Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Day of the Weak ❯ FOUR ( Chapter 4 )

FOUR—

He brushed his injured hand with the damp end of the cloth, eyes narrowed in slight disbelief. Red, raw, angry marks peered out of the hem of his sleeve in the half-light. Blood crusted over, making the wounds appear like roads of dirt in contrast to his pale skin.

Fire flickered in the den of branches at his feet, too close for comfort and yet always too far away. He hastily adjusted the light jacket draped over his shoulders, seeking some added warmth from the fabric.

Silver irises eyed the swollen clouds overhead pleadingly, as if beseeching them not to rain. Soft white light rarely punctured the condensed water but shone through the few breaks in the fog, illuminating the woods just enough.

Just enough to ensure the body in the corner of his eye remained there. He silently cursed to himself when his thoughts turned to the girl in the corner of his eye, again. She wouldn't leave his brain. He blamed her shiny dress, as impractical as it was impossibly long. But he needed to keep sight of her, lest she wake and stumble away.

The smarter voice in his head reminded him gently that there was almost no chance she'd wake anytime soon. He'd pumped her full of sleep-inducers that were keeping her in probably the deepest sleep she'd had in months, judging by the large rings under her eyes.

She hadn't moved in hours. Her stomach rising and falling was the only indication she was alive. He was struck with several pressing questions concerning this girl. He immediately pushed them away, a sick sort of feeling rising behind his eyes.

As with before, the more he looked at this person, the younger she appeared. Her long golden curls obscured her features for the most part; tossed messily from the carefully styled hair she had hours ago. Despite this, he could easily scrutinize her sleeping face. She looked to be in her teens, some years younger than him.

For what seemed like the tenth time that day, he reached out with his consciousness, probing her limp form lightly and checking for any abnormalities in her body. He felt the liquid feeling that was his mind filling the cavities and brushing over the smooth roundness of her digestive track, working like a sonar to relay a mental map of her innards.

He scanned the rest of her organs, skimming lightly over the edges and finding them rather shrunken in comparison to the average person's.

All were in working order but she seemed to have some bone loss as well, the support beams under layers of muscle and skin thinned and brittle.

Both were symptoms of and pointed to anorexia or starvation. His lip curled involuntarily, bitterly at the thought of anorexic.

Typical.

Then, without warning a fiery flare struck out at him.

The pain was excruciating: his brain was on fire. It was as if he'd just run into an invisible wall surrounding her unconscious mind, ramming into it at full strength.

He cried out, both hands flying to his head in attempts to rid of the blinding, white-hot ache. His mind throbbed with an inferno of intensity, the pressure expelled with his hands doing nothing to lessen it. It hurt from within, like a whiplash on the conscious.

Standing up, he staggered over to his pack, tripping over stray roots and rocks in efforts to find something, anything to get rid of the pain, pain that was frying him and slowly killing him and—

It was gone.

Just like that. The cloud of throbbing and burning disappeared. If it hadn't been ripping at his brain scant seconds before, he wouldn't have even known it was there.

He opened his eyes, blinking furiously with the pressing lights behind his eyes. The sleeping form of one Friday Ashe Tuesdale lay slumbering innocently across the fire pit, catching the white rays peeking from behind clouds and giving off its own iridescent shine.

What just happened?

He'd checked her condition several times before by expanding a field, nothing like this had ever occurred.

But then again, he had only briefly scanned her all those times before, going over her structure and insides with his eyes once and deactivating. This time he was in her for more than those fleeting, stolen seconds.

He could only guess that somehow, that flare was something from her unconscious, a defense mechanism. He must've triggered it in some way; she could have sensed his presence invading her and simply shielded herself from what her comatose brain only saw as a potential attack.

The only question was: how did she do it?

A fierce frown knitted his brows together. Nobody said anything about her being…

But then that couldn't be possible. She wasn't displaying any effects of the catalyst. Her brain wasn't assaulted by persistent fevers and she wasn't bleeding anywhere on her face.

Although there was a large, rather nasty amount of blood vessels in her right arm that were broken, that would only leave a bruise. And the blood staining the ivory of her dress was from the priest's body, he was sure.

All of his ponderings flew out of the window as she began to stir. Her entire body shifted closer to the makeshift fireplace, obviously susceptible to the temperature that had plunged into near-freezing status. The several layers of frilly, fancy lace and silk apparently couldn't block out the cold from sinking into her pores, plucking up goose flesh.

She was in a dream-like state when her eyes blinked open blearily, unfocused and unseeing. She was probably only reacting to the needle-like prickle of the cold on her skin. A minute twinge of guilt rose in the pit of his stomach. That little twinge was abruptly washed away when he reminded himself of who she was. Feelings of pressed anger settled in his gut, replacing whatever was there before and reminding him…

He ground his teeth together, feeling the friction in his brain. The fact that his target was certainly younger than usual didn't make her a child. She deserved to die for the greater good. All those people did. If it meant salvation from the root of all oppressive evils…if it meant that the concealing veil cast over the people was at last lifted…

He was going to bring her back to them. The money from this would help them all fill in the metaphorical blanks between them and the goal. It was all just a means to an end.

She was moving like a puppet on slow strings, only just managing to jerk herself onto unsteady legs. He watched her flounder with her jelly-like appendages over the light of the hot flicker of the amber flames. With a sudden cry, she flopped to the stony gravel underfoot as her legs gave way, a grimace around her dazed features.

And all of a sudden he was looking into a pair of furious, focused eyes.

Her lips pulled back harshly, revealing her teeth as she sank into an almost…animalistic posture. She snarled and the image pushed into his brain was a fierce wildcat. And not just any wildcat…like a mother wildcat protecting her cubs from another threat. Only that threat was him.

A spiraled column of golden curls whipped around her like a tail as she made a deft movement, a strike with her hand like she'd thrown some kind of invisible projectile at him.

He felt the lash scant milliseconds after he registered her movement. It was a scathing pain, like being struck with a beam of pure energy and he could feel it singe into his bone. He hissed in pain and propelled himself backwards just in time to dodge another vicious invisible thread of unseen burning agony.

“What is WRONG with you?!”

She didn't even twitch at his profanity or his brash accusation, staring at him, assessing him with those hostile narrowed eyes dilated with the drugs…

Drugs…

His silver eyes widened, like quicksilver he was pinning her down and she was thrashing wildly. Her bony arms shot out as she struggled to wiggle, no, wrestle her way out of his. He distinctly felt a bruising blow land on his face but pressed his full weight on her restless body regardless. His mission dictated that she not get away. He wasn't going to do otherwise.

He peered down into her eyes, deep, dark pools almost dominated by her grossly dilated pupils. Was she even awake or was this some kind of screwed-up reaction to the anesthetic? The blonde head flailed wildly, her teeth bared and searching for something to latch on around the column of his neck.

He swore loudly when the sharp points sunk into his skin, hot pinpricks of blood dripping down onto her face. His elbow slipped, jammed and a crack preceded the blood-curdling scream ripped from her throat. Friday's eyes clouded over in pain and tears blurred her glassy vision because it felt like her side was being consumed in a blinding fire and her nerves were being torn and destroyed…

Friday cracked a rib.

It was like being pierced again and again and the pain was the first thing she was truly aware of. The cold realization was a bucket of ice water on her mind and suddenly she was waking up from a dream.

Her fingers tingled strangely with the buzz of energy and her face had something hot and sticky running down it. There was a man over her and he was bleeding all over his neck. Lacerations decorated his shoulders like a long blade cut through them in one neat little horizontal slice and the blood shone like black paint in the moonlight.

None of that mattered. Her pain, the seizures and yells wracking her body was the forefront of her brain as she screamed and thrashed and was restrained. The man pinning her down yelled something angry in her ear but it came out like garbles and grasps at words. Her brain couldn't compute.

And suddenly it was shutting down. A sharp twinge clamped over her shoulder; a large hand clawed at the tendon between her clavicle and at the base of her neck. T

“Jesus…” he muttered. The grip around her neck loosened but she was still unmoving, blinking slowly and staring. If she so much as twitched, the pain would intensify. Already it hurt to breathe.

Friday only just registered the fact that she was still pinned down, her arms and legs held firmly to the ground. The man above her was now bent over her ribs, cursing under his breath and examining the area with his eyes. A mop of night-black hair rippled over his face, obscuring his profile.

Hard fingers probed the problem area and the blonde turned her scream into a sharp hiss of agony, bringing her lips between her teeth. He spared her a glance, quicksilver gaze widening when he witnessed her expression.

“Crap, sorry…”

“Don't…don't touch…me!” she rasped feebly. Her entire chest was on fire and holy Hell; it felt like a tender bruise was being knifed.

“Would you just shut up a second?” came his sarcastic voice. She really didn't hear him. Her vision was starting to spot, fuzzy blotches of what seemed like mold covering her vision.

His hand lightly pressed over her ribcage and she heard more than let a sob escape. It sounded like a pathetic little hiccup and she cringed. Something glowed, cutting through the darkness in a white brilliance.

The man studied her wound once more (and she really had no idea how he could see the thing through the layers of her dress) and seemed to be satisfied. Giving her a curious look, he stood up and off of her. To her surprise, he offered her his hand.

Hesitantly, she reached out for it, not sure what to make of the gesture. Where was she? How did she get here? Who was this guy?

All these questions had entered her head, hitting her like a train at seventy miles and hour.

Abruptly, she was pulled up as if she weighed little more than nothing to him and she stumbled on her feet, bracing herself for the mind-consuming pain that would envelop her once again.

He noticed her cringe.

“You're OK. I fixed it,”

She opened one eye, then another. Hands grabbed at her ribcage, poking and testing each bone. None of them even ached. She couldn't tell which one had broken in the first place. Placing her hands back at her sides, she turned an accusatory glare in his direction.

“Wha—how?” He appeared slightly taken aback at her shock.

“What do you mean, `how'?! The same thing you did back there!” The man pantomimed rather badly.

She raised an eyebrow in quizzical fashion, no idea on where he was going with this.

He ran a hand through his inky hair and she watched as it floated back in place over his eyes, a sigh shuddering about his lips.

A hand rested over his heart, fingers splayed and her eyes widened. A strip of blood decorated his chest and arms like he'd been struck with a glass whip.

A faint glow emanated from the tips of his fingers, halos of refracted rays extending and illuminating. A pulse echoed through the clearing, swishing the leaves of the trees as if an invisible wind had rippled from above and flicking the tail of her dirty hair into a spiraling column.

The red liquid leaking from his chest seemed to retreat as if in rewind. His skin absorbed it and the flesh left behind was scarred, uneven pink. She didn't flinch at the sight.

Friday had seen blood and gore. In shadows she's dreamed demented nightmares of the past painted over in the thick ink of rouge; corpse-littered grounds and bright, bright hair like flames.

The pink trench shrunk and minimized, new skin being produced to close the gap and cover scar until there was nothing but smooth skin left, glistening with the raindrops in the humid air.

Silence permeated the water-clogged air. She wasn't aware of the deafeningly awkward pause as he'd sewn up his wound. As they were left to study the other plainly, it became much more apparent.

Friday tore her gaze from the immaculate stripe of skin where grotesque tunnel had resided previously up to his face.

He was impossibly pale to the point of looking sickly. Even in the half-dark, his green-tinged skin seemed to suck in all the light in a peculiar fashion. His features were sharp and Western though his gaunt face looked pinched and weary like he'd worked one too many days without food or sleep. Yet he only appeared to be a couple years older than her; the thick black hairs on his head hadn't a streak of gray and his face was clear of any wrinkles.

Once again, a barrage of questions entered her brain.

Who was this man? Why was she here? What had happened?

What was that?

His eyes locked onto hers on the other side of the fire pit, deep pools of quicksilver.

When had she stepped back?

He moved—only slightly, cautiously. Just a little step forward. She found herself jumping almost three feet back. Friday felt anxious; wired and energized, but there was something else… Something was wrong…

She blinked and all of a sudden everything was slow motion. A fierce sound erupted over like a thousand lions' calls on her ears. Was that a growl?

Her almost black eyes widened in alarm, hands clawing at her neck, her voice box. Did she do that? The young man sank into a defensive crouch opposite her. Another feral noise was torn from her throat, another chilling roar.

His face, which had been clouded over in contemplative confusion had now cleared into a marble mask of indifferent understanding as if he'd just gained some vital piece of information.

He nodded once to himself and the liquid silver of his eyes seemed to freeze.

“Listen to me.” She shook her head; it was about the only thing her body was able to control now. The rest snapped away defensively.

He took another step forward, carefully sidestepping the fire pit and keeping his gaze trained on her.

“I know what you are.” Friday's brows knit in bafflement. A strangled cry came from her mouth in her frustration. Why couldn't she move?!

He crept closer again and her feet were still stuck. His mouth twisted into a weird cross between a frown and a smile at her struggling.

“Don't fight it. Just listen to me,”

Somehow, her tensed body seemed follow his command. His hand outstretched and his fingers bent towards her figure as if he were holding the invisible rope keeping her in place.

“You're changing. Your body…it's different. I could tell something was wrong.”

His voice was calm, smooth and manipulated like a tool. The words he spoke were toneless, but his voice was quiet and lilting, gently coaxing her body out of its edgy wariness.

“Now I know why they sent me after you. I know what's wrong with you; I can help you. You just have to listen to me. Let me in. Let me help you,”

Friday squirmed again, frantically striving to move her leg—to move anything. She didn't trust this guy; his sudden mood change from the angry man he'd been just scant moments ago to this composed being sent her brain screaming in warning.

But she was still held in place like a fly caught in the sticky vices of amber honey. His arm hadn't even twitched and he was still advancing…

Something struck her, then. An idea, a wild one, suddenly entered her brain. It was his arm; it was coming from his arm!

He'd healed himself before using that same appendage; he carried some kind of energy in his right arm. Now he was using it against her, to restrain her. Was it an invisible weapon, a rope, perhaps? She strained her ears.

Faint crackling, a buzz of energy emanated and reverberated in the clearing. The sound bounded off of every surface: scraggly tree bark, rustling thin tree leaves, swishing through grass blades. Her hearing abruptly magnified as if cotton balls had been removed from her ear canals.

She focused on his movements, her gaze flicking towards even the slightest stirrings. The fact that his arm was still tensed strangely only fortified her theory.

“You've been around the sickness,” he cut off, donning some semblance of a knowing smile at her expression. She'd frozen, her eyes returning to his pallid face in unconcealed shock. How did he know?

His eyes sparkled to life once again, just a hint of color underneath the monochrome irises as he looked away with another twisted smile as he let out a choked laugh at a private joke. Only his laugh gave the impression that it was a cruel one, the way he was trying to force the laughter and the way his shoulders quivered.

He looked like a little boy holding up the world, trying not to cry. It resonated within her. In that moment, they were similar.

“What does it matter?”

Friday immediately cursed herself in her mind. Now she was a little girl trying not to cry. The sickness… Two words that conjured up a lifetime of the sadness and pain welled within her. Pain that, however invisible, never failed to drive a sword through her.

The edge in his gaze never diminished.

“It does. Believe me, Friday, it does.”

She blinked. Her name sounded so alien coming from this person's mouth…someone she didn't even know, hadn't the slightest clue as to who he was.

“I was probably your age when it happened to me. The entire town…my uncle… They were all unseeing, bloody corpses a week later.” As he divulged this information, his eyes refused to meet hers. A tick was going in his jaw.

“My house was burnt down, reduced to a pile of black ashes. I know now that they would've killed me, too.” He paused, a breathless sort of laugh tumbling from his mouth before he could stop himself.

“I was in the fields, trying to forget. Maybe selfishly, but…I just couldn't stand it anymore. I had to…”

He stopped suddenly, cutting off as if he'd said more than he meant to. His silver gaze flicked to Friday, gaging for some kind of reaction. Her large brown eyes shone in the half-cast shadows thrown by the leaves. Her posture had relaxed from the tight coil of defense it was, and yet... She was confused. She was frustrated and afraid, and she had no idea of what was going on. Had this person been faced with the same situation?

“What're you--what's wrong with me? Why can't I—” her words came out in a tumbling, frenzied rush. Her mind was whirring past at a thousand miles a minute; her heart was pounding from the adrenaline pumped into her system.

She caused lacerations . She could move with inhuman reflexes at breakneck speed. She knew when to dodge before she even saw a blow coming.

How were these things normal?

“Them.” He spat out the word as if it were the dirtiest thing imaginable, his features contorted into a hate-filled glower.

“The people that currently reign control over this land. The people who've been in power the last couple of centuries; the ones responsible for this entire mess.”

The young man strode the remaining space between them, roughly clasping her bony shoulders and forcing her eyes to his.

“I'm talking about the government. The guys people like your father have over for cozy tea parties and chit-chats. The men spinning entire legions of cancerous lies spreading like the sickness and infecting all who come in contact with it. They are the ones who destroyed my home and all the people in it. They took my entire life. My uncle...”

He stopped then, his voice heavy with emotion. The brunette released her shoulders from his callused hands and looked away, the same wave of utter desperation coming over him yet again. “His body wasn't even buried. Its just a pile of ashy remains, mixed with a thousand others...”

Friday stared, not daring to breathe. She was still struggling to comprehend all that had been thrown her way by this...by her kidnapper, someone she expected to be just as heartfelt and emotional as that Blonde Man, Viktor. Which is to say, not at all.

She should have learned by now that almost nothing in her life went as she expected.

. . .