Unfortunately for some reason chapters no longer display a link to the next or previous part which means when one reads them there is no convenient link to the next chapter at the end. I do not know why. Until then one has to just go to my profile and works list to read them, sorry for that its annoying and I hope it is fixed soon. This chapter was by far one of the most enjoyable chapters I have ever written. Thank you my readers for your ongoing support!
A Lion among Men
Jhary sat in the midst of the gaily dressed crowd, precious instrument set in his hands and began to pay an upbeat and complex melody. Bach's Toccata. Usually he could lose himself in the cadence of his art, but not today. His head was down, an errant strand of brassy blond hair hanging in his eyes which were closed. All of his music remembered and played by rote.
The scent of a pig roast carried to him delicious on the cool air. Perhaps he would partake of it later? He tried to lose himself in the moment, to be someplace else, this spectacle he could no longer abide. Yet he must as his Master had commanded it, Jhary knew how these things worked, what he was and who he must be. The skilled musician would uphold the illusion, though his heart had returned to the darkness he had so sought to shake.
The bard looked up but briefly in-between his playing to glimpse Aurianne close by, he cast her a rueful smile. One that did not match the tune that was being plucked by his skillful and elegant fingers. She would leave tomorrow, and that thought saddened him further. The statuesque woman had been his only brightness in this place of brutality and human misery, and he did not know how he would fare in her absence.
We are all like water
he thought,
we ebb and flow our different ways, and we largely have no control of where the world will take us. Some cross our paths, some stay, some must leave...
He sighed softly the mournful sound hidden by the strains of his music. Jhary uncharacteristically missed a note but covered the mistake skillfully, none of the untrained ears about him seemed to notice, nor did they glimpse the tears wetting his eyes.
Jhary loved joy and stories, he adored smiling faces, the innocence of children, beautiful women, and art. He was content to wander at will, taking his future by chance. Yet this place was no more than a parody of these things. He wondered how he would survive, surrounded by such misery?
He did not look up from his closed eyed playing, he would not witness the wanton waste, the bloodshed. Sometimes the loud roaring of the crowd would all but drown his lilting tune, however Jhary cared not. The music lie in his heart, and he was determined this day and every one after to lose himself in it. It was now all he had.
Aurianne fidgeted in the stands, though the fresh air felt good she was restless and wished wholeheartedly she could depart for the quietude of the indoors. She sat a small distance away in the stands from Master Jacques and his appalling visitor, who's sharp features were shrouded in black. She observed the short riding crop that he seemed to always carry tap the sides of his shining leather boots in a nervous rhythm. She could see no more than his aquiline nose and hard leering mouth beneath the brim of his Death's-head cap.
It was difficult to know what to make of him. Was his Nazi attire for show, did he believe in the doctrine of World War two Germany, or did he simply overcompensate? Could such a small statured man really be so dangerous? Did it look as though she may have a chance to overpower him and flee en route? How much of this man was a self styled image, and how much was real?
Her eyes skirted the crowd further, seeking his companions. His soldiers seemed real enough, a regiment of stout fighting men, they appeared both battle hardened and disciplined. Well equipped also. She guessed she would find all these answers on the morrow. She would escape, this outcome was not negotiable. The journey would be her only viable chance to do so easily. She would not be the wife and chattel of some unknown man; no, irrefutably not.
The clangor had begun in the pit below, Aurianne had seen enough of the senseless bloodshed and the cheapness of life here. She looked away towards the south, toward the endless procession of solid clouds muting the sunlight.
Would it never rain, would the cloud never lift, must each day be the one with sameness, and cold?
Torn bodies, blood soaking the sand. The crescendo of the rabid crowd, never sated, always lusting for more. Aurianne tuned these things out, firmly revolted by the anarchy she lived in. Perhaps she did not live at all but merely survived.
Even her bitter vengeance no longer drove her. Though deep inside the mission to save Darius still burned, unfinished, like a lone hungry dog following in her shadow hoping to be fed. Then in the same thought hopelessness would come rushing in, like seawater into the hull of a foundering ship. Drowning her, washing her away. Like a doomed sailor she would admit.
Why am I fighting, should I really care anymore? Why not just quit this fight? Darius will surely be dead. Common sense tells me this. I may as well just be that wife. Surely marriage cannot be so bad? Perhaps with time I will even be happy I had?
In the next moment Aurianne snatched her reasoning aside. There was another loud roar from the crowd.
Animals, yes animals, that is all you are she accused silently. Then perhaps not, as animals in her eyes held much more dignity. Perhaps you are humans after all and it is I who feels no kinship with my species.
*****
Kario was still far from his best this day. Even one with such advanced mental acuity as he, struggled to focus. The strong drugs he had been so long addled by had seen to that. To be honest he was totally bewildered and even afraid of the events unfurling before him. He could hardly recall the journey he had made, just small snippets of disjointed events and vistas.
In shock he let himself be unshackled, rubbing his aching wrists, and casting wildly about at his guards. The raven haired man with the unreadable black stare was graceful and slender, and did not reflect any kind of physical dominance in his rangy frame. Unless you were indeed compelled by his unusual beauty, and the straightness of his stance. Hardly the warrior he seemed to be mistaken for. Yes, indeed this had to be some kind of terrible mistake.
The rough men left him then to stand confused and alone. He was fighting to remain calm, the desperate sounds coming from something unseen down the corridor before him. A cry, a scream, a struggle of some kind? Kario shivered, his quick mind felt almost neutralized, as he pulled the tattered blue robe tighter about his leanness.
The young man had but moments to try and gather his wits. The clangor had abated for a time, and now he was being instructed to take up the knife he had been thrown, which had landed almost buried in the dust before him.
With reservation and much goading from the angry guard he finally took possession of the small weapon. Immediately despairing it was not his. Yet as he clutched it in his hand he felt that familiarity of his own athame wash over him. Not so strong, and yet it was such an alike feeling. His befuddled mind began to clear.
He stole another glance at the blade in his hand as the guard was attempting to herd him down the dreaded dark hallway cut into the earth, toward the source of the dreadful din of only some moments ago. A residual aura perhaps? This was definitely not his blade, it was simple and plain, an everyday thing unlike the demon steel he had always carried. He took solace in the effect it was having on him though. Whatever was ahead he would face and bend to his will.
