Slayers Fan Fiction ❯ Flam Gush ❯ Chapter 13

Flam Gush 13

Everything went dark—darker than the blackest pitch. The only sound was the heavy thump of her heart and the blood roaring past her ears. Then the steely hiss of Gourry unsheathing his sword.

His blond hair glinted red in the thin light and she could see him, even if her eyes were unwilling to acknowledge anything else. He stood slightly in front of her—in front? Not behind?—sword brandished at some unseen foe, and his left arm flung out before her, protecting her . . . but from what? “What do you want with Lina?” he demanded with a growl.

Mocking laughter. Familiar mirthless laughter that filled her veins with ice and made it difficult to see, to hear, to think . . . “We have some . . . catching up to do, is all. You know, being old friends and all that.”

“Over my dead body,” Gourry growled.

Why was she just standing there, behind Gourry? She pushed futilely at the fog that clouded her vision, took great gulps of air to banish the coldness inside. A small voice beckoned her, pulled her in, promised a safe place to hide . . . hide?

The tsking of a man who knew he was in the superior bargaining position. “I wouldn't dream of fighting the protector!”

The sound of a wooden chair scrabbling against a hard-packed dirt floor. A small feminine sigh and Gourry's half-strangled gasp. She struggled against the insistent tugging that pulled her away.

“But we might end up with a dead body, regardless.” He was all business, now, confident. “Drop your sword! Now!”

A whispered thud of a heavy object falling into the rushes.

Gourry needs me! She knew it was true. Something had upset him. Let me go! LET ME GO!

Lina forced her eyes open, valiantly trying to focus. Gourry still stood before her, arm outstretched, but without his sword. She noted the subtle shift in his posture, as he held himself back, hamstrung by the threat to the woman Erik had named as his mother.

Across the room, Erik stood behind Lady Gabriev. He ruthlessly pulled her head back by the hair, exposing her throat. Even in the dim light, Lina could see the thin rivulet of blood that ran down from the tip of the dagger positioned directly over her jugular, to merge with the growing crimson stain on the neckline of her dress.

“So typical of you, Erik,” she sneered, taking a step forward while the voice in the back of her mind yammered in panic. Shut up! she thought viciously. She had no time for childhood memories right now. “Always the bully, picking on the ones weaker than you.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Gourry lower his arm and relax his stance ever so slightly, but most of her attention was on Erik. She held his eyes, avoiding the shiny puckered scar tissue on the left side of his face. She also defiantly ignored the memory of flames shooting out of her hands, melting flesh and turning the barn into an inferno. Later. Later, there would be time to put those memories in their proper place.

“Whatever gets the job done, Lina.” Did she see the suggestion of hesitation in his eyes? In this light, who could tell? It could just as well be the flickering of the candlelight.

She shrugged, deliberately nonchalant, despite the internal turmoil she felt. “You let the lady go, and you can have me . . . as long as you can keep me, that is.” Her tone oozed with derision. Erik was nothing, nothing compared to some of the opponents she had faced—if she said it enough, she might even believe it. She would go with him to save the woman's life, but he was going to regret ever crossing her path again. She smiled coldly at him, silently promising retribution.

“Oh, don't worry,” Erik replied smugly. “I've learned from our last encounter.” He pulled even harder on Lady Gabriev's hair, forcing her head back at a crazy angle. “You, protector-boy,” he sneered, “if you want your mother to stay alive, you'll do exactly what I say.”

Gourry swallowed hard, and she could see that he was shaking ever so slightly. She stepped up to him and laid a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her, and it was her turn to swallow hard. His eyes were burning with fury. She had never seen him so enraged in all the time they had been together. Given half a chance, she was sure that he would happily rip Erik apart with his bare hands. “Hey,” she said softly, licking her lips with a tongue gone suddenly dry, “it's okay. I'll be fine, really.”

“Lina,” he grabbed her arms, clenching so tightly that she grimaced in pain. “You think I'm just going to hand you over to him? He's—”

“He's got your mother,” she hissed. “We don't have a lot of options!”

“I know that!” His features contorted as the rage burning in his eyes spilled over. “Don't you think—”

A soft gasp interrupted them, and they turned to see the tip of Erik's dagger dig deeper into Lady Gabriev's throat.

“Stop!” Lina shrieked. She could not allow Gourry's mother to come to harm. No matter what happened to her. “Leave them alone! I'm the one you want.”

“I'm done playing games,” Erik spit out in a cold voice. “You, protector-boy. You're going to come over here—slowly, if you value your Lady Mother's life—and collect the special chains I've had prepared.”

Gourry hesitated and glanced over at her. “Do it!” she insisted, waving him on. All she wanted was to get this over with. Once she knew his mother was safe, then she could cut loose. If Erik thought he could hold her without a hostage, he was sorely mistaken. She was going to hit him so hard—

Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when she saw Gourry pick up the “chains.” They looked more like dull iron beads closely strung on wire, and they, along with the heavy iron circlet, were distressingly familiar.

She blanched slightly and revised the intensity of the spells she was planning to hit him with decidedly downward. Well, like Sis had always said, `no pain, no gain.'

“I see you recognize the design, hmm, Lina?” His gaze smoldered as he raked his eyes over her. “Make sure you wrap her good and tight.”

As he wound the beads around her, Gourry's jaw was clenched so tight, she thought his teeth might shatter into a thousand pieces any moment. Finally, he finished with the beads and placed the circlet on her head. Lina felt the cold weight of the iron come to rest against her brow. At first it was just heavy, but after a moment, it started to sting, like she had just been slapped, or maybe bitten by a thousand mosquitoes. She could also feel it tightening, adjusting to the curve of her head, and she bit back an involuntary cry when she felt it inside. A hand leafed through her mind, scooping up this and that, pushing things around. She had the oddest sensation of being put through a strainer: she was being forced through the holes, but her magic stayed behind. It was being gathered in one place, taken away from her! No! She struggled against the force in her head, struggled to keep herself whole.

A sharp pinch at the base of her neck shattered her concentration. Someone cried out in pain, and then everything went black.

******************

Very slowly, a feather light touch moved over his bare chest, causing him to shiver involuntarily and forget the fact that every muscle in his body ached. He heard a familiar low throaty chuckle, and the small hand began to move with purpose. The susurration of skin on skin followed by moist lips that kissed along the trail blazed by fingers that were so eager to find new ways to pleasure him. Fingers that inched lower . . .

“Lina,” Gourry groaned, reaching down to drag her head up for possessive kiss.

There was no one there.

His eyes flew open and scanned his surroundings. He felt a moment of disorientation accompanied by a sudden surge of nausea as the emerald green canopy over his head twisted and whirled.

Green canopy? He was in a very comfortable bed, surrounded by thick velvet curtains. The room in the inn, then? Had it all been a dream?

He remembered the choice before him: Lina or his mother. He could let Lina surrender herself to someone who looked at her . . . Gourry clenched his hands into fists at the memory. It had been a smoldering lust and covetousness. Even in the dim light, he could see it. But the man who wanted Lina had also held his mother and was slowly plunging a dagger into her throat . . . It was like a scene from a nightmare. A very vivid nightmare. Too vivid.

But before the nightmare, the two of them had laid together in this very bed. He struggled against the disorientation. In spite of what his senses had told him, he was alone in the bed—that much was clear. But, he did hear the soft tread of feet against plush carpeting just beyond the curtains. Had Lina started searching without him?

“Lina?” he called out.

The curtains were abruptly pushed back, and he blinked at the sudden flood of bright light. The mid-afternoon sun was streaming through the window.

Sun? But . . . what happened to the night?

All thoughts of night, day, and anything else fled his mind when his eyes finally adjusted and he saw who had pulled back the curtains.

“M-mother?” he asked hesitantly, pushing through the fog in his mind. In the light of day, he could see that the dim light had been inordinately kind. The deep grooves that ran across her face had not healed well at all. In fact, it looked as though they had been forced to heal improperly. But if he dreamed true of his mother, did that mean that it had all been real? “Where are we? What happened? Where's Lina?” he asked as he struggled into a sitting position, trying vainly to ignore the sickening lurch of his stomach or the screaming protest of abused muscles.

“Gourry,” she said in that familiar rich voice that had so often sang him to sleep as a child. “Just relax. Everything is going to be fine now.”

He reacted automatically, easing back so that he was leaning on the headboard. Against all odds, and after so long, he had finally found his mother. She was safe and . . . well, mostly whole . . . but definitely alive. Somehow, it eased the horrifying memory of the day he had come back to the shattered and gutted keep.

And yet, he also realized that she had not actually answered any of his questions.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out a hand that he guided to his cheek. Her fingers traced the plains of his face, pushing the errant locks that always hung over his eyes out of her way. “You kept your hair long?”

“Yeah,” Gourry replied shortly. He had a gnawing sense of unease deep in his gut, a feeling that had little to do with either hunger or nausea. Something was wrong. “Is Lina okay?” he asked.

The fact that his mother turned her head away from him did little to banish the growing panic, and he felt a cold hand clench tight around his heart, making it difficult to breathe. “She's fine,” his mother said in a neutral voice after an agonizing moment of strained silence. “How do you feel?”

Gourry found himself assessing his mother's stance the way he might examine an opponent. Her shoulders had tensed up ever so slightly as she spoke. Clearly, she was hiding something from him. On the other hand, he had never known her to lie. His mother had always been brutally honest. If Lina were in danger, his mother would tell him, he was sure. Despite her odd demeanor, he felt the ice gripped around his heart ease ever so slightly. “Where are we?” he asked again, a bit more calmly.

“We're safe here,” she answered as she stood and moved unerringly across the room. “I know you must have many questions, but first, you should eat something.”

At the thought of food, Gourry's stomach roiled, and the queasy feeling intensified. “I'm not really hungry,” he said slowly, struggling to keep his lunch . . . or dinner . . . or whatever meal it was that he had eaten last from coming back up.

“Eat,” she said firmly as she set a tray on the bedside. “You'll feel better. I know it's nothing glamorous,” she said by way of apology, gesturing to the steaming cup of tea and plain peasant bread. “We thought it best to start you on something simple.”

“We?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.

She sighed. “You've spent far too much time away from home,” she said with a gentle shake of her head. “You've forgotten all your manners.” Then she laughed ruefully. “Not that you ever learned them properly in the first place.”

Gourry's mouth suddenly went dry, and he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to swallow the bread that felt more like sawdust than anything else. After coming close to choking, he took a long swallow of the tea. “Have you seen our home?” he demanded in a half-strangled voice. “We don't have a home anymore!”

His mother turned her face towards him, confronting him once again with her ruined features and the sunken hollows that used to hold ice-blue eyes. Her expression tacitly rebuked him, reminding him forcefully that she could not see anything. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, taking her hand and squeezing it gently.

“Eat,” she repeated in a voice that brooked no argument. “We can talk more when you finish.”

Although he had little appetite for the bread, he forced it down, hoping it would settle his stomach. Rye bread was one of his least favorites, especially when they added all those little caraway seeds, with their sharp and bitter flavor. As he ate, he watched his mother cross the room to the mantle, where she uncorked the decanter and poured herself a liberal shot of amber liquor. She twirled the liquid in the glass, warming it between her hands, seemingly staring into their depths, before taking a small sip.

“Finish your tea, Gourry,” she commanded without looking up from her glass. “It should help with the nausea.”

“Yes'm,” he said automatically, draining his cup in two long swallows. He grimaced at the strong licorice flavor. For some reason, his mother favored her teas liberally laced with anise.

As awful as it tasted, the tea actually did help settle his stomach, although it did little for the general aches in his muscles. Why was he so sore? There was something familiar about the way he felt, as awful as that seemed. He started to swing his legs out over the side of the bed, intending to get moving and stretch the kinks out, but as soon as he stuck his foot out, he realized that the only thing keeping him modest was the covers on the bed.

“Your clothes are being washed,” his mother announced, much to his chagrin.

“How—”

“I could hear you starting to get up,” she said with a smile as she placed her now empty glass on the mantle. “Don't worry. I didn't see a thing!”

“Oh,” he replied lamely. Part of him wondered how he would feel if he could never see anything ever again, but mostly, he was scanning the room, and struggling against the overpowering sense of wrongness that was returning with a vengeance. His clothes, his sword, his armor . . . none of them were anywhere to be seen.

“Sight is over-rated,” his mother said as she waved a hand dismissively.

Gourry stared at her, wondering stupidly if she meant that he was supposed to listen for his armor, or smell his sword.

She ran a finger over the back of an overstuffed upholstered chair, unerringly tracing the pattern formed by gold threads. “I've found living in darkness to be quite liberating, actually. Now I `see' with my hands, my ears, and my nose. We depend too much on our eyes, I think. They deceive us more often than not, I'm afraid.”

What was she trying to say? He had vague memories of her always trying to teach, and less vague memories of her being upset that he had not been paying attention. She was a lot like Lina in that respect. On the other hand, he clearly remembered the non-verbal lessons she had given him about using the sword, how to subdue an enemy . . .

Abruptly he stood up, realizing why he felt so achy. In an instant, he replayed the events of the previous night. He saw Lina, wrapped from hips to shoulders in dull iron beads, mouth twisted into a rictus of agony and her breath coming in short mewling gasps. He heard Erik's triumphant laugh, as he shoved Lady Gabriev violently into Gourry—she practically flew through the air, woozy from blood-loss, no doubt. Gourry had instinctively reached out to catch her . . . her hand had gone around his neck . . . And the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back in this room.

“Where,” he asked in a tightly controlled voice, “is Lina?”

His mother sighed, more in frustration it seemed than with regret. “Sit down, Gourry.”

“Where is she?” he demanded a bit louder. “Why did you attack me?” Her hand had gone around the nape of his neck. All she had to do was exert just a bit of pressure with her fingers, and it would be enough to put him out. He still remembered the first time she had demonstrated that move on him, and the way his muscles had ached the next day—the exact same way they felt right now!

“I said, sit down, Gourry!” His mother's voice rang with the authority of a woman used to giving orders and having them immediately obeyed. Gourry sat.

“I had hoped this could wait until her hold on you had weakened.” His mother paced back and forth, obviously distraught for the first time that he could ever recall.

“Her `hold'? What are you talking about?” He stared at her, a sense of horror overtaking his anger that his mother—his mother of all people—had incapacitated him at a crucial moment.

With visible effort, she stopped pacing and wrapped herself with the aura of the Lady of the Keep. “Just listen, for once, Gourry. Lord Deremar has detained Lina Inverse under my recommendation. He is holding her until it is safe to execute her.”

“Execute?” Gourry echoed, hoping this was all a sick joke, but knowing in his gut that his mother was not one for foolish humor. “If this is about Lucilla, we didn't—”

“Lucilla?” Lady Gabriev asked in surprise, shaking her head. “Look, I have no idea what that . . . woman,” her tone turned the ordinary word into a deadly insult, “has told you, but Lina Inverse was the one who destroyed Gabriev Keep. And for that . . . she will die.”

******************

When consciousness returned, the first thing Lina did, even before opening her eyes or assessing her situation, was to cast a Flare Arrow. At least, she tried. The magic was sluggish and weak, more like a trickle than the powerful flaming gush she was used to. Even worse, as she demanded more power, she felt a dull ache that rapidly and dramatically increased in intensity. Before she had even gathered enough energy to cast a simple light spell, excruciating pain cascaded through her body and she screamed in agony. She released the magic and the immediate surcease from torment bordered on the sublime. As she recovered, she took mental inventory. The last thing she remembered was something trying to pull the magic out of her. No, actually, that was not completely accurate. It had been more like a strange kind of seal. Something had been trying to bring all the magic into one tiny location to be locked away from her reach. Apparently, she had been able to prevent it, although with only limited success.

Once she completed her mental inventory, she gingerly moved on to the physical. In general, her entire body ached, and an itchy stinging sensation circled her head. Not exactly a headache, but it was nearly as bad in its own way. It made it incredibly difficult to concentrate . . . or maybe that was just the high-pitched whine in her ears. Even worse than the aches, the stinging, and the whine, however, was the sensation of being pinned up like a butterfly spread out for display. Slowly, she cracked open her eyes and realized that her initial assessment was not far from the truth.

The last thing she remembered, she had been wrapped in iron beads, much like a caterpillar in a chrysalis. Now, most of the beads were gone, save for the loops that pinned her wrists and ankles. She was spread-eagled, chained to a wall, and—this part made her grind her teeth in impotent fury—draped in swaths of diaphanous pink silk.

“Pink,” she groaned in disgust. “Who the hell wrapped me up in pink!?”

The slight rustle of chains from across the room made her realize that she was not the only one here, wherever “here” might happen to be.

“Actually,” a familiar voice announced calmly, “you look good in pink.”

Lina slowly lifted her head and forced eyes to focus, wondering if she was actually going to see the person she expected. Like her, he was also chained to the wall, but unlike her, he had considerably more slack. At the moment, he was sitting in a kind of crouch, with his hands wrapped around his knees. He looked decidedly worse for wear, however. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, and his clothes were in tatters, revealing assorted cuts and bruises.

“Ryan?” she asked slowly. “What are you doing here?” Out of all the people in the world he was the last . . . no. “You told me Erik was dead,” she accused bitterly.

Ryan struggled to a half-crouch. “I thought he was!” he shot back, his voice breaking and ending almost in a wail. “I stood over his grave! Burned incense in honor of his memory!”

“Incense?” Lina asked slowly, trying to make sense of what Ryan was saying.

Any reply Ryan thought to make was interrupted by the rattle of the opening door.

Speak of a demon, and it'll appear, Lina thought to herself, closing her eyes. She wondered if she was ready for this. Well, ready or not, she had little choice but to deal with whatever the situation dealt out.

The demon of her past entered into the small cell, took a brief sideways glance at Ryan, and then focused his attention on her. Once again, his gaze raked over her—undressing her with his eyes. That was what people called it, right? He had done the same thing the night before: even in the dim light, she had felt his eyes lingering on her. She hated it. As far back as she could remember—and as much as she would rather not think about those days long past, as much as she wanted it to be done and over, she needed the insight those memories could provide—Erik had looked at her like that. It made her feel soiled.

“What do you want?” she growled.

“Lina the Pink,” he replied, sounding almost mesmerized as he ran a finger along the fine, nearly translucent silk from her shoulder down to her breast.

Even though she had absolutely no slack, Lina pulled at her bonds, struggling futilely to free herself and bat his hand away. “Get your filthy hands off me,” she snarled, “or you are so dead.”

“I've been dead, once,” Erik said smoothly in that same abstracted tone. Then he shook himself and smirked over his shoulder at Ryan. “I even have a beautiful granite headstone,” he said sardonically. “Isn't that true, little brother?”

Ryan stared at Erik in horror.

Erik stepped back, placed his hand over his heart, and closed his eyes. With sepulchral reverence, he intoned, “`Here lies Erik Umkehrt, Beloved Son and Brother. In you our Hopes abide.'” He dropped his hand and grimaced. “Bah!” he spat out in disgust. “`Beloved.' What a load of crap!”

“I thought you were dead!” Ryan burst out, shooting to his feet. “I thought you were murdered. I even avenged your death! Why are you doing this?”

Pain and confusion were writ large on Ryan's face, and Lina was torn between the urge to say `I told you so,' and sympathy for the brutal shattering of his boyish beliefs. No matter how much she had feared and avoided Erik as a child, in Ryan's eyes, his older brother could do no wrong. Probably one of the happiest days of her life was when Erik had left home to join a band of mercenaries. His return visits were blessedly sporadic and short-lived . . .

“You killed my friend,” Erik hissed, grabbing Ryan by the front of his shirt. The already tattered fabric ripped further as he lifted Ryan off his feet. “You were supposed to stick that dagger into Gabriev, not into Garik,” he snarled, dropping Ryan, whose face had turned ashen. “But no, you couldn't even do that right.”

“Y-you're . . . you're insane,” Ryan whispered.

“No,” Erik replied in a low intent tone, “no, not insane. Just . . . driven.” He turned his back on Ryan, and once again Lina was subjected to his intrusive gaze. “You always had it so easy, little brother,” he said bitterly. “You were the `beloved' one. The only `hope' our parents had in me was that I would go away, die in some forgotten skirmish. You got everything.” He reached up and lightly stroked Lina's cheek. “So now, I'm going finish taking the one thing you've always wanted.”

Lina felt the rage building as Erik's hand drifted down and started fondling her breast. “I told you to get your hands off me!” Instinctively she called for the fire to roast Erik to a crisp. No one was going to use her as a pawn in some sick twisted sibling rivalry. The magic responded to her call, and almost instantly, she felt the accompanying pain that made it that much more difficult to maintain concentration.

Pain. Pain can be controlled. Pain can be denied. It flows across the nerve endings, tells the brain the body is in danger. But the brain can ignore it. The brain can cut off the messages, interrupt the signal, and carry on.

But this pain was worse than the effort of holding the Ragna Blade, worse than the “nasty shock” of Zangulus and Vrumugun's beads. It was raw electricity running up and down her nerve endings, like a Digger Bolt. If she ignored the pain, it might kill her. `Death before dishonor,' was all well and good for the stories, but Lina wanted to live.

Over her own screams of agony, she was dimly aware of other voices yelling. No, just one voice. Ryan was begging her to stop. Well, she had made her point. She released the spell, and this time the surcease from pain was such a shock that she felt lightheaded. As the blackness took her, her last coherent thought was that Erik may have her trussed up like a pink butterfly, but by no stretch of the imagination did that make her easy prey.

******************

No.

“We were so naïve to think that our keep could protect us,” his mother said, her voice shaking with fury. “One fireball was all it took to incinerate the palisade.”

In his mind's eye, he saw Lina, half smiling as she hurled a fireball, and the subsequent explosion of a random bandits' keep.

No. No way it could be true.

“She demanded the Sword of Light. Held many of the people who lived on the bailey captive, herded up like cattle. And she butchered them one by one when we refused.” Tears streamed down her face at the memory.

Gourry could hear his mother's pain, but also the echo of Lina's voice cajoling and wheedling, trying to get him to give her the Sword.

Could it be true?

“Your father and brother challenged her to buy time, to buy the safety of our people. She cut them down without a backward glance, she laughed over their bodies! And then she destroyed the keep with a huge ball of fire bigger than the imagination!” Gourry's mother clenched her hands into fists, her face contorted with pain, rage, and hate.

The Dragon Slave. It had to be. It was Lina's favorite spell. How many times had he seen her use it? Against the Kingdom of Zoana, in Seyruun . . .

“Dra-mata, they call her,” she bit out. “Enemy of all who live! She deserves to die!”

“NO!” Gourry shouted. “No!” he repeated, a bit softer but with no less intensity.

“Yes!” she shouted back, gesturing to her face. “I was there! I saw her, heard her laughing. It was her!”

“No!” Gourry repeated in a wail. “No!” He seemed incapable of saying anything else. How could this be happening? It had to be a mistake. Some type of misunderstanding.

“That flat-chested woman-child! She maimed and killed all who resisted, and then looted the keep! She took everything of value,” Gourry's mother stood up, smiling triumphantly through her tears, “except the thing she most sought! Oh, how she raged when she realized the Sword of Light had slipped her grasp!”

He remembered leaning against a wall, a scant few days ago, watching Lina pick through everything the bandits of Levahn had assembled, looking for anything valuable that she could carry off.

Everything fit. It was exactly how Lina operated. Except he knew Lina. She attacked bandit gangs, not castles and keeps. Even in Zoana, it had been against a golem run amok . . . in Seyruun to prevent a floating chunk of earth from destroying the city . . . She was greedy and she had begged him mercilessly for the Sword of Light, but she had never forced the issue. And she would never take hostages. She would never kill innocent people in cold blood.

“No,” he said firmly. “You're wrong. Lina didn't do it. I know she didn't.”

Lady Gabriev's face went white. “What did she do to you?” she demanded in a ragged whisper. “What did that woman do?”

“Nothing!” Gourry burst out. “Don't you see? It's a mistake! It's got to be some kind of mistake!” It had to be. The Lina he had sworn to protect would never roast people and carve them up to eat!

The shock and rage on his mother's face slowly gave way to understanding. “Oh, Gourry,” she said in a gentle voice, “it's okay. We'll work this out, somehow.” She sat next to him and wrapped her arms around him. “Somehow, we'll break that woman's hold on you—”

Gourry had been on the verge of relaxing into the familiar feel of his mother's comforting arms around him, but he bolted up straight at her words. “What—”

“Shh,” she soothed, tightening her hold on him. “I know it's not easy right now. Just be patient. Soon, you'll understand.”

“Understand what?” He shook his head, feeling like he was missing some crucial part of the conversation. If only Lina were here. She would understand what was going on!

With a sigh, his mother smoothed his brow and then stood up. “You should get some rest, Gourry. You've been through a lot these past few days.”

“But I'm not—” Even as he spoke the words, he felt a wave of lethargy surge through him. Suddenly, his eyelids were so heavy, that it was a struggle to keep them open. He had just enough time to wonder what was wrong with him before he slid into unconsciousness once again.

******************

The last summer Lina spent at home had been the best time of her life. Her parents had finally started trusting her enough to run the family business while they were away. And when they were home, she spent her days with Ryan, exploring the forest around their town, scheming ways to make some extra money, and generally just enjoying each other's company.

One of their favorite places to meet was the barn behind Ryan's house. Sometimes they jumped from the loft into the hay below. Sometimes they took the horses out riding. Other times, they just sat and talked. And once, just once, towards the end of the summer, they had kissed. It was the shy tentative kiss of two awkward adolescents on the cusp of adulthood. That same day, as they walked hand-in-hand in a sun-dappled clearing, Ryan had given her a small wooden falcon that he had secretly carved.

The day after that, Ryan left to spend time with cousins who lived in the capital city. His parents wanted him to gain new experiences and make new contacts. Networking for the future, they had called it.

Lina missed him desperately, and she frequently went to the barn, where she would lay on the hay, remembering the time they had spent together. For some reason, it made her feel closer to him.

She was there, daydreaming in the barn, the day Erik came home. When she first heard the single horse outside the barn, she had thought that maybe it was Ryan, and she had sprung up, ready to greet him. The words had died on her lips when Erik led his horse in, and although she tried to make herself small and hide, he had noticed her almost immediately. He had looked her up and down in that way that she so hated, and then he had smiled at her. Lina remembered that very clearly. Something about his expression had paralyzed her with fright.

He had overpowered her easily, ignoring her cries and protests, ignoring the kicks and scratches and bites she rained on him as she struggled futilely to free herself. She remembered the splitting pain as he thrust into her—not just the pain of sundered maidenhead, but of something breaking open within her. Raw power coursed through her, making her nerve endings jangle from scalp to toes. There was a sense of pressure, of mounting heat, begging to be released. Her desperate terror transformed into rage.

Something must have warned him, because Erik suddenly pulled away from her, with just a hint of uncertainty flitting across his face. But Lina had already found her target, and the flames burst forth from her hands. Power ran over her, through her, and out of her. She remembered Erik screaming and the disgusting smell of burnt hair and flesh. The dry hay burst into flame a second later, turning the barn into an inferno as the horses whinnied in panic.

A part of her gloried in the power, in the rushing feel of pure magic, unknowingly pent up and suddenly released in violence. Another part of her shrunk back in fear and tried to run and hide. She wanted to stop the flames. She wanted to give herself to the surge.

She vaguely remembered losing touch with everything, save the coursing of magic through her. Everything she was began and ended with the flow of power. She was flame! Let her burn! Let all turn to ash!

Luna later told her they had heard her scream from one end of the town to the other. She had no memory of doing so, although she believed it, as she had been unable to say anything above a whisper for a week or more, not that she had much of an urge to say anything. She had slept, only to awake with an enormous appetite that drove her to eat ravenously, and then she collapsed into sleep again to repeat the cycle. She had the sense—not so much an actual memory—that Luna had been by her side the entire time, holding her against the terrible nightmares, smoothing her brow as she drifted into the sleep of exhaustion.

When she had finally recovered, Luna had begun training her, teaching her both the blade, and more importantly, how to control the magic. She was a stern taskmistress, demanding a level discipline Lina had never dreamed possible.

The first few days of training, Lina reveled in the fact that she was the center of Luna's attention. She had always admired her big sister, even if she was a little afraid of her, too. But as the tasks became more difficult, Lina grew increasingly uncooperative and sullen. It was fun when everything was easy, but now . . . now it was starting to hurt. Strained muscles, nicks and cuts, and the mental focus Luna insisted upon frequently resulted in splitting headaches.

One day, Lina refused to get out of bed. She had had enough, and that was it. Luna had first appealed to her pride, and then to her sense of greed, and finally she had yelled. Lina just pulled the covers over her head. Nothing was going to make her change her mind. She was through with all this training. And then she heard something she had never thought she would ever hear. Luna was crying. Tentatively, she peeked through a crack in the covers, leery of some kind of trick, but her eyes confirmed what her ears had claimed. Luna was crying and that scared Lina more than anything had ever scared her before. Even more than that terrible thing she refused to think about. Lina had started crying, too, and begged her sister to stop. She would do anything Luna asked. Luna had held her close, and in an aching voice that broke Lina's heart, explained that Lina had to be strong. She had to be able to protect herself, because Luna would not always be there to save her.

After that day, Lina threw all her energy into Luna's lessons. Without consciously realizing it, although it was very clear in retrospect, she applied her new abilities to help lock the memory of that day away.

By the time the leaves had all fallen, but before the first storms of winter hit, her parents gave her two pieces of news. The first had filled her with a mixture of eager anticipation and nervous trepidation: the Sorcerer's Guild had accepted her for formal training, in spite of her youth. She was the youngest student in living memory. The second had flayed her soul to the quick: Ryan had broken their engagement.

******************

“You were dreaming about her again,” his mother accused as she pushed a fresh cup of her anise-laced tea into his hands. “You were calling her name.”

Gourry said nothing in reply as he drank down the tea without tasting it. Anise in his tea, and caraway seeds in his bread. He could no longer bring himself to care. The dreams were becoming more real than reality itself. In his dreams, Lina was with him, at his side. She touched him, and he could feel her.

Reality was this crazy world, where his mother insisted that Lina had destroyed Gabriev Keep. Over and over, like a litany, she described Lina's crimes. She described Lina's appearance, her spells, her character . . . it all fit, all of it, except for the fact that he still believed Lina could never be so cruel.

Reality was where he had trouble concentrating and was frequently irritable. He was so easily distracted. It could be something a simple as the light refracting through the window, casting a rainbow pattern on the floor, and he would stare at it, mesmerized, watching its slow progress across the floor. Maybe it was all the inactivity from being stuck in this room, with nothing more than a loose linen shirt to answer the demands of modesty. Half of the time, he was so disoriented that he had trouble figuring out where he was and why he was there. They refused to let him out until they had “broken Lina's hold over him,” whatever that meant. Whoever “they” were. His mother refused to say.

Reality was where there was only anguish and pain. His poor blinded mother . . . Gourry was starting to wonder if she might be insane. Was it normal to have such unreasoning hate? No matter how many times he tried to explain it, she refused to listen. She just insisted that he was under some type of spell, that Lina had ensorcelled him to prevent him from seeing the truth.

Part of him wished he had never found the magicked hair in the dagger, if this is who she had become. Then he felt guilty for feeling that way. It was like she expected him to renounce his feelings for Lina. As much as he loved his mother, he could no more renounce Lina for her sake than cut off his sword arm. In fact, it would probably be easier to cut off his sword arm than give up his feelings for Lina. In all the time they had been traveling together, this was the longest they had ever been apart. He missed her so desperately, was it any wonder he sought her in his dreams?

And the pain? When had it started? He had lost all sense of time. It was a burning sensation in his fingers and toes that came and went. Sometimes it was worse than others. He was starting to lose some mobility in his left hand, and a part of him thought this should seriously concern him, but he found it very difficult to care. All he wanted to do was sleep, so he could dream of Lina. Dream of a world where they were together and there was no one else.

******************

Lina slowly opened her eyes to the small dungeon, where she was still chained to the wall across from Ryan, who was very obviously not looking at her. Lina glanced down and realized that at least one thing had changed: while she was still draped with the pink silk, it no longer afforded her any degree of modesty.

“What happened?”

Ryan very deliberately looked her in the eye, scrupulously keeping his gaze above the neck, as it were. While she appreciated the sentiment, his intentional avoidance only served to underscore the fact that she was pretty much naked from the neck down. She clamped down on the urge to struggle against her bonds and cover herself. It would just serve to annoy her by accentuating her current immobility. Right now, she needed her faculties if she was going to figure out how to get out of this situation.

“I could ask the same question,” he finally answered, staring at the top of her head.

“Would you stop doing that, already?” Lina demanded. “It's just making it worse!”

“I-I . . . that is . . .” Ryan stammered, and tried to find a place to put his eyes. Finally he sighed resolutely, and hid his face in his knees.

Lina took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm her temper. She deliberately cataloged the items in the room, few though they were. There were several wall sconces, each supporting a burning torch, which meant the room was very well-lit, considering it looked very much like a dungeon. There were manacles bolted to the wall, including the ones that held her and Ryan captive. There was also a rough cot in the middle of the room, beyond the reach of either of them. She tried to remember if it had been there before, but she doubted it.

“Did Erik—”

“No,” Ryan cut her off, his voice muffled by his knees. “I don't know what you did, but your whole body was arcing with white lightning. He couldn't touch you, and when you went unconscious, he just left without saying anything.”

“How—”

“He came back later,” Ryan interrupted her again, his voice sounding strangled, now. “He . . . He just . . . touched . . . he just moved . . . the silk . . . .” Ryan drew in a long ragged breath. “What the hell happened to him? He didn't used to be like this . . .”

“You just never saw it,” Lina said very softly. Her skin positively crawled at the thought of Erik—of anyone, really—touching her while she was hanging unconscious on a wall. It was small consolation that in protecting herself, she would leave herself subsequently vulnerable. “How long?” she asked suddenly.

Ryan shrugged. “I've lost track. A couple days? Maybe more, maybe less. They've replaced the torches a couple times. I don't know, how long do torches last?”

“A couple . . . days?” Lina echoed incredulously. Her stomach rumbled in protest at the thought of going so long without food, but she barely noticed. Where was Gourry? Out of all the times he had stepped up to “protect” her, whether she needed it or not . . . No. This time, she had to rely on herself for a rescue.

Lina grit her teeth and started calling for the magic, sluggish though it was.

“What're you—” Ryan started in a panicked voice.

“No pain, no gain,” Lina bit out between gasps. Control the pain, control the fear, control the magic.

******************

Gourry sat on the windowsill, quietly contemplating the heavy ornate chair his mother sat in. If he put the chair through the window, he could be free of this nightmare.

If only he could. In spite of the anise and the caraway seeds, both of which his mother claimed should settle his stomach, he was almost constantly nauseous, and he had difficulty keeping down anything beyond the tea and the toast that he was consistently served. He had frequent tremors in his hands, in addition to the burning sensation that was nearly constant. It was the worst in his left hand, and he was torn between relief and horror at the fact that he had lost all feeling in his pinky, and the tip of the finger was starting to turn black.

The truth of the matter was that putting a chair through the window was beyond him at this point. Even if he could force his fingers to grip the chair, he was so emaciated from the vomiting and diarrhea that he lacked the strength to even move it. It required all his energy to cross the room, and even then, he had to stop and rest about half-way across. If only he had thought about escaping days ago, when he still had the strength! Unfortunately, he knew that the lucidity came and went. Right now he was clear-headed for the first time in . . . he had no idea how long. How long would it last? Another question to which he had no answer.

“What's wrong with me?” he whispered under his breath.

“It's that woman,” Lady Gabriev muttered venomously. He had forgotten how good her hearing was, now. “Erik was supposed to kill her! If he had, I know you would feel better! It's her poison eating into you, destroying your mind and making you betray your kin!”

“Shut up!” Gourry roared. He saw his mother flinch back, but he was beyond caring. “How many times do I have to tell you! Lina isn't like that!”

“Don't you dare raise your voice to me, young man,” she responded in cold fury. “You may be full grown, but you are still my son!”

“No,” Gourry lowered his voice with an effort, but he could not hide the anger. “I don't know who you are, but my mother was kind and loving. She was fair. She taught me to always look for the good in people. You. You've become vindictive and cruel. You've judged Lina without even hearing her side of it.” He stood and loomed over her, forgetting the nausea and weakness in his fury. “You tricked us, made me think Erik was threatening you . . . Lina turned herself over to him for your sake AND IT WAS ALL A LIE!”

The strength of his anger burned itself out with his final shout, and he collapsed onto the floor at his mother's feet, quietly sobbing in frustration at his weakness.

“Gourry . . .” he felt her hand reach out tentatively to stroke his head. “I've done it all for you. To save you,” she said in a voice choked with tears.

“I know,” he replied in a tone drained of all emotion. “But you're wrong.” He lifted his face to hers, confronted by her ruined features. “You're wrong. And if this is salvation, I'd rather be in Hell.”

******************

Keys rattled on the other side of the door, and Lina heard the heavy thunk of the bolt turning. She braced herself for another session with Erik.

That first day, he had described himself as driven, and Lina thought that was a particularly apt description. He wanted her weak and helpless, crying and begging for mercy, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. If he so much as touched her, she called the magic, forcing him away, even if she could not quite do anything more complicated than a light spell. And although he had several opportunities to have his way with her when her attempts to control the magic and the pain proved inadequate and her mind and body sought the bliss of unconsciousness, Ryan had made it clear that Erik never did anything more than stare at her from the cot in the center of the room. He had only touched her that first time. Apparently, he wanted her awake and aware, but awake, she could defend herself quite easily, even if that was the limit of her independence at the moment. Impasse.

Today, he came in with two maids. One of the girls carried a tray filled with food, and Lina felt her mouth water. She had trouble remembering the last time she had eaten. Ryan had been fed on a regular basis, but as she was still pinned up to the wall, there was no way she could feed herself. The other girl looked vaguely familiar, and carried a bucket of water. Erik sat himself on the cot as he usually did, with his back to Ryan, but without blocking him from Lina's sight.

“Food and a bath, today,” Erik announced with a feral smile.

Lina wondered if her luck was about to change. If he was going to let her eat, he would have to let her down. And once she was no longer stuck to the wall like some butterfly on display, it was going to be payback time.

Before it even had a chance to bloom, Erik crushed the small seedling of hope under his boot heel. “Anna, you'll need to feed Miss Inverse, as you can see that she is quite incapable of feeding herself.”

“I'd be perfectly capable of feeding myself if you let me down,” Lina growled. “You can't keep me pinned up here forever.”

“Can't I?” Erik asked smoothly as he gestured to the girl with the food, Anna, Lina supposed. “Who's going to stop me? Ryan? Or your so-called `Protector?'” He crooked up a leg on the cot, and propped his elbow against it, resting his cheek upon a loosely curved fist. “You see, Lina, there's no one to come rescue you this time. Gabriev is in the loving care of his mother, and I doubt Ryan is going anywhere anytime soon. Isn't that right, little brother?” Erik laughed softly.

“You're forgetting someone,” Lina bit out through clenched teeth. Something about Erik gloating over the reunion between Gourry and his mother bothered her, but she found it difficult to concentrate on anything besides the smell of the soup in the bowl Anna held. She could practically taste it, and mind was locked in a battle with her stomach. Her mind said that she should reject the food, and hold out for some modicum of mobility. Her stomach was not as patient and demanded instant gratification. Mind argued that some things, like Gourry for instance, were more important than food. Stomach countered with an ominous rumble, reminding mind that without food, there was no body for the mind to live in.

“I am?” Erik asked innocently. “And who might that be?”

“Me, you idiot! Me!” Stomach won the battle, and Lina greedily drank down the soup from the bowl Anna had pressed to her lips. Mind bemoaned the lost opportunity. Stomach responded with a self-satisfied belch. She turned her gaze back to Erik. Let him think it was empty blustering. She was getting stronger. It was painstakingly slow—not to mention incredibly painful, but one of these days, he was going to walk in and find a fireball greeting him. Lina doubted he would survive it this time.

Erik waved his hand dismissively. “Ryan tells me that you've just barely mastered the light spell. I hardly think I have anything to worry about.” He snapped his fingers, gesturing to the other girl, “Elaina! Your turn!”

Lina glared at Ryan, who had the grace to flush guiltily, but he said nothing. He just sat there huddled with his arms wrapped around his legs, and his head pillowed on his knees. She knew that he talked to Erik, but he never did it while she was awake. When she had asked him why, he had babbled something incoherent about him being different when she was out of it. Was it possible . . . that Ryan was . . . collaborating with Erik? Why else would he tell him that she had finally managed to cast Light? With a sick feeling, Lina remembered that day in Levahn, she had seen Erik—although she had thought he was Zel at the time—and then just moments later, she had seen Ryan going the same direction.

All thoughts about possible collusion between Ryan and Erik were forcefully banished by the realization that Erik was going to watch while the other girl, Elaina, bathed her. She had a hard time figuring out what bothered her more: the idea of some stranger washing her, or the idea of Erik and Ryan watching some stranger wash her. Lina fought a losing battle against the blush that spread across her face. She blushed even harder when Elaina winked at her and slowly pulled the pink silk off her body. Suddenly, the only sound in the cell was the whisper of fabric against flesh.

The girl dropped the silk in a heap behind her, and hunched down, swirling a wash towel in the bucket of water. Lina could feel the blood burning in her cheeks. It was no longer a blush of embarrassment; now it was the heat of rage. So Erik had found a way around her protection. He could not touch her directly, so he was going to do it vicariously through this girl. As Elaina dribbled water over Lina's torso, Lina glared at Erik. If he thought she was just going to quietly sit here and be a spectacle for him . . .

All it would take was a slight jolt. There was probably no need to go full out in order to get this girl to back off. Lina was on the verge of trying to cast a spell, when she felt something cool and solid being pressed into palm of her hand. She curled her fingers around the object, and as Elaina worked the rough washcloth along her arm, she mouthed the words, “Make it good.”

Suddenly, Lina realized why Elaina looked vaguely familiar. She was the one from the inn, the girl Garik had been pawing that day in the storage shed. Her eyes widened briefly, but she tried not to give any other indication that she recognized the girl. But “make it good?” Make what good? She had no intention of putting on a show for Erik, if that was what the girl meant. Elaina looked up at her, silently pleading, even as she dragged the washcloth over Lina's body, working soap into flesh coated with sticky dried sweat from all of Lina's attempts to master the pain and free herself from Erik's bonds. The smooth caress of her hands was at odds with the desperate entreaty in her eyes.

It was rape, but of a far different nature than the one Erik had forced on her all those years ago, or Garik's attempt that day in the shed. Both of them were being used against their will for the enjoyment of another, someone who reveled in their humiliation. And Lina knew exactly how to respond.

Without moving a muscle, she growled in a voice full of fury. “Get off me now, or so help me . . .”

Elaina skitted back away from Lina and glanced nervously at Erik, who wore a half-glazed look. Lina clenched her hands into fists, straining impotently at the bonds that kept her immobile, and also concealing the metal pin Elaina had slipped into her hand.

******************

It was the same dream again. He could feel Lina's hands stroking over him, feel her warm mouth kissing a trail across his chest. He so wanted the wrap his arms around her, but every time he gave into the temptation, he ended up clutching air. As long as he could restrain himself, she would stay.

He heard her low throaty chuckle as a light feather stroke provoked a shiver that raised gooseflesh along his sides. Oh, how he loved these dreams, loved feeling Lina so close to him. And how he hated the bitter disappointment when he gave into the impulse to touch her body they way she touched his, only to find that he was really alone.

All his senses were attuned to her, save sight, as he kept his eyes tightly closed so that they would not give the lie to what the others claimed. The tickle of her long hair as she trailed warm wet kisses down to his navel. The sound of skin sloughing against skin, the whisper of the sheets as she moved against him Her breath coming faster as her hands moved with greater intensity, greater purpose. The musky smell of an aroused woman.

“Lina,” he groaned, knowing he was fast approaching the breaking point, where he would shatter the dream illusion even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

A hesitation. The hands touching him stilled momentarily. “Gourry?” she whispered.

This was different. She never stopped until he reached for her. In this dream, she never called his name. Was it real this time? Could it actually be her? “Lina?” he whispered as he tentatively reached out his hand to stroke her hair, barely daring to hope, and steeling himself for the acid frustration of feeling nothing save his own flesh.

Questing fingers brushed against her upturned face, and Gourry felt his heart surge with exultation. This was real! This was finally real! Not a dream! He dragged her up along his body, heard her gasp as he flipped her onto her back. Still there! Gods, she was still there, it was real! Real! He could feel the tears welling up as he pressed a possessive kiss on her, his hands greedily exploring her body. She opened herself to him, as eager as he to consummate their desire.

They writhed against each other, a tangle of limbs and bedclothes. Gourry was beyond all thought, beyond wondering how she could be here—be real—after so long. He only thanked the gods, as he gasped her name, seeking sweet release in her flesh.

******************