She was shocked to see a dozen young girls step from out hidden cloisters, behind the many columns and pillars that this room did have. They looked nearly identical, but out of fashioning rather than out of birth or blood. They were all of the same smallish stature, hair ravened and cut in form of The Matriss’ own and all adorned in white muslin dresses, fastened to their tiny waists by golden cords. They all curtsied to their Matriss and asked, as if with one voice: “What be thy command, dear Matriss?”
“Fetch me bathing salts and aromatic oils,” she enjoined, her voice raised with authority. “As well as the Auransha silk. We must make our latest acquisition look beautiful, do we not?”
The identical Handmaidens all curtsied again and took their leave, flittering as if they were tiny white butterflies rather than girls. She was surprised at how fast they had returned, all carrying what they were charged to fetch: baskets of course grainy crystals and bottled of oils -both pale and dark.
“Into the water,” The Matriss ordered Her, as she unfastened a purple cord around her long and slender throat.
She knew it would be fundamental suicide if She disobeyed The Matriss’ commands any further, so She stepped backwards, placing Her small foot onto the raised edge of the Pool. Holding a mental picture of what the room looked like as She had seen it when She had first entered, She trod reverse-wise into the water. It felt tepid around Her dainty ankles but it still felt better than the Bathing Chamber back at Ballacreous - already was She grateful for Her removal from that Nightmarish place. When She felt the water about her slender waist, She pushed back off Her feet until She felt solid flesh crash against the Column in the centre of the Pool. She was very much thankful that August had the good mind to teach her the most basics of the art of swimming in the small but deep pools at the depths of the Mines, for had he not, She felt that She would be at the utter mercies of her new captors.
She hid within the spray that the Fountain Creature spewed forth and stared at the water that gulfed Her and the others in the Balneumys -The Matriss, her Twin Pets, Guards and Handmaidens.
The crystalline water had become polluted in Her wake. Transforming from the clearest clean to a mottled grey and brown as all the filth that was Ballacreous peeled from off Her flesh by the freshness of the Pool. She marvelled as Her skin went from dark brown to a soft pinkish-white as entire clods of dirt and grime peeled off Her body. She thanked the all Goddess that Her chains and binds were fashioned to be proofed against rust and water, as She held Her small hands under the water and rubbed her coarse palms together. Amazed at the texture of Her own skin.
In Her wonderment, She did not hear another body enter the Pool and was shocked when a soft pair of hands reached through the water and stroked Her thick shoulders. She spun around to see The Matriss before Her, naked except for her Green Shawl, that was drawn tightly across her back. In this moment, She realised how truly tall The Matriss was, as the top of Her head barely reached the nape of her slender, avian neck, as she was forced to stared into her small yet proud breasts. She also realised how long The Matriss’ reach was, as She felt her outstretched arm brush back her bemired hair. She was no stranger to the desire of others or the consequences of when such desires are enacted -no matter the gender or natural orientation of the enacter. She fought the instinct to draw Herself back into the stream of the Fountain and fight back against The Matriss in this aqua-environment, but She could not sense any sense of lust or desire with her actions and thus acquiesced to The Matriss will.
“Turn around, Child,” The Matriss commanded softly.
Afeared, She did comply, even though She knew would expose Her long guarded secret. She knew that She was now within The Matriss’ power and must give into Her commands whenever it meant travelling the easier path of least noticeable resistance, as was the way Aegine and August had taught her. In this moment, Her life was forfeit to Fate, as it had been so many years before, in that horrid Frontier Town.
Though the screams of horror and hysteria did not come as She had anticipated. The Matriss, for her part, merely looked at Her winged markings as if they were curious pieces of art and brushed her slender fingers down her back without so much as a murmur.
It was the Livie Soldier, Cerryis, that was brought to motion.
As he screamed out a phrase that She knew to be sacred Livie cursed and She knew why it was uttered. It was the very same one that had been laden upon Her five years previous -the word: ‘Evasor’. He screamed this as well as a torrent of other obscenities that were cast upon Her brutalised flesh when She was still trapped within the confines of Ballacreous, though none there ever discovered Her identity of this so-called Evasor. But She could see that Cerryis was both infuriated and terrified by this revelation, as he reached for his short sickle-shaped blade and prepared to dive into the Pool in order to finish the deed begun five years previous by the Zelta, Hectorus.
’Twas the Matriss who saved Her though, as she placed her slender body before Her’s and gave a wrathful cry: “Cerryis Albieta Seuvestris! Have you taken leave of your faulted senses?! Have you forgotten the Cardinal Commandment of The House of Acheron?! Thou must not harm the property of The House less your own existence be forfeit and your pathetic life be given to The House as payment for the damage and insult done?!”
This seemed to stay Cerryis’ gnarled hand, as he stepped back and sheathed his blade once again.
“She is my property, dear Cerryis, do not forget that fact.” The Matriss continued, as she waded over to the Pool’s pristine edge. “And if any -and I do mean any- harm befalls her whilst she is without the Arena, it shall be visited upon your head, Duxia. No matter the cause or effect, you shall be made to pay for it as the Law of The Acheron and The Senate sets forth.”
She held out her long, lithesome arms, prompting her Twin Pets to hoist her from out the water and drape a robe across her supple frame. She gave Cerryis a look as murderous as his own and continued: “I have tolerated your pathetic religious practises within my House only because your Patron, Senator Incgarisaye, himself gave you to me as a reward for your service in so many battles for your Order. And even though your little Cult may have found acceptance within the Pantheon, it shall have none within this House. So make your little ceremonies and follow your wretched superstitions whilst you can, for your Cult shall go the Way of all others and fall out of favour with the Senatory wives and minor Houses vying for power. So remember, whilst you serve me -for whatever reasons- The House of Acheron and Its Matriss come first and your religion comes former. Is that understood, Duxia?”
Grudgingly, Cerryis bowed to her and her iron will, though She could see the sanguinary gaze that he held in his small surviving eye. She had seen that expression far too many times not to know its meaning. He wished The Matriss’ demise more than even he desired Her own, though he was held in check by Law and Protocol, he still gave his wants free reign upon his twisted face.
Either The Matriss did not notice them or merely ignored them, for she gave him her sweet smile and said: “As long as that is understood.”
Then she yawned and said: “All this now bores me. I shall retire to my Chambers for the evening. Please ensure that my latest acquisition is clean, fed and housed properly for the night. For she has a big debut to attend tomorrow.”
And with that, The Matriss smiled at Her and took her leave. Two handmaidens climbed into the Pool and continued to clean Her. She was a little wary of such an activity and attention but was thankful that they still remained clothed as they attended Her. They were so thorough in their cleaning that She thought that they were going to scrub Her skin clean from off her bones. They also worked their tiny fingers so deeply into Her sordid hair that She was afeared they were attempting to tear it all out by its roots and She wished to brake their thin, fragile necks as She watched the blackened water drip from Her fringe -thinking it was Her own blood. They massage oils and potions into Her skin and scalp, to help cleanse them further, dissolving all the dirt, filth and grime of Ballacreous from Her body so it was as though She had never been there and the past four years had been but a horrible nightmare.
Though She knew that was but a falsehood, as She watched Cerryis sneer at Her from the edge of the Pool. His absent lips were curled into a malicious snarl and She could see him plotting Her murder in his brain again and again. Though She had no fear of him. She knew that She was now under the protection of The Matriss and that Cerryis was utterly powerless to make any action against Her. Still, this did not make Her feel any easier to be within his presence, for She knew that he would still aspire to make Her young life a misery, as all his creed did.
This was confirmed as She heard his words as the young handmaidens led Her to the Pool’s edge.
“Take her to the Carceria,” he ordered, as he watched the handmaidens sheath Her in silk.
“B-but, Duxia?!” stuttered a young guard. “That is for prisoners of The Matriss.”
“Where would you have me house her then, Quaturion Draco?” Cerryis growled, as he turned on the young guard. “The Matriss neglected to inform me if a room was prepared for her or not and since the hour is too late to have a chamber made ready, take her to the cells in the Carceria and ensure that she is made comfortable as you can.”
A twisted smile contorted his mouth as he must have thought demonic dreams. He glared at the guards, all of whom appeared quite young and fresh, lacking in any and all experience when compared with an old warrior such as Cerryis. She knew that they all feared and despised him but none would dear contradict his orders. At least not to his face.
“Anyway,” Cerryis scoffed. “She already has the chains, so it’s not as if someone will question where is going or why she is placed there.”
He laughed and turned his back on both Her and the five remaining guards, before saying: “And do make sure that she is well fed tonight. She does have a big debut to attend tomorrow after all.”
He laughed some more and walked away, leaving Her in the care of the guard, Draco, and the other four Matrissial Soldiers. They all seemed unsure as what to do, so, with apologetic words, they escorted down to the Carceria.
“I’m sorry for this,” Draco whispered, as he unlocked the grated door to the Carceria.
He gave Her a weak but warm smile, as he opened the door. She could sense that he was genuine in his emotions but She still could not allow Herself to feel sympathy or empathy for one who did so willingly serve an enemy such as a Cultist.
“No,” She muttered, hoarsely. “You are not.”
Draco looked visibly wounded by Her words, but he said nothing as he lead Her to a cell.
There were so few cells within the Carceria. Only three. They were all quite large but cold and baron. It smelt of damp and of rot and the sound of dripping water could be heard as it splashed against the far wall. The tang of Death also lingered in the stale air -the fragrance of those departed and they soon to go the Way of All Flesh.
To the sheltered inhabitants of the Omperium Realms and the Lands of Acheron this place would seem as a nightmare, to She, one whom had survived the Mines of Ballacreous and the tortures of The Living God, this place was nothing. A mere room of stone and iron designed to keep those unfortunate enough to displease either Cerryis or The Matriss out of their mutual sights until punishment could be sorted. This place did not hold the same terror for Her as it did for others, so, in that respect, Cerryis had lost that contesting of wills.
“Please, come this way,” Draco muttered, as he ushered Her to the end Cell with an extended arm.
He unlocked the barred door with a long bronze key and held it open for Her.
“Please,” he said, with an almost pleading voice.
She did as She was asked and stepped into the Cell. With a mournful face, Draco shut and locked the door behind Her. His young eyes were stained with grief. In the flickering torch light, he looked to Her younger than She was. He was barely a man. His first whiskers had not even sprouted and his skin was still fresh and virginal in appearance. Far too young to possess the rank of Quaturion. His eyes sat large and aggrieved beneath the thick black curls of his hair. She could sense that he was far from being a warrior or soldier of any type known to Her. He was just another pretty toy for The Matriss to stare at. Doubtless he would have received his rank and occupation through some favour or family connection -as She had seen on occasionally at Ballacreous- and only retained such a position because of his attractiveness to one such as The Matriss rather than any aptitude for his employment. She could almost have pitied him, and the other guards who watched Her now through the thick bars of the Cell, if it were not for them being Her captors and She their ward.
She just stared coldly at them as they stared in wonder at Her. They whispered in a strange a soft language that She guessed was their native tongue -each sharing the same olived skin and thick curls of being from the same race or family. She tried Her best to ignore their mumblings, but their voices fascinated Her so much. Hushed and musical, lulled with a strange sweetness that reminded Her of mothers about their babes. Though none of they were Her mother and she was far from being their babe. But still, she stared at them, until a lone and hollow cough from the darkness behind Her pricked Her flesh to attention and made Her spin around -rattling Her chains as She turned.
She could make out a hunched and huddled figure in the far corner. The flickering torches did rob Her of Her Miners’ Sight and mudded the darkness before Her. It seemed to Her eyes as if it were merely a pile of rags and refuse, until She spied a thin hand that did rest upon skeletal knee -both as filthy as Her’s had previously had been before this night. Cautiously, She did creep over to this coughing creature and quietly put Her thick, strong hand upon its frail and fragile shoulder.
It was an old man, well past his seventieth Harvest and so thin that his skin was drawn like leather across his ancient bones. A few long, sparse strands of hair streamed from his scalp, though not enough to give him any covering. And worst of all were his eyes. Or what remained of them. They were merely two empty gashes within his skull. They had not even the decency to stitch his eyelids together and left them as gaping maws staring upon a cruel and indifferent World. These hollowed sockets stared up at Her and moved Her to emotion, so that She fell upon Her knees and stifled Her tears.
“They say that his eyes did upset Cerryis so much that he had them torn whole from his flesh and burnt in a brazier as punishment,” Draco said, as leant his young face against the bars. “No one knows why and none but The Matriss dare challenge his authority, so it was done without question.”
He sighed as he stood and turned away from Her.
“Your food is here,” he muttered, with lamentation upon his voice.
He opened the door for the young handmaiden who did come baring a golden tray laden with cold meat and fresh fruits with a bowl of thin, rich soup balanced on its edge. She placed it just at the entrance to the Cell and step backwards, briefly looking up at Draco and smiling at his beautiful face before she turned and left. He watched her go before he turned to one of the other Matrissial Soldiers and said: “Fetch me a Field Cot and covering. I intend to spend the night here, guarding The Matriss’ acquisition.”
The Soldier gave an extended arm salute and marched of to complete his appointed task.
“The rest of you,” Draco said, turning to his comrades. “Are to return to Barracks until morning. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Quaturion!” they all shouted in reply, before they took formation and marched back to the Barracks.
Draco waited until they had taken their leave before he stripped himself of his regimental cape, folded it and placed it through the bars, next to the tray of food.
“Please eat,” he muttered softly, as he stood. “Tomorrow shall be harsh upon you and you shall need all the strength you can get.”
“Why?” She asked, as She crept cautiously towards the tray. “Why do you stay? Do you fear that I will escape or the such?”
“No,” Draco muttered, again smiling weakly. “I am afraid that The Duxia may attempt to hurt or even murder you whilst you sleep and blame one of my men or even the Gods for such an act happening within The Matriss’ Palace. I do not want such a thing to happen, so I shall stay and watch over you.”
“Do you do such a thing for me or for your Matriss?” She asked, as She reached for the tray, slowly jangling Her chains in the air as She stretched out for it.
“Both,” Draco muttered, smiling again. “Please eat and rest. You’ll need your strength.”
Once last time, he smiled at Her before he turned his back on Her and leant it against the bars. Probably to give Her some form of privacy in such an open place.
Despite the vengeful buzzing of Her wrathful mind, She felt as though She could trust this man clothed in boy’s skin. Unlike Cerryis, he was kind and open. She could feel that he meant Her no harm, he was merely too afraid -of both The Matriss and Cerryis- to disobey, even when his Heart told him to be strong and stand for what was right.
She forced such thoughts and contemplations from Her mind as She snatched the tray and scuttled backwards, so that She sat next to the old blinded man. She took a mouthful of meat and fruit but found both too bacciferous to stomach. She was used to the gruels and granules of the kitchens of Ballacreus, not the splendour of the nobility’s table. It made Her mouth ache and Her belly churn to but taste it. She sampled what She could but pushed it away. She had survived for days before without food and She had more than enough strength and will to survive the coming morning’s trails without a morsel in Her mouth.
“Grandfather,” She whispered into the old man’s stubbed and beaten ear. “Are you of hunger?”
“Who are you, child?” he asked, with a voice as thread bare as his robes. “It has been so long since I have had company that I was afraid that I would die alone.”
“I carry no name, Grandfather,” She replied, no knowing what else to say. “I am a prisoner as you. Do you hunger?”
“I hunger for so many things, child,” he muttered, blindly groping for Her, trying to grasp some portion of Her flesh to reassure himself that She is there. “For food. For Sun. For Sky. But I hunger most for my sight. So robbed of me by a cruel Livie guard!”
“I know of he,” She muttered, taking his hand in Her. “My Heart too hates the Livie and all like he.”
The Old Man’s cracked lips tried to form what must have been a toothless smile, as he squeezed Her hand with all his meagre strength.
“Here,” She whispered to him. “Take yon. I lack want.”
She gently picked up the thin ceramic in Her steely fingers and lifted it up to the Old Man’s torn and tattered lips. The pale liquid of the thin soup sloshed around the bowl as She tried to hold it with unsteady hands.
“Partake,” She muttered, as She pressed it to his mouth.
He did sip upon it, until his body was wrought with weakness and he began to cough back all that She did pour down into him. With all the little patience that She had, She tried to force more of the tepid liquid into his throat, but all for naught. For he would merely sputter it back up, bringing with it viler fluids.
“Fret not over such fruitless action,” the Old Man wheezed, as She layed his fragile head upon Her sturdy lap. “This night shall be my last and I have no fear.”
He then slowly closed his eyes and began to mutter a faulted tune. One that She did recognise.
It was the said same tune that Her Master, August, did sing all his waking days. The very song that She did sing over his cooling body, as he did die in Her strong arms. Though not strong enough to pull him away from Death’s firm grasp.
The last of Her emotions welled within Her abyssal Soul and came as an utterance of words. The slow drone of a song.
The Song of The Dead.
That is man did now sing to himself.
She did not know had some connection in his long life to her most beloved Master or if the Hymn was practised in all Corners of the Omperium Realms, She just felt the compulsion to sing it. For this Old Man and all that had died along the Path of Her Life.
She sang with such force that Her thick desert-born throat was stripped rare. She sang with such Heart that Her eyes were drowned by their own waters. She sang with such Passion that even Her guard, Quaturion Draco, was moved to tears. She sang until the Old Man was cold in Her arms and Her emotion was all but drained away.
And then She was cold.
The last of Her emotion spent and the World distant to Her touch.
She sealed Herself within Herself, as August had once taught Her and She vowed that She would not forgive one death too many in such a place and at the will of a Livie such as Cerryis.
She just sat in the frigid silence.
Even when Draco ordered the Old Man’s body to be removed and given a burial with full honours, She did not stir. She merely sat until Morning came and The Matriss’ Handmaidens came once again and dressed Her in a blue combat costume. Cerryis himself came to escort Her to the Arena and, keeping with Her private oath, did not allow his taunts and jeers to reach Her. She was numb to him as She was to all else in the World. Even to the warm Sun that raked Her flesh as She was pushed out onto the Arena’s dusty floor. If She had any fear or feeling left, She could have flinched at shrill crying of the Stadium Master through the phantom apparatus that was the Deus Vox.
And then She heard it: the words that would forever mark Her existence.
“Presenting the latest of the Fighting Stables of the House of Acheron!” the Stadium Master becried. “Survivor of the Living Inferno, Ballacreous, and champion of the Battle Pits of that Nightmare Made Real. Your warrior, your new champion, The Bound Innocent: Ennocens Catena!”
As the cheers from the Crowd went up, She knew that they were referring to Her and thus Ennocens Catena She became.