Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Day of the Weak ❯ TWO ( Chapter 2 )

TWO—

 

Her field of vision was obstructed, but she knew who was standing in her doorway, taking in her room's state. The silky gold-touched-silver was as much trademarked to him as flaming hair was to the Yuul. And he was standing right there.

It was very possible he was the one behind everything: taking innocent people off the streets and locking them up for whatever sinister purpose. He had power emblazoned in his very being. He emanated it, as well as basked in it.

What was he doing here? Did he track her down?

Could he possibly know how she got out…? His head turned, pale hair rippling over his shoulders. As if he'd heard her thoughts broadcasting from her confusion-washed mind, a pair of intense emerald eyes fixed her with a stare.

She unconsciously sucked in her breath. What little light had allowed her to see out of the crack of the doorway was eclipsed with his tall form. His back was no longer facing her. With a single purposeful stride he was now inches away from her, separated only by the door swung inwards. His hand grasped the edge of the glazed wood with strength and he made to swing the door wider for his frame.

Friday tugged the edge of the door towards her, fighting to keep her little triangle of space. She knew she couldn't match his strength, but she was not prepared for him, whatever it was he wanted to do. She was most definitely not going back there again…she wouldn't allow it. She would scream and beg and, God-willing, cry to her parents before he carted her off again. She would make sure to alert everyone that she was being taken against her will, appearances and reputations be damned.

Her arm gave out. He allowed himself a triumphant, mocking grin, creating a gap big enough for him to stick his head through.

“Hello there,” His snake-like grin widened as he noticed her shrinking back into the corner. Coffee eyes shined with fear and confusion. She hated him. His emerald eyes raked in her appearance, looking for symptoms.

The girl of slightly short stature was backed against the wall behind a door, her small shoulders hunched about her in a precautionary stance. Large, dark eyes met his stare fiercely under a furrowed brow. Circles rimmed each but those were more likely from a lack of sleep than a rupture of the brain. Her nose was free of any blood. Her tanned skin held a certain pallor, yet he attributed that to a lack of eating, which was also evident in her thin frame shrouded in too-baggy clothes and skinny arms crossed protectively over herself.

It seemed his hunch was right. And everything was proceeding swimmingly.

“Get out.”

He blinked, his eyes returning to her face from where the hiss had issued. Friday wasn't stupid. She could see the way he was examining her as if she were some kind of lab rat who'd just survived something it shouldn't have. She supposed she essentially was boiled down to just that, but…

But she wasn't going to let it happen again. She got out the first time—she didn't know how, she just had, and she could do it again.

“Get out!” She repeated it again, and she was only partially aware to how hysterical she sounded. Her voice was hoarse with disuse, her tone was desperate with terror and hate as she shrieked.

“Whoa there,” muttered the otherwise unfazed man. “Save it for the wedding night, honey.” Then that roguish smile was back in place. “You're gonna need it.”

The desire to torture the smiling man in front of her was suddenly shattered, pushed to the back of her mind when a new realization settled in at his words. She gaped, her eyes growing wide. A new sense gripped at her…the irony of it all. Her parents couldn't have possibly—wouldn't have possibly…

Could they?

Her look of helplessness and increased confusion made him laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes, which were as hard and frigid as ever. She didn't say anything, opting to silently glare at his face instead, her mouth clamped shut. She sucked on her bottom lip as if to keep herself from crying, her eyes becoming glassy with disbelief and loath.

The stubborn girl refused to let any of her frustration out, however. She wouldn't stoop so low, never mind the fact that this was the man who'd probably seen her in the single most vulnerable state of her life.

Sometimes she didn't know whether to think of the whole ordeal as some kind of hellish nightmare, but then again, the existence of this man proved that it was indeed real. One more reason to hate and despise him.

He began inching more of himself in the space she'd created that he was now ruining. Friday didn't want him to. She didn't want him so close to her—she didn't want to smell whatever cologne he was undoubtedly wearing, or feel anything that would only serve to make him appear more human. He wasn't human. A mass murderer, he was a demon in disguise, pulling the cloak of warm human flesh over his evil. And if what he'd uttered almost as a joke was any indication, she would be married to him by the end of the day.

By this point he'd given up trying to occupy the tiny space between the wall and the door and simply, with a flick of his wrist, swung the heavy wood shut. Satisfied, he leaned towards the wall Friday was failing to shrink against. His tall form towered over her petite one, blocking off any and all attempts to run away from him. He was barely a foot away and he could very easily reach out and snap her neck in two, finishing her off.

Oh yes, she could certainly fathom it. He appeared murderous in every way. His smiles were deceitful, his sharp eyes calculating and evil. The way he gazed about the room: drinking everything in and planning.

But, then…what was the purpose of marrying her?

She felt dizzy just thinking about it. Black spots were appearing in her vision as she struggled to blink. Her eyes watered, and suddenly it was as if she was underwater, trickles of the salty liquid streaking small rivulets down her cheeks. Not a sound escaped from her closed mouth.

A wary emerald glance swept over her, irritation evident in his face. His mouth was curved into a twisted bitter smile, as if he'd just eaten or seen something disgusting.

“Stop crying.”

Sobs came from her. Uncontrollable little hiccups of sound had breached the dam she kept over her emotions. She couldn't hold back, and he watched in rising anger as she whined and moaned helplessly, sliding to the ground because her weak knees couldn't hold her up anymore.

He didn't look away and instead stood there with impatience. He couldn't tear his eyes from her face, as if repulsed and somehow compelled to burn the memory of misery into his mind.

“Shut up!”

A gripping sense of physical pain overwhelmed her as something slammed into her side. His foot. She bent over despite herself, clutching her throbbing side. Her ribs...he'd kicked her ribs…

He looked down at her contemptuously, emerald eyes narrowed to a dangerous point. It as if someone had flicked a switch. The fake grin was gone and his features were frozen in rigid dislike. He hadn't raised his voice, but the command was like a silent knife held at her throat.

Her sobs died, the dry hiccuping quieting. Friday was still on the floor, gasping silently, trying to regain her breath amongst the sharp pain.

It was as if he'd wedged a sword between her ribs. Whenever her lungs expanded it stabbed her. Tears smarted the corners of her eyes. She willed them into her throat, wincing.

The man was still staring at her, weighing his efforts against the payoff. She was going to be more than a handful. Troublesome. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that she was what they were searching for, at long last. She was immune. And that unbelievable display of power…

A solid hand gripped her upper arm tightly as she was dragged to her unsteady feet. She cried out, her side now enveloped in unbelievable pain. Friday tripped over her feet, held only in place by his grip on her arm while she desperately held a hand over her side.

“Stop struggling.”

The man punctuated his growl with a reprimanding glance, ceasing all tugging on her person. She instantly yanked her hand away, ignoring the numb feeling of restricted blood flow.

He forced himself not to smile. His lips tugged upward as he turned towards the door.

When he yanked it open, a plump woman straightened away from the frame guiltily, adjusting the hemline of her plain maid's dress with her eyes downcast. She looked every inch the guilty gossip and the man fought the urge to kill something. Now.

However, he kept his outward appearance detached when he addressed the middle aged woman.

“Get her dressed.”

A single nod in his fiancé's direction instantly stomped any confusion as to who he was referring to.

The short, toad-like woman bowed her head respectively, a small smile lifting the corners of her pudgy lips. The room was silent; she was forced to hear his receding heels clicking on the hardwood floor streaming through the hallway.

The maid shot her a smug smile. She obviously thought that he was a very handsome man based on his looks alone.

She nodded to herself with a self-satisfied clucking noise, the bun on her head bobbing with the motion.

Friday was faced with the distinct impression of a chicken clucking contentedly over catching herself an unsuspecting worm.

“That Viktor…he's a good catch, isn't he?”

The maid busied herself with ransacking the overflowing laundry basket deposited in the corner of the bathroom over on the far side of the space.

“`V-Viktor?'”

“Viktor”….Viktor…?

The name sounded so strange on her tongue. The whole concept was foreign. She didn't give much thought to names. The only thoughts swirling about him was…everything he had done. How much she hated him for it. Raern…

His name lead her to confusing thoughts about his childhood and how his mother and father treated him. What kind of character would a person have to have to kill tens of innocent people for no reason?

Did you have to be insane to kill someone, to watch the life in their being dissipate and enjoy it?

Did he enjoy it?

Her bruised side, the way he'd kicked her ribs just to make her listen to him. She'd caught the smile threatening to come over his face. He was sick.

She was snapped out of her reverie when the maid pranced out of the room. She half-wondered where she'd gone when Friday herself hadn't a stitch of proper wedding attire on herself.

Moments later a frilly, organza-laced pile flitted in the doorway, flanked with the portly bulk of the hen-woman. A thinner, younger woman followed the maid, wearing an identical outfit. She was carrying an odd wooden case before her that looked heavy if the expression on her face was anything to go by.

Long brown hair was piled plainly on her head and her brown eyes were squinted under a drawn brow. Her nose was wrinkled and her mouth was drawn in a half-scowl, pulling her freckled cheeks up.

Friday was urged to rush over and help her, but her movement was stilled by another cluck from the hen-woman.

“Stay there, sweetie. We wouldn't want to mess up your hair anymore, now, would we?”

The blonde wanted to shout at the blind idiot, to scathingly reply that her so-called husband was actually a homicidal, aristocratic, evil man. That even if she wore the ripped, soiled clothes of a beggar to her wedding she wouldn't care. Looking pretty, acting cute, and smelling delicious wouldn't get her anywhere.

She was most likely going to be killed.

She was most likely going to be killed tonight.

Of course, she couldn't say any of those things. Knowing her parents (especially her father), each woman had probably been faced with a lecture as long and insipid as their uniforms about why, under no circumstances, should they allow the blonde teenager to escape.

She sighed, shifting her weight from one foot onto the other, resigned to flashing a tired smile and nodding in agreement.

The polished box was dumped unceremoniously on Friday's unmade bed. The bundle of clothes was plopped right next to it. Both women faced her with something akin to morbid curiosity shining in each pair of eyes.

And she supposed it made sense.

Locked away without reason after a mysterious two-plus years of disappearance, she supposed the rumors would be flying about her amongst the gossiping staff that lived in her house. Some unlikely story about her being pregnant and Viktor being the father and being forced to marry her came, unbidden, to her mind. She forced down a snort.

The beady-eyed portly maid was the first to pipe up in the unnatural silence.

“Alright, dear, let's have you sit down. Marloe can do your hair and makeup and I'll help you with your dress.”

With that, the somewhat sour-faced Marloe pulled a nearby stool from over by her bed and led it over to the dressing table that stood by the bathroom door. Friday perched on the stool precariously. She wasn't used to this. She hadn't been “groomed” by chambermaids in years.

A gentle tug at her scalp began as the taller woman began to rake her hands through her tangled tresses. She stopped, regarding Friday with a glance at the mirror.

“Do you have a comb, miss?”

The blonde rifled through her drawers, searching for a brush of any kind. She didn't brush her hair, but handed a pretty ivory comb to the maid anyway, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. She couldn't stand the silence. Was this how it always was when she'd gotten ready? She racked her mind and found that she couldn't remember.

“So, you're getting married in a couple of hours.”

The soft, cautious voice behind her shook her out of her thoughts. Marloe wasn't looking at her, seeming to be innocently buried in her work. Friday knew better.

“Yes. I'm--” She faltered. “I'm kind of nervous. And afraid,”

This time the freckled woman did meet her gaze in the glass. She gave her a tight smile.

“Isn't everyone? Marriage is a big step.”

Too big for a little girl, she heard in her head. A frown pulled at her lips.

“You'd better be sure I was nervous when I'd gotten married, dear,” came the boisterous noise of the plump woman, who was currently making the bed. She shook out the sheets, catching the air underneath the cotton and fanning the material by the filtering light streaming from the window.

She tsked to the sight of the streaming liquid, now pouring unrestrained from the clouds and punctuated with a flash of lightning. The sound of thunder echoed in their minds and Friday cringed.

“Rain's a bad sign on a wedding.” She chuckled at the look on the petite girl's face.

“Of course, that's just me and my superstitions talking. Don't you worry, dearie, marriage is all easy from here. I'm sure you and your husband will just be great together.”

Friday forced herself to nod, pushing the nauseous feeling in her chest to her stomach. She stayed silent for the rest of the evening, her eyes helplessly drawn to the chaotic storm outside.

. . .

People crowded under the veranda in their hurry to stay dry. Rows of chairs lined the marble rectangle of roofed space. Flowers, ribbon, banners and crystal lined every available inch of space. Dresses and fine silks glowed in the muted glory of the sky's dying light.

Men lined the space, most of them well into their forties. The little amount of children there were hovered next to their mothers, forbidden to act inappropriately. Women flitted about, trophy wives draped in over-elegant and gaudy organza or perhaps draped in very little at all.

The scene made him sick. It brought back memories of a strangle grip; of crystalline chandeliers and heady, cloying perfume. A young boy was being whipped with a belt by an angry father while his mother watched with a mixture of horror and tears on her face.

He forced the memory away, into the furthest recesses of his brain. Instead he allowed feelings of rage to wash over him, to drown his moral sense of being. He was on a mission. He took a deep, slow breath, feeling his lungs expand as they took in the fragrant, damp air.

Water steadily fell in a never-ending rhythm. He closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow and just concentrating on breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Seconds passed. His sprawled body could feel the thump of his slowing heart, as well as the moist earth below it and the leaves of the foliage that brushed against it, offering him shelter. He could hear the din of the little animals that scurried around in the undergrowth, their small movements engraved in his brain.

Eyes flicked open, a fierce determination set in their stony depths. His gaze assessed the area once more. He'd counted six guards before, two at the entrance, two patrolling the edge of the daunting forest, and two more somewhere inside.

A smirk played around his lips. It seemed these guards had only been hired to impress, not because the idiot who lived here actually expected any trouble. It would only serve to make his mission all the more easy.

None of the guards carried guns, he knew that for sure.

And there were only four left.

. . .

Her stomach was tied in strings. Nerves flitted about. She was dizzy. Friday stared at the vision before her through her haze, scarcely daring to believe it to be her.

A full length mirror was deposited in front of her. Adorned with naught but a frame, the simplistic design only seemed to heighten the astonishing beauty of the person reflected in the glass.

Gold glinted in the darkness of the room, trailing a path down a petite figure and stopping at the waist in loosely spiraling rivulets. A luminescent peachy pearl was wrapped around her, engulfing her in a luminous glow.

The neckline scooped just low enough, making the dress without straps. Her sleeves were a combination of lace and organza, flowing effortlessly just past her fingertips.

Her torso was unadorned and simply unadorned; the silk flowed out and split to reveal multiple layers of a royal plum petticoat that covered her dainty, slipped-clad feet and trained magnificently behind her. A large bow made of violet organza cinched her waist and tied at her back, completing the effect.

And her mouth was dry. She held a bouquet of violet blooms that she shifted to her left hand. Her right hand tentatively touched against the reflection, feeling the cool smoothness of glass beneath a shaking palm.

Friday's vision blurred. The girl in the mirror had tears in her eyes. She looked like a young, beautiful bride about to get married. Her pink lips were brought in by her teeth. Large, dark eyes were made of shiny glass.

Tears ran down her face for entirely the wrong reasons as the blushing bride.

A ringing knock came to her ears.

The bride in the mirror broke her gaze only to wipe away the damp tracks through her makeup, facing the door.

It opened anyway. Friday hastily pulled a smile onto her face, willing the redness in her eyes to disappear.

Her mother looked falsely ecstatic as she stepped in, one high-heeled foot at a time. Blonde hair bouncing with each step she took, she gathered her daughter in her arms. A smile pulled at her features like it really didn't belong there when she pulled away, holding Friday at arm's length. She got the feeling she knew why.

Sure enough, seconds later a heavy clacking sounded outside of the wooden door of the guest room. Rain had blown in with the veranda door that'd been left open. Wind whistled a tune that drew an icy finger down her spine.

A grayed, drawn face appeared in the doorway. Creases in his dull skin gave the impression of old paper, silver hair slicked to his head, and imposing dark eyes fixed on Friday. He looked down his nose on her, holding a stiffly superior expression before acknowledging his wife with a nod in her direction.

The bride bit her lip self-consciously, twisting her fingers in front of her. Her father remained on the far side of the room. A thick silence enveloped the three. Her mother glued a plaster grin that was faltering as she glanced worriedly between her husband and daughter.

Friday felt her throat constrict painfully, her eyes watering. She didn't dare blink. Her father gestured with his hand, snapping in the direction of the hall.

More hurried click-clacking on the marble floors sounded. In rushed two girls, wearing the generic blue shift of the maid's uniform.

The one leading the other gingerly clasped a large silk ring in her hands while the other held up the train of organza threading from it. A veil.

The halo was colored the same peachy white as her dress while a cloudy lavender trailed from it, almost as long as the dress' train itself.

Organza was dotted with the same kinds of violet flowers she held: petals and half-opened blooms were sewn into the sheer material.

The pair of women hastily tread over to her, careful not to let the organza touch the ground. The taller one stepped towards her, holding the veil higher to lift onto her head. She felt it drop into the place of a headband and a strange feeling surged through her.

She ventured a look over to her father. A flicker of an unfamiliar emotion flitted through his features before he'd arranged them into his normal bored look. Without his usual air of grace, he stepped over to his daughter. He offered his left arm, which she took.

Friday just hoped she'd never have to let go.

. . .