R1: What does that even mean?
Rapunzel sat on a window sill and bit at her thumbnail. She could feel the sun on her back and hear the birds singing in the trees far below, feelings and sounds which had always lifted her spirits, often leading to some singing of her own. But not today.
She wore a simple linen gown with a purple bodice, which draped from her exposed shoulders and had threading up the front. A closed book was clasped in her lap, Mattaeus’ words making her doubt everything she thought she knew. ‘Mother Gothel’s a which. And everything in this tower... It’s which craft. This isn’t how the world works. One day, I’ll show you.’
Mattaeus would have her believe that Mother Gothel was some kind of monster, when it was she that had warned her of the rest of the world’s wickedness. ‘Fear not, my child. Thine tower will keep thy safe. And thine Mother Gothel will see that thy remain free of the world’s wicked grasp.’
Rapunzel looked to the purple flowers fastened to the stone wall alongside her. Mother Gothel knew how much she loved them and made it so they always bloomed in her room. Kings and kingdoms? Princes and princesses? Those are just kid-stories. How could I have believed such foolishness? There’s no chance he’s being honest with me. Is there?
She hadn’t known about her desires until she met Mattaeus, until that time he tricked her into letting down her hair. She thought she was allowing Mother Gothel to climb up, but it was Mattaeus that spilled in through her window. His smile and soft words had some kind of power over her, which she could not understand.
Rapunzel had shut her desires away again, each time, locking the door anew. But emotion seemed to be a key to that place—any emotion turning its lock and prying free its contents. This time, it was her chastising that was her undoing. Goosebumps crawled up her arms and spine, her heart seeming to run away as her breath stood in place. An image stepped in front of her other thoughts—his lips approaching, a moment before meeting her own. Another image surfaced and she was looking over his shoulder, along his bare back as her legs wrapped around him.
Her teeth clicked together, meeting through her thumbnail. She blinked and realized she was clutching the book to her stomach much too tight. Surely, that’s this magic stuff that he spoke of.
She sighed and proffered the book. “Alright, 407. We’re done. Back you go.”
The book rocked back, then leaned upright as if rising from a chair. It bobbed through the air like it was walking, turned to climb a spiral staircase, then disappeared above. Silly, 407. Why do you insist on always taking the stairs?
Rapunzel’s hair was braided, banded every few folds, and wrapped around a spool near the window. When she stood, she looped it in front of her shoulder, then grasped it at her side so that the unwinding wasn’t uncomfortable.
Click-click-click, sounded behind her, a ratcheting where a peg dropped into a slot, which prevented her from winding up again once she stopped. She crossed to a nearby fireplace, its orange writhing against the marbled floor’s glossy reflection. Magic, she mused. What does that even mean anyways? Maybe, it’s got something to do with kings having people bring them things when the things could perfectly well bring themselves.
Rapunzel looked up, beyond the floors of books that wrapped around the second and third levels, to the stars filling a night’s sky above. “Orion,” she said to the distant constellation. “I’ll need light enough to read.”
Three stars shone down like spotlights, converging on and following her.
“I need to see 310. And...651.”
A book bound over the railing and plummeted, sinking on impact—without actually touching the floor—and rising again like it had just stuck its superhero landing. 310’s always been a bit dramatic. Next, 651 somersaulted, its facings and edges flickering past one another. It arrived, then bobbed sideways as if landing wrong, stumbling as it struggled to remain upright.
Rapunzel stood backlit by the fireplace, Orion’s light being the only reason her shadow wasn’t looming over the books, who twisted about as if small children about to be scolded. “What has gotten into you all? The whole lot of you are really on one today, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “Chair? Here, please. And table, you too.”
A drawer opened noisily across the room, a large table she took her meals at.
“No, Big’in. Little-guy will do fine.”
The drawer closed, sounding like a mewl.
“And Little-guy, give Looking-glass a ride, won’t you?”
A high-back arm chair made its way nearer, its legs articulating like a crab. It stopped, half turned to the fire, and she took a seat to watch as Little-guy, a small end-table, stopped alongside a shelf to receive a small glass globe. Looking-glass hopped on, then hunkered as Little-guy sprung into a gallop.
“Little-guy,” Rapunzel chided. “Easy. Looking-glass can’t hold on.” She patted her lap, where 310 and 605 took their place as Little-guy pulled up alongside her. “Okay, 310. You and Looking-glass, show me everything you have on ‘which.’ And ‘which craft.’”
Looking-glass showed lines of text scrolling up at a blurring speed, while 310’s pages fluttered past, both of them stopping periodically.
‘...little window which overlooked...’
‘...same day on which she took...’
‘...thorns on which he fell...’
“No, no,” she said, flustered. “This isn’t right. He was using ‘which’ like a noun. Or maybe an adjective. Do you have anything like that?” The two whizzed through their contents, one blanking, the other flipping closed. “What about you, 651? Anything like that?” The book sat upright, then turned face down.
Rapunzel sighed. “I figured as much.”
She turned 310’s cover to face her, then traced her fingers along its title, ‘Fairy Tales by the Sisters’ Grannd.’ It was a book containing a short story about a girl named Rapion, a girl that she felt a great kinship with. Rapion’s parents were wicked people, who tried to trade their daughter for food. When a neighbor learned of this, she gave them food enough so that they would allow her to take the child. Then, the neighbor built a high tower so that the wicked parents could never come steal her away. There, the young Rapion grew up. All her dreams came true. And she lived happily ever after.
It seems like these books have kings or princesses in two of every three stories, yet, none of these ‘whiches’ that Mattaeus spoke of. So, if this is where he learned of kingdoms, from where did he read about whiches and magic? Are there books out there that I don’t have?
Rapunzel bit her lip as she peered around to the window. If there’s other books out there, what else might there be?
“Rapunzel!”
Startled, she shook her head. He was so entrenched in her thoughts, she could almost hear him.
“Rapunzel!”
Rapunzel stood abruptly and rushed to the window, colliding with and folding over the sill. A grin forced its way onto her face. She really had heard him, and Mattaeus was a tiny thing at the opposite end of the long stone shaft that she looked down. He’s returned with more silk, already? Before long, we’ll have enough to finish the ladder, and we can flee together. I don’t even care about the kingdom stuff. None of that matters just as long as we’re together.
“Quickly!” he called. “Let down your hair.”
Her wave cut short. She was getting things out of order. Marriage, running away, the ladder...none of that stuff could happen if she didn’t let him up. She lifted an arm overlaying her hair-spool, then lofted coils onto the sill. Once it was all mound up, she wound some of its upper length around a wall mounted anchor of iron and held it there as she allowed the loose loops to fall from their ledge.
The hair was pulled taught as he ascended, his black hair and green eyes finally cresting to peer inside. He was wearing black leather with a red crest on his chest as he dumped himself over into the floor. He was sweaty, panting and wearing far heavier clothing than was his usual.
Rapunzel released the anchor and collapsed next to him to find his face speckled red. Orion’s light blinded him and he fought himself away from her.
“Back! Get back, I say! Away with you.”
She withdrew, her hand drawing up to her breast. “Orion,” she said over her shoulder. “That’s enough for now.”
The lights winked out and Mattaeus blinked back at her. “Rapunzel? Is it really you?”
“Yes? Just who else were you hoping to answer to my name when you called?”
“I’m sorry... I... It’s my head.”
“Did you break a fall with it?”
He smiled, then glanced over his opposite shoulder. “What?” he asked the wall-mounted flowers.
She scowled. “Mattaeus, if this is one of your jokes...”
He turned back to her as if just remembering. “Rapunzel. I have to... have to talk to you.”
“Okay? Talk?”
“Yes. But not here. Some place quiet. Some place they won’t hear.”
What’s wrong with you? She hooked his arm around her neck, then helped him stand. They made their way to her high-back chair, where he fell into it. “There,” she said, parting her palms before him. “Now, we’re far away and no one can hear us.”
Far away—the place he had promised to take her, not the other way around. It was the place where all those kingdom-stories existed. And the place that seemed to have a unique claim on ‘happily ever after.’ Just how far away was this ‘far away,’ anyhow? Is it just a little far or far-far?
Mattaeus seemed to ease, his gaze moving to the near fire. “Yes. This will due nicely. Thank you. My sweet Rapunzel.”
She collapsed to the foot of the chair and hugged his leg. “What’s wrong? Tell me what has happened.”
He fiddled with his tunic, retrieving a letter and a small bundle, which looked more like a lump wrapped in burlap and bound with a bit of twine. “Here,” he said, pressing them into her hands. “Consider it an engagement gift.”
Rapunzel looked at the sack as if only just seeing it, the bunched burlap resembling the folded pedals of a flower. She could see it now. He had gotten her a gift.
Her heart quickened as he glanced over his shoulder. She worried about his fear, but worry was a pull at her emotions, a turning of a key. She crawled up his lap, her lips reaching for his.
Mattaeus started, then held her at arms length. “Rapunzel. No, there’s no time.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding. “I think I understand.” She stood, ran her hands under her skirt, then hooked her thumbs into a waistband there.
As she started to shimmy, Mattaeus fixated on her, then clasped her wrists, pinning them to her sides. “Wait. We can’t.”
“Why? Do you not approve of me anymore?”
“God, if only that were true. All of this would be so much simpler if you had a single flaw other than your love for me. ”
“But I do love you. And I don’t even care about kingdoms not being real.”
“What?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“None of that matters—”
“Just...never mind that. I need you to listen. I’ve got too much to say and half the span needed to say it in. I gave—I said quiet! Just listen. Please.”
Rapunzel knelt and brought his hands together in her own. “I didn’t say anything. I’m listening.”
Mattaeus blinked and looked around. “Yes, yes. Of course. That letter will inform you of what I know. The other is a weapon that’s been in my family for generations. Long ago, my grandfather prevented villagers from burning a woman—a woman that turned out to be a white-which.”
She scowled, but didn’t interrupt.
The which vowed to make him the best item she could and would do her best to minimize the curse that always came with her trade. When it was finished, all she could tell him was that it was a great weapon and that no man could wield it for it would drive him insane.
“My grandfather didn’t think it could be used, so he locked it in the royal vault. But he didn’t understand. She said, ‘no man,’ you see? That doesn’t apply to boys. So, I used it, and I trained for a long time. I was training with it that day in the forest when I heard your singing. A boy can use it just fine,” he said, nodding as he trailed off.
Rapunzel held up the wrapped burlap. “You’d have me believe this is a weapon?”
His attention returned to her after glancing the bag. “Yes. A weapon. One I knew I could never use again after we first lay together.” He shook his head. “But I had to come to you. To save you. I had to try. I had to.”
She shook her head. “You big goof. I’m fine. Just keep bringing the supplies for the ladder. I’ll be rescued when it’s done.”
“No. No more ladder. It’s over. All of it is. We can’t go back. Not now. Not ever.” He gestured to the burlap. “Don’t you see? I had to use it to get here. But you’re not a man either. So, you’re safe. Safe like I was.” He groaned and raised his tunic to display a savage wound on his hip.
Rapunzel gasped and stood. “You’re hurt. I’ll get some—” She jerked to a stop and looked back to find Mattaeus clutching her wrist, a struggle in his gaze as it met hers.
“You can’t help me, Rapunzel. We can’t go back and I can’t stay. I’m dangerous.”
“But you’d never hurt me.”
“I’d hope that was true, but I’ll not chance it. That weapon. It’ll be bound to you until you choose to release it. Using it will tell you what you need to know. It’ll become something suitable for you. Then, you’ll absorb experience. The longer its bound to you, the more you’ll absorb. Bind long enough, and you may even absorb things after you let it go.”
Mattaeus winced, his neck tightening and his back arching as his grip seized around her wrist. Pain shot up her arm and her face contorted as face adopted a moment of clarity. He looked to his grip, back to her, then ran to the window, threw loops around the anchor and hopped onto the sill before looking back. “I’m sorry, Rapunzel. I wish it could’ve been different but ‘far away’ was much further than I thought. Goodbye.”
Then, he leaped.
Rapunzel stood clutching her wrist and hadn’t even moved to stop him or protest. She just watched, dumbfounded. It was like she was some other person in some other place, her eyes, only a keyhole that allowed her to look in as her future husband jumped to his death.
“Mattaeus?” she asked, weakly. Her knees wobbled, then buckled. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t see. So, instead, she whispered, “Mattaeus?”
Her heart twisted like a rag being wrung free of water. It was sorrow, another emotion. When her eyes were opened, she saw an empty window, and when they closed, her lids slid into place to become a different screen that reality was projected on.
Mattaeus knelt before her, lifting her chin and meeting her eyes. She felt his thumb brush away a tear that crested her cheek. Then, his lips moved nearer, and she realized that both realities were a nightmare.
“Mattaeus!”
R2: The Drifter
The drifter was a stowaway, concealed within the folds of her sun-bleached mantle. As she made her way through a ramshackle town, she dragged her leg, blood dribbling alongside her. She reached up and clutched the red crest fastened to her shoulder, her hand concealing most of its color. No doubt, this is what got their attention.
The surrounding houses were poor constructions with wood or clay walls, most adorned by thatch roofs. An overgrown dirt path wound through them and may have once been a main thoroughfare. She hesitated in its center and chanced a look back.
Five figures rounded a house on the far end, each wielding a brutal club or sharp tool for maiming. It was the same five she had seen ambush a family of survivors just a few days ago. They were monsters, she knew, their laughing and leisurely manner of pursuit only reinforcing her beliefs. Just waiting for me to wear myself out? Is that it?
The drifter moved into a nearby hut, her blood covered hand leaving a print on the door as it bound open and snapped shut again. There was a partially collapsed wall in the back corner, which she carefully made her way over, then skirted along the backside of more houses.
A larger building stood on the opposite end of town. It was the best made and the only one with a wooden roof. She reckoned it was a church at some point. People always built them with far more care than they did with their own homes, which meant that when it came to barricades, the former was far greater than the latter.
Geyahaha!” shrieked a man, his voice cracking and startling birds from rooftops. “Go! Just get her!”
The drifter looked back, grinned, and shook her head. Careful where you step, she thought, though she was certain the sentiment would have been more appreciated had it been heard prior to the mishap.
She hastily hobbled to the building’s entrance, the blood trail veering to and fro as her lead leg pulled her as quick as she dared. She had made it inside and turned to close the door as they emerged from behind the houses.
“There she is! After her!”
Hmph. Now, you’re in a hurry. The drifter quickly closed the door and made her way across a rectangular room that was largely empty. She glanced to the windows, which were already boarded up. Whatever furniture had been here was either removed or disassembled and strewn about the perimeter wall. Its steep roof was framed by exposed timbers and filled with thatch, ropes and pulleys. It may well have doubled as a barn loft for all the storage it was doing.
She reached a back room, her limp fading as she stepped through the door and flung the mantle off over her head. A small pig was tucked under her arm, which she bowled into the room as she tossed the cloak and turned to close the door. Blond sideburns framed her face, and a back length was roughly severed, its angle up and away from her neck.
The pig’s backside chastised her as she tucked her mantle into a sack of supplies, then slung it onto her back. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “You should’ve suggested a better plan. Or tried to talk me out of this one. If you force me to make all of the decisions, this is what happens. Next time, stop being so heckin quiet. And speak up if you’ve got a problem with something.” She paused. “Actually, I don’t foresee you improving in that area.”
Footsteps thundered across the opposite room and she raised a finger. “Oh. Almost forgot.” She turned back to the door but hesitated to glare at the pig. “Stop distracting me.” She picked up a locking bar and set it into place just as the handle jiggled.
“We know you’re in there, little bird,” said a man from beyond. “It really is you, innit? His lordship says you got something belonging to him. Says we aughtta bring you two back. Though, he said nothing of your aliveliness. And I reckon dead’s as good as alive. Open up and we’ll make it nice and slow.”
Furious whispers followed.
"Fast, I mean," the man corrected, then laughed. "I keep forgetting which one sounds better. But I remember now. And I’ll not be forgetting. Count on it."
The drifter scowled at the pig. “Of course, I’m not talking to him. I don’t talk to the dead.” She reached for another nearby door, then hesitated. “Well. Dead men, anyways.” She closed the door after her and dropped another locking bar into place. She could hear them pounding against the inside door now and they’d be breaking it down soon enough.
Mother Gothel had been right, she thought as she undid a rope tethered to an anchor on the exterior wall. The world really is a wicked place. The rope traveled up along the underside of the roof. She looped the end around her hand and elbow, then tried to sit as she tugged on it. The pulleys resisted, then gave their tell-tale give that sent the overhead storage raining down into the main room, the clamor muting the squawks of alarm.
She unwrapped the rope and let it drop back against the wall as she studied the roof’s overhang. It really is like a barn loft, she thought, then grew speculative. Several of my old stories involved candles getting knocked into nearby hay. Is that where the idea came from? She shook her head. Guess I’ll never know.
The drifter stood and dusted the seat of her pants, then tugged at the nearby boards, which were fastened to the outsides of all the windows. It really was a great place to barricade.
She rounded the building’s front and pushed aside furniture components to uncover a locking bar, which she then hefted into position, each end dropping into slots mounted to the door’s frame. I wonder if they found that ember-filled stump that I lumped in with the furniture along the walls. Those things burn forever and—
Agh! came a shriek over-top the whooshing of a quickly rising flame. Someone pulled on the door’s handle, then started pounding on its surface. “Hey! Let us out! We’re trapped.”
Hmm, well solved that mystery. It seems they didn’t find it. She adjusted the strap of her supplies and made her way along the central path. The building soon roared behind her and she could no longer hear their screams. But whether that was from their demise or the competing sound, she couldn’t know.
She abruptly turned from the road and passed between two houses, emerging to see a glowering man doubled over with his leg buried up to his knee.
“This is your doing, ain’t it?” he growled. “You’re her. The one they talk about. The one the king’s huntin’.”
The drifter paid him no mind, instead squatting to study his predicament. “Dang, you’re really stuck, huh?” she asked, reaching to prod at his knee. “Did you try lifting it out?”
He withdrew from her touch, howled as his leg moved, then settled back into place.
She nodded. “Yeah, you don’t want to try to get out. Because there’s spikes,” she said, pointing her fingers down and towards one another. “They’re like this, you see? So, when you try to pull out, you just drive them deeper. Oh, and I wouldn’t count on your friends helping out. They seemed pretty averse to living earlier, so it’s probably a full-on revulsion by now.”
“You,” he said, weakly. “Why are you doing this?”
She smiled and he withdrew. Well, she thought she had smiled. Hmm. No one ever showed me, so perhaps, I’m doing it wrong? She massaged her jaws, then tried again. “Because, silly. You shouldn’t have murdered that family.”
“What family?”
She frowned. Wait, was that last week? Actually, I might’ve already resolved that. She shook her head and waved her hands. “It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to find a place. So, I’m in need of directions. And you’re gentlemanly-like, right?”
His eyes were getting heavy, his head bobbing, which she took for an assent.
“Great! I’m looking for a house. And it should be near here. It’s got a tall wall out back and on the other side...purple flowers. A field of them. On the other side of the wall. You see?” Her latter words hastened, eventually crowding one another out until she clamped her mouth closed. She considered the possibility that clarity wasn’t a thing conveyed.
Then, he nodded, and she brightened. “Purple flowers. Yes. I know it. The Rapunzel.”
The drifter’s grin fell away as she squeezed her eyes shut, her lip gaining a twitch. “I know what it’s called. Just tell me. Where it is.” Her breath came in starts and stutters, her heart pounding in her ears. That word had fanned her emotions, and she could now hear the tumblers falling into place as a key prepared to turn in a lock. She threw her shoulder into that door, snapping it closed as a thing beyond raged. It pounded against the opposite side, while she pressed her palms against her ears and slid down into a squat.
The drifter screamed, her palms trying to force her ears into her head.
The man was startled awake and turned to her, eyes wide.
Her own eyes widened as she took him by the collar and pulled him near. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“The house. Where?”
“With the Rap—”
She struck him with a right cross, then yanked him close again. “Just tell me where it is.” His head wobbled around like a stupid newborn and she felt the twitch returning to her lip even as he raised his finger to point in a swaying gesture. She forced her eyes closed and turned away. Stop. Punching him. In the head. If he gets a concussion, he won’t know up from down and sure as heck won’t reliably answer your question.
The drifter let out a deliberate breath. “If you would be so kind, I’d like for you to tell me—” She opened her eyes, then shook him when she saw his head sagging. “Hey! Stop that. I don’t like it when you die too soon, so wake up and tell me where the house is!”
On releasing him, he sagged sideways, then doubled over.
“Well, poop.”
She returned to the central path, shielded her eyes from a setting sun, and looked in the indicated direction. So, I’m again closer, but how far until I’m close-close? When I find the house, all I’ll have left is figuring out what magic is. It’s just a shame that nothing listens to you here, because it’d be a heckin lot easier if my pack carried itself. She narrowed her eyes. Maybe... maybe, that’s magic. Having the power to not do something you’re told to do.
The drifter adjusted her pack. Okay, so three things, actually. But the god-king killing-thing seems like it belongs in an altogether different kind of list. But look at me, still getting things out of order. “Gotta keep first-things first,” she said with a nod. “And first is the direction... Which, I’m not sure’s even reliable.” She considered, then shrugged. “Welp, it’s more than I had.” She glanced to a dwindling plume of smoke. “And I’ll probably get nothing out of them. So, west, then.”
R3: Flawed Character
“Three days walk in a wrong direction,” the drifter complained. “That’s what you get for listening to a punch-drunk.” She sat on a wall that seemed much too high. At some point, the owner must have felt insecure, making a second pass to add a second story. Her leg dangled over one side, while her mantle dangled over both, insulating her from the fires that raged on each side—one a two story house and the other a wide field.
“You could’ve been done here days ago.” She shrugged. “But at least you’ve almost finished one of your ‘To-dos.’ You destroyed the house and the field. Now, you’ve just gotta track down the owners. Then, there’s just the magic thing left. But first-things first. Find the owners.”
Plumes roiled into the sky, the midday air becoming hazy. She squinted at a high, distant something. That’s probably a bit large for a bird. She followed as it passed overhead, then circled. It wasn’t flying, exactly. More like bounding.
A moment later, a stranger in a green cloak appeared atop the wall and trotted to a stop. A girl? And the ground doesn’t make her walk? Wait, do I have to walk?
The new girl’s hood was down, her black hair pulled back. She looked odd and a glowing blue colored her eyes. “What’s going on here?” she asked, shielding her mouth from the smoke.
The drifter tore a strip of bread free from the loaf tucked into her cloak. She hesitated on revealing it, then casually placed it into her mouth while holding the girl’s gaze. I wish she’d try, she thought, chewing.
The stranger gestured to the adjacent smoke generators. “What happened here?”
“Fire.”
“Yeah. I can see that. But how did this happen? This used to be a bright purple field.”
“Now, it’s a red field.”
“You did this?”
The drifter shrugged. “And if I did?”
The stranger shook her head. “Why?”
“I happen to like red. More than purple, anyway.”
The girl crossed her arms and looked away. “Now, how am I supposed to find you?” she asked an apparent imaginary friend. “Where would you go if you didn’t have a home to return to?”
“Were these people friends of yours?”
“I don’t associate with arsonists.”
“Me either. Never met the guy. But you act like you knew someone here. Were you close?” She placed another strip of bread into her mouth, while wrapping her other hand around a dagger she had tucked into her belt. I suppose a close family-friend would make a good first step. Right after a few questions.
The stranger sized her up, then shook her head. “No. Not really. She didn’t know me, but she was someone I always admired.”
“So, you’re a stalker then?”
“What? No. It’s nothing like that.”
“What’s it like then?”
“Who are you?”
“No thanks. I’m not looking for your kind of friend.”
The odd girl grit her teeth, balled her fists, looked away, and grumbled.
Anger. But too afraid to do anything about—
“...Rapunzel...”
The drifter stood, her dagger coming out of her belt, her mantle settling around her. “What was that you said?”
The stranger glared. “Nah. It’s clear you’re not interested in conversation, so you don’t get to ask me questions.”
“But I haven’t even asked any good ones yet. You’re another one of those that Mother Gothel warned me about.” She took a step towards the stranger.
The stranger sized her up again, something in her eyes shifting. “What happened here? Why would you do this?”
“I told you, the sight of it upset my stomach. But it’s fine now.”
“Liar!”
The drifter took another step, then another. “Now, that’s just rude. You come here. To my wall. And you cast stones. Why, I might just have a mind to cast you right over the edge. After, you tell me what I want to know, I mean. Let’s start with what you just said.” She lunged, her mantle parting to expose her double-edged sliver of steel.
The stranger fell back, her expression changing again and becoming something the drifter didn’t recognize. That’s not surprise, horror, nor regret. Her eyebrows. They’re all wrong. They’re down instead of up. But it’s not anger either. So, what’s that one mean?
“I’m losing...my patience...”
Patience? Well, as long as I don’t stab her too much, I can help her find it after. That aughtta patch things up enough for her to tell me what I wanna know.
“...Rapunzel.”
The drifter’s eyes saw red and she screamed. She took another step and lunged anew, her blade meeting air, then slicing to and fro to separate still more air. The strange girl’s movements were maddening and the only contact ever felt was the green cloak fluttering against her knife hand. “Stand still and hold this you flighty ragamuffin.”
The ragamuffin blinked away.
Then, she was blindsided, something colliding with her jaw and forcing her gaze the opposite direction. She glimpsed some passing knuckles as her face moved out of their way, stars bursting into her vision. Great. First, the stars shine half as much, and now, I’ve found some that insist on holding my attention. Plus, I’m pretty sure they’re leading me in an unhealthy direction.
The drifter’s body pivoted, her arms pin-wheeling, her next step poised to take the shortcut she’d been avoiding. Then, the back of her hair snagged, her head whipping back as her torso arched out over the uncomfortably far distance to the ground. The tips of her toes danced a tenuous number on a knife’s edge. “Perhaps,” she began, the skin pulled taught over her eyebrows and temples, “I was a bit hasty, Ragamuffin.”
“It’s Mioko. Not ragamuffin.”
Her gaze shifted to the opposite side. “Oh, there you are. Was afraid you’d left. So, you’re a lefty? Good to know.”
“What happened to you? I barely recognize you, Rapunzel.”
“Stop. Calling me. That,” she demanded, jerking and swinging as if Mioko was before her.
“Fine. But what happened?”
“I didn’t duck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You hit me. When I didn’t duck. Now, here we are. Say. Do you mind hel—” Her tether released and she fell, but not like she thought. She was bent so far back, she imagined sailing over like a wheel traveling off a cliff. Nope. Her knees buckled, her ankles folded against her rear, and she plummeted—knees-first. But her flailing was really doing something. It felt like knees-first was about to be converted into head-first.
A hole opened in front of her and showed the wall’s upper ledge. I heard about this. This is life flashing before my eyes. Yep. That’s where I died. There’s catharsis in that. Identifying your killer. The ledge that killed me. Not very satisfying though. I suppose it’s in the name. Flash. The hole hurled her at the wall, it striking her in the chest and knocking the wind out of her as she scrambled for a hand hold.
Mioko stood nearby, arms crossed as she looked down at the house fire.
“A little help?” the drifter croaked.
Mioko glanced to her but the fire must have been glittering because she found it more interesting. “You got yourself there. Get yourself out.”
The drifter wanted to argue but her attention had settled on her grip. It was beginning to prove unreliable and it seemed indifferent to the subject matter. It had failed with her fiancée. And reality. So, why should this ledge prove any different? She was beginning to think it couldn’t be trusted. “Actually. You did. Play. A part—”
“You attacked me with a knife, and now, you’re there. Figure it out.”
Huh. She’s right. That is how I got here. Her foot searched out a brace, then found a protrusion. She shifted her weight, but the toe-hold shot away, the underside of her chin sinking into the wall, her teeth clicking closed. She scrambled for another and found one that held. So, that’s how I get out. And I’m 88.6% sure, there’s a reasonable chance that someone, somewhere will see success in this outcome. Which is hopefully me.
With her toe in place, she tested its resolve, bouncing, and giving a three count. On two, she sprung away from the wall, folding her hands behind her head and attempting the smile again. She didn’t get the response she expected, Mioko’s eyes growing wide. Oh, there’s horror. Which means, I’m still getting the smile wrong.
The ground arrived early. Grass scraped her neck and shoulders, acting as a pivot point as her legs were overcome with joy. So, overcome that they overcame her head three times before an abrupt stop planted her on her back, her arms flopping out to each side. Her breathing was ragged and her arms were prickly while her shoulders and neck unanimously complained about scrapes and burns. Then, there was her back, who was a bit overzealous about the aches it was hosting.
“Are you crazy?!”
The drifter peeked to find Mioko looming. Hmm. Heck, then. I always wondered where the scales would fall when I died. It seems I may have landed in the negative by a small margin.
“Why did you jump?”
“Why didn’t you catch me?”
“I did. Which is the only reason we’re having this conversation.”
“Oh,” she replied, opening both eyes. “Then, I’m not dead. I guess the pain should have been a better clue. But you really need to work on your landings. I’ll probably never walk the same. Not until I get my underwear out of there.” She squirmed, the bunching and twisting of her drawers wedging in a fashion they weren’t designed for. “I mean, how did they even get up there?”
Mioko collapsed to the grass, her knees drawn up with her elbows resting atop them. “You’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “I looked for you for so long. I thought you had died. And now this is what I find.”
“Huh. And I wasn’t even hiding. Perhaps you should stay away from hide-and-seek?”
Mioko smiled weakly. “How have you managed to stay away from the zombees? You don’t come across as the cautious type.”
“The what kind of bees?”
“Zombies. The undead. The people that look like they died along time ago.”
“Oh, the ragamuffins? They’re all up north with their king.”
Mioko blinked. “I’m not really sure how to unpack that. But that’s what you thought I was?”
“Well, you do look different. And can’t know for sure until I see what comes out of you.”
“Uh, how about the fact that I’m talking to you?”
“That doesn’t prove anything. I suppose you’ll tell me you’re not one next? And that’s just what a ragamuffin would want me to believe.”
“I...don’t have an answer to that.” She shrugged. “I wanted to save you from this place. But, maybe, I lost you after all.”
“You know, you’re the second one to tell me I was being saved. And I don’t think it’s worked out for either of you. Maybe it’s something in your motivation? Or maybe I just don’t need saving?”
“Yeah, well...I may check back. If you decide you want to leave this place, I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
“I’ve seen havens before, Ragamuffin. All the world is wicked and yours will be no different.”
Mioko stood as a hole opened behind her. It looked like the open air was a simple curtain, which parted into an oval shape to show a hilltop windmill. She met the drifter’s eyes, her own seeming on the verge of tears. “You take care of yourself.” Then, she left.
Hmph. Girl was about to come apart on me. A real kaleidoscope of character flaws, that one. Lucky thing I let her hit me. Who knows how she would’ve taken it had she missed. And lucky again she left as I was almost ready for round two. Yep, another minute and it was go-time.
The drifter strained, her abs tensing as she tried to lift her arms from each side, her pain sensors chiding her for the effort. Two minutes, she corrected. Yep, just three days and two minutes, and she would’ve been in the fight of her life.
R4: Mixed Bag
“Beware the girl, who had no face
She had no pity,
Had a void in heart’s place.
If you see her, do tread with care
beware her gaze
For one’s doom is kept there.
Cross the girl and find your demise—
“Hey!” the drifter barked, shaking a man by the collar. “Are you listening? I’m trying to keep you from getting stabbed.” She glanced to a handle closed in her fist, its blade jutting from between her knuckles to sheathe in his shoulder. “Well, stabbed again, I mean.”
The man’s face was host to dirt smears, sweat beads, and a shifting grimace, all of which competed for prominence as he failed to still his trembling. “I heard you,” he mewled.
“Then, tell me where the purple-field people are.”
“The who? I only know about the king’s guard. It was them that sent me.”
Everyone kept claiming to not know the purple-field people and it was getting annoying. She rolled her eyes. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that one? It’s becoming cliche. And I don’t like cliche. It just goes to show that you weren’t listening, so let me start again.”
She twisted the blade, and a howl scrambled out of his throat. Not the answer I’m interested in.
“I don’t know!” he cried. “I don’t know!”
“Child, this isn’t the path of the righteous,” voiced a woman in her thoughts.
The drifter glanced over her shoulder. “Good, then I won’t have to worry about running into any of them. It always feels like I’m on eggshells around those blow-hards.”
The man studied her, confused.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she replied. “You, just focus on telling me what I want to know.”
“I won’t allow this boon to be used in such a manner.”
“Hey, you lived your life, so stop trying to live mine. Look, he’s just about to tell me what I want to know.”
The man glanced between her gaze and beyond her shoulder.
“Hey, what did I say? You need to—” The handle disappeared from her grasp, the man sagging to his knees as the blade left his wound unoccupied. “Hey! I was still using that.”
“I swear it,” the man said. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I just came like the guard said. They’re outside and sent me to get you. That’s all I know.”
The drifter shoved him back and released his collar. “Well, get lost. You’re of no use to me.”
He scampered to his feet, then bolted, the floor sounding hollow as he barreled towards a set of stairs down the hall from her.
Those same hollow steps had served as her rude awakening and she was fairly sure it wasn’t even noon yet. She folded her arms, her forearms meeting her bare breasts. She looked down and found that she was missing a memory—one where she got dressed prior to interviewing her intruder. Oh, she thought, turning to observe the large hole hacked into the hall’s end, eye searing sunshine spanning the open space. That explains the stronger draft.
Her cotton panties were twisted and her single donned sock had a hole of its own, her big toe staring up at her. She scrunched her bare toes, then glanced to her room’s partially open door.
“If this bed ate another sock, it’s heading straight to the graveyard.”
“Will you hear out the king?”
“Eh, I don’t really feel like it today. He’s a talker. And you know how I feel about talkers. Maybe, I’ll reschedule for Monday and not tell him which one.” She nodded. “But then, there’s that small matter of my weapon deciding which of my battles to fight. Why can’t you just listen? You’re almost as bad as everything else.”
“Minimizing this curse only cost me my life, so you’ll have to excuse my sensitivity to its boon being used for wickedness.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Someone rescued you and you celebrated by donating your life to a trinket. So, you’ll have to excuse my sensitivity when it comes to accepting your life advice. You’re not exactly a role model.”
“Hmph. It seems this curse has a barb on both ends.”
“Good. Then, sit on it sideways and stop disarming me.”
“Oh, Mattaeus, why couldn’t you have given me to someone with your heart.”
“Why can’t you see the good I’m doing? The purple-field people are bad. And it’s like Mother Gothel said. Their kind is everywhere.”
“Your Mother Gothel was not what you thought her to be. And she’s definitely not one by which to measure morality. Now, go get dressed. You’ll have my support against the king.”
“Fine. But will you help me find my sock?”
“It’s hanging from the back of your bloomers.”
The drifter peered over her shoulder, then flicked her hip, where the sock bobbed into view. “Huh. So it is.”
The drifter stood inside the tavern’s front door, a long wooden handle across her shoulders with her wrists draped over each end. She wore a dark leather corset that covered her bust, red fabric visible beneath its front lacing. A wide belt encompassed her hourglass frame and her dark trousers tucked into mid-calf boots.
She twisted about at her torso, leaning this way and that in a series of stretches. Don’t need to pull anything during our chat, she thought as she studied the mattresses piled outside the front door. That graveyard should’ve been a better deterrent against interlopers.
There was a trick to crossing the mattress graveyard. You needed to leap over the edge, then work a series of flops and rolls to reach the opposite side. She ran through the front door, jumped, and pivoted to roll over her shoulder. But something was different. She had ran past a window—one that was open, its openness the difference.
The center of the mattresses sagged, but she flung her arm over the tavern-side and pulled herself up enough to see over the ledge. Huh. How long has that been there?
The open window was mounted next to the door and hung above an exposed portion of the tavern’s front porch, most of which was hidden beneath the overlapping graveyard. Footprints had stirred the porch’s not-so uniform layer of dirt, and handprints marred the window sill.
The drifter’s eyes widened. That jerk walked around my deterrent. She shoved away from the ledge with a huff and rolled back to the center, but felt an extra settling that she hadn’t experienced before. Suddenly, she felt like she had just sat without ensuring the toilet seat was down. “Uh oh.”
Try as she might, she could not dislodge herself. And what was worse was that she knew the ragamuffin’s formation was a short distance away. That and she was likely not inspiring awe. She thrust a single finger into the air, to a height she hoped could be seen by outsiders. “Be right out!” she declared, then wondered why she was associating her predicament with a wash closet.
She tried to use the stick as a lever, then as an ore. Then, abandoned both when she felt another settling. Her arms and legs shot out to cover more area. Oh...this is about to be an altogether different kind of graveyard. She glanced to her legs, spread as they were. Glad I didn’t make this a skirt day. She hesitated. Or maybe I should have. Flashing my underwear might have made the narrator less likely to kill me off.
“Having troufle?”
A decayed face stared at her, its shoulders rising just above the mattress ledge. At some point, its lips had divorced the rest of his face. I get it. I wouldn’t want to be a part of that either. Its eyelids were on the way out too, its withered white orbs teasing their near escape of their sockets.
“Oh, gosh. You don’t know how glad I am to see you. Could you?” She gestured to the stick held opposite of his position. “I’d be grateful.”
Its eyes moved to the stick and back. “You’d seek wy helf? I’w affrai you’re wot taking this seriously.”
“Yeah, if you could just—” She grunted, arcing the stick across as a trapezoid shaped wedge of metal formed on the end like an axehead. It sunk deep into the top of the ragamuffin’s head, one eye dislodging to dangle by its optic nerve. She tugged and the stick held fast, the limp body creating an anchor and allowing her to climb the stick hand-over-hand. The stringless puppet helped her once more when she rolled over the ledge, its body breaking her fall.
The drifter exhaled. “Whew!” Several ragamuffins stood in a staggered line that stretched away from her. They wore royal coats of red and black and might have been confused as preparing for some formal ceremony if not for the rotting faces that sat atop their uniforms.
She thumbed to the mattresses at her back, while meeting the collection of gazes focused on her. “Do not go in there. I promise, you’ll regret it.” She climbed to her feet and set the makeshift axe against her shoulder.
“Did you find that amusing?” asked someone from behind.
She turned to find another ragamuffin, its skin leathery like it had spent too long in the sun but otherwise, its facial residents were still a great big happy family. And she hated that.
Thunk!
The squared edge bit diagonally into its face, then wrenched free as the body collapsed.
“That one had good lifs,” said another, its top lip missing. “And I don’t have vany of thev left. You should listen—”
Thunk!
The drifter rested the weapon against her shoulder and glared down the staggered line. “Why do you keep thinking I want to talk? Do I seem like a talker to you?”
“You lost a fight,” said another leather face, who strolled behind the line to her right. “If you can lose, then you’re not ready. If you lose, you’re not taking this seriously.”
The dead forms trained their gaze on her and followed her movements, all of their mouths forming the same words in unison while standing at attention.
Thunk!
Thunk!
Thwak!
Huh, a wet one. Her weapon kept falling into the next stupid staring face in line, the talker droning on while pacing alongside her.
“It’s your fault,” Leather-Face said. “You weren’t strong enough to protect them—
The drifter heard the tumblers jostle and a fist slammed against her mental door. Her vision went red and the staggered line came alive. She swung the axehead in a double-handed swing, where it bit into a neck and lodged into bone.
An attacker rushed her from the opposite side, and her axe handle released its hold on the axehead. The stick came around and clipped the inside of the attacker’s knee, twisting it out, which pulled its opposite knee to the ground.
Crack! The handle swatted it across the bridge of its nose, its form flattening like the closing of a book.
Another ragamuffin rushed from the front, arms outstretched. “Front kick!” she yelled, thrusting the flat of her foot into its chest and sending it careening into others.
The drifter swatted another in the temple, spinning it. “Back kick!” she said, booting it in the rear.
Arms folded around her from behind, then her feet left the ground. She spied an inconvenient face nearby—inconvenient for the owner when she extended both feet into the space his face had recently occupied.
She kicked and squirmed, rocking her capture forward enough for her feet to reach the ground again. But with her arms pinned, her stick plus face equation wasn’t yielding the desired results.
A ragamuffin brute stomped closer, its parade jacket buttons straining and threatening surrender. Its was nose flat and wide, its ears swollen, and it gripped a club that it made ready to swing.
The drifter glared up at him. “I’ll bet you gave up your old life willingly. Heck, with a face like that, I know I would’ve. You’re mad about it too, huh? Why else would you have such a big stick. I mean,” she raised her own. “All I got is this and—oh, wait. I’m missing something.”
She glanced up to the club drawn over his head, then around at the ground. “Did you see where I put that? Ah, forget it. Little-guy, do you mind?”
The metal trapezoid dislodged from a nearby neck and zipped back to the head of her stick as if it were a high-powered magnet. The abrupt stop rid it of its contents, the gore spattering onto her face, where she blinked feverishly. “Wait! It’s in my eyes. Oh, God. It’s in my eyes.”
The brute collapsed to its knees, a hole through its chest where gore dripped down around a severed spinal column. She tried to see if the dummy looked surprised but she couldn’t clear her eyes well enough. “Hey,” she said to the weapon. “Could you do something about the groper?”
The shaft slipped from her hand and soon it felt like a seem burst along the backside of a jacket she wasn’t wearing. She shrugged off the limp arms, then wiped her wrists against her face. Oh, God. This was definitely a day to wear sleeves.
With her eyes finally clearish, she found her weapon bobbing beside her and an irritating face standing near the collapsed formation of ragamuffins.
“Meyomo,” the drifter complained. “Just what do you think you’re doing? Those ragamuffins were mine.”
“You know that’s not my name,” Mioko protested.
“Do I though?”
Mioko approached and raised her sheathed sword like it was a coat she was about to hang on a hook. When she released it, it vanished.
What the? The drifter rubbed her eyes again. Wasn’t she just holding a sword? Or did I make that up?
“Those...ragamuffins. They really were talking to you.” Mioko squatted near an armored body, folding her arms over her knees. “Armor and formations? What’s going on here?”
“Yeah, it’s tough being popular. I’d like to say you get used to it, but I’m not there yet.”
“What did they say to you?”
The drifter turned back to the graveyard and the hole hacked into the wall over above the tavern’s entrance. “So, I might have more stalkers than I originally thought and it’s possible they all know where I sleep. Is that sleepover still an option?”
Mioko looked away, then kicked a nearby body. “I wonder if I can make use of this armor. Maybe, I should strip them all down and take them home.”
The drifter narrowed her eyes. Who’s she talking to? “Hey! Sleep over? Inga boka dingy do. Eh?”
“Perhaps, I’ll spend tomorrow morning training,” she said, folding her arms and looking up. “But then what to do with the afternoon?”
Oh no. She’s succumbing to the don’t-listen magic. “Mioko!” the drifter yelled, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Blink if you can hear me. Don’t go into the deafening.”
Mioko blinked, her brows furrowed.
“Whew! I nearly lost you.”
“I could hear you fine. I was just choosing not to answer your direct questions, so you could see what it’s like trying to talk to you.”
“But I don’t need your help with that. I talk to me all the time. Who do you think gave me the idea about a sleepover?”
R5: The Wibblies
A woman flung her head back, barking a laugh towards the ceiling with her hands on her hips. Her hair was dirty-blond and she wore a tunic that looked padded. “Dammit, Einy,” she said, clapping Mioko on the back. “Don’t take so long to come see me next time!”
They were in a strange room and the floor was like a big ole blue bed. The drifter absently scrunched her toes against the matting as she tried to work out the kink in her thoughts. The woman’s name was Matilda and she was very not normal, because normal people don’t have brown wings on their back. Or any wings for that matter.
“I could give her a name,” Matilda said.
“That’s not necessary,” Mioko replied. “I actually have something in mind. I just haven’t asked her about it yet.”
“She seems like Vig. What do you reckon she’s thinking so hard about?”
“Yeah, no. She’s nothing like Vig. And I’m not sure of a lot, but I’m certain I don’t want to know what kind of thoughts would have her so preoccupied.”
The drifter narrowed her eyes and pulled at her bottom lip. It’s hard enough with boobs, she thought, tilting her head. But she’s got wings too. Just how in the heck does she get her shirt on? That’s like an obstacle course on both sides. And if she’s wet? She shook her head. Nope. That battle is not winnable.
“Hey,” someone said beside her.
The drifter oriented on the voice, gripping the knife in her belt, then realized it was Mioko, who raised her palms in surrender.
“It’s just me,” Mioko said. “Remember? We spoke like five-minutes ago?”
Needless exposition, she thought, narrowing her eyes, her blade partially unseating.
“Hey, Einy,” Matilda said, cheerily.
“Yeah, yeah, I already know. She’s tried that before. It didn’t work out then; it’s not going to work out better now.”
The drifter glanced between the two of them. Some kind of code. Well, three can play at that game.
Mioko scrubbed the back of her head. “Look, I know you don’t like that other name, so I thought we could come up with something else to call you. Would you be okay with that?”
She tilted her head, opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again.
“I was thinking—
“Ronga-donga,” she cut in. “Frappa—”
“Fuck it. I’m not dealing with this again, today.”
The drifter’s eyes widened. “Mioko,” she chided. “You can’t say that.”
“Oh, now we speak the same language? From here on out, I’m calling you Vex, because you’re such a pain in the ass to talk to.”
Vex shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what you call me. If I’m not interested in talking to you, a name won’t change that.”
“That’s fine. But Matilda’s going to talk to you with fists. I recommend you reply to her.”
“You’re having me fight? Uh, Mioko, I think you might be confused about sleep overs.”
“What’s wrong? I thought you loved fighting?”
“That’s short sighted. I stab early to end fights. A person would have to be crazy to keep fighting while bleeding out. Besides, no one loves to fight.”
“Well. I can’t argue with such sound logic. Only, you’ve never met Matilda,” Mioko said, gesturing to Crazy-shirt Lady. “Matilda, Vex is a terrible fighter. As far as intensity goes, from one to ten, it needs to be way less than one.”
“Hey, you know I’m still standing here, right?”
“She’s just unrestrained, bitchy girl-boss.”
Matilda grinned and nodded along. “I think I see it.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to miss. She’s got fight. She just doesn’t have any form. So, help her with that. And Vex,” she said, meeting her gaze. “Try to stop Matilda from attacking you. But don’t get confused. By telling you to try, I’m not suggesting that you can. In fact, it’s the opposite that’s true. But try...and you’ll far surpass any kind of training you encountered in your world—err, country, I mean.”
Vex narrowed her eyes. She keeps doing that. Why?
“Child, she’s offering you a gift,” said the White Which. “It may be coated in something bitter but your hand played a part in that. You still have your list and her offer will be useful.”
She glanced to Crazy-shirt Lady, who smiled and almost seemed to bounce in place as she stood with her arms crossed. “So, I just gotta beat Crazy-shirt Lady?”
Mioko sighed. “I don’t know where you’re getting any of that. It’s Matilda and I said— You know what? Yes. Yes, you can beat her. So, beat her and we’ll all go out for ice cream.”
Ice? Cream? Hmm, interesting. I’ve never seen creamed ice.
“Matilda, again, less than one. I’ve gotta step out to... just be elsewhere. At least until my head ache goes away. I’ll check back later.”
“I got it, Einy,” Matilda said, turning back to Vex. “Okay! Show me your best! You ready?”
Vex watched as a hole opened and swallowed Mioko, leaving her alone with this unreasonably excited crazy person. Alright. Guess, I gotta make you my new first step. Sucks to be you, she thought, her knife unseating from its scabbard. “When you’re ready.”
Matilda moved.
Everything went black.
Vex was still tired. Why else would the room swim when she tried to open her eyes.
“Hey!” someone said from under water. Or was she underwater? Or maybe, they both were. Maybe, she was water. It sure felt like someone was shaking the tub that she filled. It all just seemed so...wibbly-wobbly.
“You weren’t supposed to head butt that.”
Vex squeezed one eye shut, while forcing the opposite wider as she willed it to clear. A face eventually took shape. It was one she recognized. Didn’t she recognize it? The buffoon was grinning.
“Shit fire, girl. I’ve never seen anyone get hit by a faint before.”
Crazy-shirt Lady. “I’m still asleep,” she replied, pushing her hand into the hovering face. “Go bye-bye, now.”
“Get up before Einy gets back. Are you trying to get me in trouble?”
Vex blinked. “I’m s’posed to... I gotta beat Crazy-shirt Lady.”
“Now, you’re talking! So, get back up and try not to get hit by any more faints.”
“You fainted me?”
“Yeah. Well, no. I’m talking about a fake attack, not about you blacking out. A feint is a pretend attack. Something your opponent focuses on or blocks while exposing themselves to the real one. Only...you incapacitated yourself before I actually attacked.” She settled back and rested her elbows on her knees. “Einy was being serious about you being that weak? Huh... I assumed it was some kind of mind thing. Some kind of test. Wait, was I being tested?”
Vex leaned away as Matilda picked a fight with whatever thoughts she had rolling around upstairs. She sat up, but quickly realized she was being rash when the room suddenly whirled. She settled back again and rubbed her head. This was the worst she had ever had the wibblies and it still felt like she had some water sloshing around behind her eyes.
She cut her eyes to Matilda and wasn’t sure which of them was worse off. “So, you come here a lot?”
Matilda met her gaze, then looked around. “To Valor Hall? I live here so... No? Because I’d have to be some place else before I could visit here. So, yeah. No.”
“Oh,” Vex replied, arching her eyebrows. “That’s informative. Well, when can I expect the guards to change?”
“Guards? What guards?”
“The prison guards. Obviously. You know, the place I’m being kept?”
“This isn’t a prison.”
“Sure, it is. Valor Hall Prison. I’ve heard of this place,” she said, her eyes surveying the ceiling. “Yeah. You’re supposed to have one heck of a chess tournament. Hey, what’s beyond that door over there?”
Matilda glanced to a door behind her but shook her head. “Einy said you can’t be trusted to go elsewhere yet.”
“You see? Prison. Like I said. Geez, this boss of yours is a real slouch when it comes to training her workers.”
Matilda’s cheer and perplexity were suddenly gone, something that seemed important. “Einy is a lot of things. But lazy is not one of them.”
Vex droned on and waved Matilda off. “Hey, it’s fine. Your boss isn’t here, so don’t feel like you have to hold back on my account. I’ve had the misfortune of spending time with her alone, so. You know. Drama.”
Vex had always fancied herself as a great multi-tasker, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she had missed something. A clue perhaps. Was it a clue for escaping? She didn’t know.
The guard would need to be distracted while she conducted her search. You know, in case of fires, because those things could pop up anywhere and typically did when people least expected them. Or at least that had been her experience when she spent time in a place she no longer wanted to be.
She let her mouth run on auto pilot as she counted the doors leaving her blue-matted room. Two doors and a corner. Another door’s probably around it. There were windows too and they weren’t even barred. What kind of prison are they running here?
Crazy-shirt lady stood over her, so she had to lean to see around to an opposite corner. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the girl. She just seemed simple. And Vex’s auto-pilot could manage simple just fine. But her something was... What is that? An itch? No. And it’s not hunger. I don’t think.
She couldn’t figure out what it was or what it was doing to her, so she started absently scratching at her elbow, then her temple, then her neck. Her gaze may have continued bouncing around the room, but her focus was decidedly inward. Tingly! That’s it, right? Something’s tingly?
Vex considered that there may still be water in her head, but two learned things suddenly slammed into her awareness with a bewildering level of clarity. They were lessons. The two of them. Fraternal twins. And they were as undeniable as their simultaneous arrival and instantaneous departure.
Lesson one: She had said too much.
And lesson B: She had blacked out again.
There was a punchline in there somewhere. She just had to get people to leave the lights alone long enough for her to find it.
Soon, Vex started to believe her dark room was playing favorites. She couldn’t see a blasted thing, but it sure didn’t keep Mioko and Matilda from finding one another.
“Dammit, Matilda. She may already be brain damaged. I don’t need her drooling too.”
“But those things, Einy... I couldn’t let her keep saying them.”
“They were just words.” Mioko sighed. “But it’s fine. Thank you for sticking up for me. But we can’t hit her like that anymore. She’s hurt enough as it is, and I doubt she even knows what she’s saying most of the time. That’s punishment enough. We don’t add to it. When she recovers, see to it that she becomes a better fighter. If she decides she’s had enough of this sleepover, I want her to be able to take care of herself out there. Will you see to it?”
“Yes,” Matilda whispered.
“And on less-than-one this time?”
“I’ll take care of her, Einmadr. Your friends are mine.”
“I know you will. It’s why I came to you.”