt his erection growing and pressing into her back as his fingers continued exploring. Her breath hitched as he pushed a large finger deep within her sex and was terrified when he inhaled sharply and withdrew. Shit. He knows.

He pushed away from her suddenly and spun her around to face him. He sat up, dragging her with him, his calloused hands on her arms, trapping her in place. His black eyes searched her face intently, disbelief and anger twisting his features. "You're untouched." It was a statement, not truly a question, but she nodded anyway, exhaustion and weariness overcoming her. "I don't understand."

"If you're looking for a birds and the bees talk, reisgnaig, look elsewhere." She yawned.

His large hands slid up her arms and grabbed her shoulders again, shaking her, gently but insistently. "You were bound. You wore the markings. I removed them myself." He touched the area on the inside of her wrists and ran his thumb over her silky-smooth skin, bare now where two small interwoven infinity shaped marks had been before. He narrowed his eyes at her. She smirked and shrugged a naked shoulder. Well that explains that, she mused to herself.

"You removed a carefully placed tattoo. I belong to no man, and I have taken no lovers."

He regarded her intently for a moment. He reached out and tucked a piece of hair that had fallen across her eyes behind her ear and smiled indulgently at her. "You're wrong, keonai mouv. Marked or not, you belong to me now." She shivered and tried to pull away, but he drew her back to him and placed his hands protectively against her back, pulling her close. "This changes everything," he murmured softly into her hair, and stroked his fingers down the length of her dark locks. Despite the gentle way he held and touched her, she had never been more afraid of him.

"Stop calling me reisgnaig," he commanded. "My name is Venlen."

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Ven knelt at the fire and added another log, stoking and encouraging the small flame. He looked back over his shoulder. Laiyla's small frame lay huddled beneath the blanket, silent and still, lost in an enforced sleep. He looked back toward the hearth and rose to his feet.