Chapter 18. Threnody

ruly, you are very beautiful,” Ashekoroth said into his mind.  Armand hated him, the very presence of the man eliciting rage.  He had passed through fear and was now numb to it.  He wanted his freedom and he wanted Ashekoroth to die.  And if he had any part in it, it would be a very horrible death.

“Fine sentiments, my prize, now be still or I will make you sleep again.”

It did not help matters that Armand’s range of motion was already severely limited by his bonds.  When he was awake he was always pressed to the table in the room of masks.  He sensed that there were times when he was not imprisoned there for he was kept fastidiously clean and he was somehow being sustained so that he did not starve or thirst.  It was a chilling thought.  For what purpose was he being prepared? 

“He enjoys my fear, feeds upon it.  He wants me to struggle and plead.  Kill me, already, you filthy pervert.  I’ll drag you into grave with me.”

“Killing you would be akin to destroying a work of art, Armand.  I have a much finer use for you.”

His chest was exposed to the chill air of the windowless room.   He could not lift his head for the mask kept him pinned, but he could feel the soft tickle of a brush painting elaborate shapes upon his flesh.  The acrid odor of the pigments currently overwhelmed the sickly sweet perfume that announced Ashekoroth’s presence.  Armand defiantly surged against his bonds as he felt a long delicate stroke being applied above his heart.  Ashekoroth ceased his work and rose to stand over Armand’s head, glaring down at him with fury twisting his lips.  Lips that never parted to speak, Armand realized.

He doesn’t breathe.  That’s why he uses the perfume against me.  It can’t affect him.

“I told you to be still.  You will obey.  You belong to me.”

Ashekoroth tore into him with a brutal mental attack.  Armand could do nothing to protect himself, only lay there writhing mutely as vivid daggers of fire ripped into his temples, bored into the darkness behind his eyes until tears melded with the clammy sweat beneath the mask.  Gagged, his cries were reduced to strangled moans.  

“Damn you, Ashekoroth, I will not bow to you or any other.  I am powerless now, but I will not always be.”

He became the pain, an agonized knot of fire that twisted his flesh, consumed every particle of his being.  But he would not beg.  If he were to die, he would do so free.   Screaming, he erupted into the darkness of his inner world, his only means of escape. 

No one could follow him here.  It had been forged during the twilight of his wrecked childhood.  The Krytan guild that had murdered his friends and family before his horrified eyes saw fit to preserve him, a pretty child toy to play with at their leisure.  And so he had wrapped shadow and chaos around his mind and spirit, leaving them no more than an empty shell.

“And I destroyed them all one by one!” he shouted into the shadows, knowing Ashekoroth could not hear him now, “And I will destroy you, as well.” 

For a long time he drifted in the precious darkness until he became aware of a soft swaying.  It was as if he were lying in a boat upon a calm sea.  Panic laced his being, for he feared Ashekoroth had followed.  Shivering, he opened his mind to the black presence of the vile man, seeking him within his mental sanctuary.

But he was alone.  Safe. The salty smell of the ocean was with him, its cold and damp mingling with his sweat.  His dreams had brought him here before.  There was the tolling of the sad bell and the squalling of gulls.  Why did he keep coming here?

Find out.  Play along with the dream.

Biting his lip, he rolled onto his side, feeling the smooth planks of the small boat beneath him.  His scalp brushed the single mast and as he gazed up it spiraled slowly against the purple twilight sky as if pointing to the first emerging stars.  He grasped the low boom, smooth beneath his hands for it lacked a sail, and hauled himself to his feet.  He was alone.  The rudder was missing.   Not that it mattered, he decided.  He knew next to nothing about boats.

Armand’s flaxen hair flowed from his face as he turned to gaze into the gentle breeze.  There were islands emerging on the horizon in shadowy humps.  Foam glowed where it broke upon the boat’s hull.  Where was this place?  Why did he keep dreaming about the ocean?

And now the shimmering and tinkling as if of glass and chimes.  He strained to understand.  A song emerged and its words poured into his conscience across time, a sad plaintive melody whose meter was never meant for human ears.

“I am of the depths
Cold and ancient
In the jade green sea.

“Husband of the sky
Stroke my foam white tresses
And speak to me. 
Give me breath.

“No beauty shines in the deep 
For I have not eyes to see.
Give me wings that I might fly. 
Shape me in the image
of those who love and fear me. 

“Let me laugh and sing
and dance beneath the stars
in a frail coat of flesh and bone.”

The eerie music continued, borne upon the ocean wind and scattered over the waves, mesmerizing.  Armand let its longing and sadness pour over him like water, felt it hiss through is long golden hair and caress his lovely features.

“Who are you?” he asked, gazing out over the open water.  He was alone with the singer.  She was trying to reach him in the only way she knew how, through a dream.  Her long slow music was her voice, her language.  But who was she?

“I am the stone that weeps.
My tears are of jade.
I am the shaper and binder,
My dream is true.

“Asleep in the stone that was water,
I cannot die for I was never alive.
Release me from my torment.
I will not claim you.”

Damnable riddles.  He was not a lore master, he had been raised in the tradition of traveling performers.  To his mind, it had seemed a superior path.  The formally schooled lacked imagination.  He had long since decided they were stuffy dullards with their foolish rites and meditations.  But perhaps if he had read a few more books he might have a clue what he was supposed to do now.

“I don’t understand.  Do you have a name?  What are you?”

“A sad song trapped upon the jade wind.
I am old but my flesh is young.”

“I’ll just call you Threnody.  Can we stop talking in riddles, please?  I’m not really in a position to think this through.”

The wind flowing over him died away, taking the chiming, tolling song with it.  Her presence faded with the sigh of the surf departing from the shore.  Alone in the darkness he waited.  He was good at waiting.

Ashekoroth could not keep him bound forever.