creative – Page 12 – three good words

Trigger Warning: SA
Please Do Not Proceed unless you are in the right place mentally.

It was abrupt, a rough hand at her wrist, wrenching the dagger away. Bara jumped to her feet, kicked, scrambled, tore away, there was a sharp thud. How he had managed to leave the tent and slip back in, even steal himself behind her, Bara did not now. It was all too quick, too sudden, and before she understood, their leader was at her side, holding her wrist wrenched behind her back, his hand at her throat. Her heart nearly stopped beating altogether. He only needed to squeeze to end her life that moment. Such things were done, she knew. Water dripped onto her shoulder, exposed from the sudden grab. He moved then, and she felt him press his face against the curve of her neck, breathing in heavily before licking her skin up to her ear.

Bara fought to free herself but his grip was like iron clasps. There were arms around her next, hands on her breasts, squeezing, before he pushed his right between her thighs grabbing what he found there. Tears poured down Bara’s face, her mind screaming for escape, but she was too horrified to move. He spun her around roughly and right then Bara remembered what she had once been taught by a brother long dead. She lifted her knee and would have succeeded if he hadn’t stopped her, quick as a flash, his hand like a pincer in her flesh, yet it did not kill the fight in her. The unrelenting grip of shock broke away and her strength was freed. Bara bit, kicked, slapped, fought, but all that did was that he picked her up like a sack of corn and carried her to the wide bed where he threw her onto the peacock-feathered covers.

She did not know when he finished. All she heard were grunts and heavy breathing. He stopped, then waited, then moved from her. He removed it and got off her. Bara remained as she was. She could not think. Thinking required comprehension, and that was beyond the possible. The tears had dried on her face, tightening the skin. There was pain. She heard something, a bark of something. She felt a hand on her thighs, rough and ruthless, spreading her legs further apart. Darkest dread filled her like winter ice but there was no strength left in her to fight, all had been broken and destroyed. She felt fingers, there in that unmentionable place, and closed her eyes, waiting for worse to come. She should have prayed to die quickly.

Next thing she knew, he grabbed her face painfully, shaking her. He did not stop until she opened her eyes. She at first did not comprehend. She saw his hand, thrust before her, and it was covered in red. Blood, yes, there would be that. She knew that much. Bara closed her eyes, he shook her again and would not stop until she opened them. What brutality was this to show her his triumph? Was it not enough that he had destroyed everything? The tears were instant, but the beast wouldn’t let her even succumb to that. He shook her, forcing her to look at the blood on his hands. There was fury in his eyes and it was lethal.

‘Never with man? You?’

It was a growl, sharp, menacing. It took a moment for Bara to understand, but with the blood and the fury in all his hateful features she understood. She could not speak, there were only tears. She heard him curse, for the bark was too full of wrath for words. There was silence. It lasted long, so long that Bara felt her exposure. She would have to move. She would have to face the rest of her existence. Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet. She reached the vulgar silver jug in tears, but she reached it. Shreds of her dress still hung from her shoulder. There was nothing else she could use. She tore off the piece of cloth with shaking fingers and tried to lift the heavy jug but her hands had lost all their strength and the thing crashed to the floor, the water flooding the carpet. Bara knelt to gather the water, aware of the fruitlessness of the attempt yet unable to stop, trying to save the water from seeping into the cloth but the patch grew wider and wider until all the water was gone.

She was still trying to stop the water, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her away. She lost her senses and screamed, ‘No! No!‘ but she was lifted and carried and even words were lost in her screams until a large hand clutched her throat, choking her to silence. She clawed at the hand but it was relentless until her sight blurred and everything turned black.

It was raining still, though the light was getting less grey. They drank the broth silently, both doing their best to make the driedfruit bread last as long as possible. Gav saw how the girl stared into the fire. He should probably think of her as a woman. She wasn’t as young as she looked, he had known that even the night before. It was her eyes, they were so large, they made her very young. When she opened them in full, she looked as if she was too surprised for words. Lainhaven. That was many leagues away. A week down the river in the old days, much longer now. What had brought her to this shed, so far west? He would have asked if he thought she would answer. As they were, he tended to the fire and marked in his logbook what rations had been used, aware of the girl’s watching gaze. Once written, he checked on the horse, but all was well. The girl joined him while he groomed what he could, carefully touching the animal who did not mind her approach, one shy, the other shyer, but neither unwilling. Gav left them to commune among themselves, and searched more wood for the fire.

The night was black. The rain had lessened, but you only knew it after ten days of rain. It would stop by morning, maybe midday. He would have to collect water rations. Lying back in the dry hay, Gav thought of what he had to do once the rain ended. He had three more weeks until he reached the High Hills, four if the high road was crowded and he had to use the by-ways. He fell asleep considering how best to proceed, especially if the girl agreed to join him. She would not want to stay here.

Gav woke up soon after feeling something heavy on his chest, only to realise it was the girl, fast asleep, using him as a pillow. He could not say how she got there. She was still in his shirt and her underskirt. She lay curled like a child against him. Her breath was even, she was deeply asleep. He laid a hand on her shoulder and carefully stroked her back. She was small but warm. He could feel her breasts pressed against his side. He brushed her neck and felt soft skin and strands of hair.

Once touched, Gav could not stop reaching into her hair. It was thicker and softer than expected. Her head was small in his hand. He gently massaged her scalp, combing through her hair now and then. It wasn’t something he got to touch often. Lainhaven used to be part of the Old Kingdom before it broke apart into waring fiefdoms, now that the young king was dead. Gav’s liege had sent him and his own out east to support those who had sworn allegiance to the broken throne, though that was suns ago. Allegiances had shifted so often since, Gav hardly knew who was loyal to whom anymore. It was enough to see a familiar face from the Green Hills of Ghón, where the red soil dusted the sandy walls, and the thúk trees threw long shadows across the swept courts, their heavy fruit falling in sharp taps onto the flagstones. He still had bright memories of Mon, laughing as she sat in their mother’s lap, her dark eyes dancing in her little face.

He could not have been past his seventh, he had not yet been allowed among the men. For a moment, the scent of his mother’s hpnet oil stole itself into his memory, the one she used when the sun was so hot, even the thúk trees could only give so much shadow. He remembered her night songs, he remembered his father’s deep laughter. Those were days of sun, before the decree was made, and all were called to arms. Gav had not written in suns and there was no place to receive any kind of missive, since all messengers were either to the legions, waylaid by robbers, or cut down by the enemy. He hoped they still lived, and if alive, safe. He could not hope for them to be well. The Green Hills, Gav knew, were green no more. Ghón had fallen to the Demon Horde a week before Midsun five summers ago, the thúk forests, it was told, burning from coast to coast. That was after the Tyr was sunk with fire and storm, when the snowdogs started hunting in the Lows.

Gav made himself think of other things, the dry hay, the bright fire, the girl’s neck, surprisingly soft under his hand. He ended up tracing her jaw line as well, marvelling yet again at how fragile a body was. Thus minutes passed to more minutes by the clock, and Gav spent them stroking the girl as he had not done in weeks, simply lying in peace and holding a living body that was neither cursed nor possessed or otherwise a threat to one’s life and sanity. A memory of Jirigan tried to ruin the peace Gav was in, but he pushed it out and away. He had survived. That, as he knew, was all that mattered now. All else was the Beast raging on.

The girl curled closer right then, Gav stopping his quiet touch to see if she would wake, but she slept on. He continued, from her head to her waist, watching the flames throw lively shadows against the walls, while the rain fell without ceasing beyond the broken door. There were days in his life where such simple peace as this was unthinkable. Days of madness, weeks of despair. And yet, he survived, and by whatever luck she had, so had the girl sleeping at his side, her skin smooth, her body warm, deeply shaken, but alive.

The rain had stopped by midday. The sun was out, the surrounding countryside steaming. Gav had filled all his waterskins after daybreak, the girl helping him carefully. They had left the shed the moment the last drops fell. The sun came out soon after, everything in mists around them. There had been a short, largely silent dispute when they reached the high road which Gav ended by picking up the girl and setting her on the horse. She cried out in surprise but did not protest again.

There was no one on the road for many leagues. They rode without stopping till midday, the sun shining hotter and brighter, the landscape a unified green. That was the single advantage of the long spells of rain, everything grew quickly. If the rain didn’t stop in time, however, everything started to rot and the air was full of that sickly smell.

At midday, they stopped at an apple grove where the girl slipped off the horse and disappeared, only to return with her skirts filled with apples. There was no farmer about, nor any hands to stop them, but they still continued until they were well away. Resting in the shadow of a tree, they ate the apples and drank the water collected during the rain, the horse as happy for the fruit as Gav and the girl. A carriage with a team of four could be seen at the closest crest, but they were out of sight by the time they moved on.

They did not talk. Gav would have asked questions if he had thought the girl would answer. The silence, however, was filled with sound. There were birds in the trees, zipping from branch to branch, chattering brightly, gnats peopling large pools in clouds of black, the buzzing loud. In one shallow ravine a colony of frogs chorused across the silence until three herons swooped in, disrupting the peace. There were none other on the high road, however, an absence that was a true relief.

They reached a small town with a tavern before nightfall. Like all towns this far inland, there were no fortifications yet, for the battles were fought elsewhere. There was a high wooden fence, however, and standing guards at the watch towers Gav could see in the gloom. One such tower was foolish enough to have a candle lit, but they would learn from their mistake one way or the other.

Gav paid the night fee by nearly killing the watchman who saw he had found more than his match. Gav had no time for undue bribes. He would pay the due fee and not more. The watchman only understood after he lay crumbled against the wall, his face bloodied and his pride bruised. Once past the watchman, it was not far to the first tavern. The houses were heavily steepled, the windows deeply set and high above the ground, the walls square rather than round, which was still an oddity to Gav’s eyes.

The Wyvern was part of an inn, which was fortunate at least. After the innkeeper saw Gav’s sword and livery, he gave him an adequate price. As it looked like, the legions were still respected here. The innkeeper thought the girl was bound to him and since she was silent nothing needed to be said. Once all was decided, Gav made sure the horse was stabled well, handing the stablehand a copper coin to keep his loyalty, the boy beaming with avaricious delight. With the horse taken care of, Gav took his saddlebags and joined the girl in the room.

A maid had already brought food, yet the girl did not touch it until Gav returned. He had to tell her twice to eat. She picked carefully at the fresh bread and took slow spoonfuls of the hot stew, thick with beef cuts and carrots, spices and cárn roots cooked to a soft gold. She spent many minutes eating her slice of blackberry pie, savouring each bite. She hardly touched the wine, however. It almost seemed as if she did not know what to do with it. After all was eaten, the girl looked at the table top as if willing the food to return. Gav wondered when she last had a full meal.

January 27, 2025

Why is it called genre fiction?

Genre: Fantasy, maybe even High Fantasy? Swords are involved.

Yes, I am experimenting again.
This is from an ancient WIP that I dug up some time ago and now it’s spawning more and more pages.

Which is why this is a first try, a draft, an attempt.
It’s a little dark. I blame January, this January specifically, which has lasted 157 days and counting. Nevertheless, we persevere.

If you like this attempt, please drop a like. Most of all: thanks for reading! j. d.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

The Cup and the Sword (Part 1)

The wars had shattered the Lands.
They raged like a bloodthirsty beast that escaped the Nine Hells.

The battles had reached the Plains of Inan, their beauty no longer existed. Treks of refugees fleeing the Beast’s hunger could be found trailing out to the nearest ports, and when those were closed to the next port, and the next, and the next, until all ports were filled with the fleeing.

The refugees were feared and hated, many were murdered or enslaved during their escape. Deserters and soldiers with horrible wounds fled as best they could. Bands of mercenaries terrorised the high roads. The towns’ laws were severe, villagers perpetually suspicious, and the peasants became skilled in defending themselves.

The Lands were cursed, and even the Heavens knew.

The weather stopped its natural course. It either rained for weeks or no rain could be seen for days and days. There was no relief from one or the other, but the Beast, the Beast raged on.

They were a group of many. They were different in station and making, but equal in their decision to leave. It was harder to do it alone. It took some time until the ranks and hierarchies were fixed, but once all knew their place, they could do as they intended and leave the Fields, slip away unseen, and hopefully escape the Beast for good.

They marched at night and slept by day. They stole themselves past walls and gates by the tricks and cunning they had learned, never staying longer than two sunsets in a town or settlement.

Over the days and weeks they began to be loyal to each other. Certain rules were set, unspoken rules. If money was made, it was shared like their rations. And they stayed together, splitting only into groups of threes and fours if necessary. Some wanted to join them but were refused. Too dangerous, too insane. Others could not stay, their soul restless, their eyes searching the horizon. Those left in the dark of night to remain unbound and were rarely seen again.

It was raining. It had been pouring for days. Gav had given up trying to get dry. There hadn’t been a shed for leagues. His horse was as exhausted as he. His weapons were probably rusted. He no longer cared what he was or where he was. All he wanted was someplace dry.

An odd shape appeared at the horizon, dark and lopsided. Gav hardly understood what it was, but the horse did. It stopped inside the shed, the door was hanging off its hinges. Gav slid out of his saddle and fell. There was no reason to get up. There was no rain. That’s all that mattered.

It was still raining. The exhaustion had left his limbs somewhat and now what Gav was mostly aware of, was that he was wet through. Something needed to be done. He would have to remove his clothes. But for that to make sense he would need a fire. Fire. He would need wood for a fire. Gav got to his feet. There was more to the shed than just hay. There was a kind of palisade and hidden corners. He could check there.

He found enough wood to start a fire. It took long, his hands were numb and clumsy. It was nothing to the Bogmarshes of Jirigan, though. He shivered. Finally, the fire was lit. He crouched at it, warming his hands. The rain looked silver in its light. It poured in sheets, soaking the soil until what grass was left would start to rot. Nothing could be seen beyond the broken door except the grey rise and fall of land. No one was on the roads, they had found shelter long ago.

Piece by piece, Gav peeled off his clothes. The Fireguard and chainmail were heaviest. He’d stopped with the unwieldy gambe suns ago and kept to his Southern pourpoint that was sturdy enough. Then there the tunics and all the leathers. Finally, he was bare. The wounds had healed, nothing festered. The scars would remain but that was to be expected. He held his feet out into the rain after removing his boots. It would take at least a day until they dried. The smell lessened after a while. He wished it wasn’t necessary, but with water falling free from the sky, he took the cake of soap he still had, and stepped out. The rain was cold, the wind colder, but at least he could wash the grime off his skin. He watched the fire, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was necessary to wash, though, you never knew what could grow if you didn’t. He had seen some disgusting things.

Gav shook himself like a dog once he was in the shed again. If the Sainted Plains existed, then it was that warmth on his skin. The air was dry, the ground was dry, and there was a fire, with only the sound of rain to accompany it.

Gav found a log and used it as a stool. He sat naked before the fire, using the pot he had to fill with rainwater and make hot appleseed tea, the satchel had stayed dry under the oilskin. He still had some driedfruit bread and salted meat and a few radishes. He rationed everything carefully and ate in blissful silence while the rain poured on before him, the fire crackling brightly. It was a miracle the roof had held so long. He had no mind to thank anyone save what luck he still had.

The fire eventually became so hot, Gav had to turn his back to the flames so as not to bake his whole front. He searched the shed sipping his tea. It was empty of tools. There was a mound of hay, not too old and mouldy by the fact that the horse was eating it. Nothing dripped through the roof. Behind the palisade there was more dry wood. If he rationed right, he could stay here until the rain stopped and the sun started scorching the countryside again. He would have to collect water, but that could wait. It wouldn’t stop for another two days.

The horde stood before her, there were enough to crowd the olive grove. Blades glinted in the sun, horses pawed the grass and dirt. The chink of metal sounded through the silence. Their leader was already on the first terrace, the stone blinding white in the sun. He stepped closer, setting foot on the High Vesta, breaking Holy Law by his very presence. If they were here, now, the guards of the gate were dead, or had fled to the others in the High Hills. She had stayed with a few to defy this sacrilege. These were not the Coasts. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget.

Now they were here, the dust had settled, revealing them. They looked dark and menacing and their leader stood on the white terrace leading to the High Vesta, towering, his bloodied blade unsheathed, his boots and tunic, his arms and face streaked with dirt and blood. There was hair, it was long and filthy. All that identified him as a man were the eyes, for they were clear, not mad with demons as she expected. They were clear, discerning. Ruthless. He shouted something right then, his bark echoing in the silence. He barked again, and again, the echo fading into silence. Nothing moved in the heat, no sound was made. He searched the portico, his pitiless stare seemed to cut into the very stone. His men became restless. There were some with strung bows, scanning the façade. The horses moved, the metal flashing sharply. He fixed the High Vesta with ruthless eyes and moved to step forward. Bara stepped out of the shadows into the light.

She stopped at the top of the broad, white stairs. She saw their surprise, the bows lowered a little. They had not expected this. She had commanded the guards to stay out of sight, she did not trust the fhārch to keep their arrows knocked if they saw them. Their leader was four steps below, yet still almost to her eye. He too was surprised, but it did not last long. He stared at her once she stood still, his gaze roving of her like a wolf sighting fresh kill. Bara wanted to cover herself, shield herself from it. She knew not to show weakness or fear. She was dressed as was her due, in the white cloth and gossamer veil of the First of her Order, the veil embroidered with gold, like the seams of the white cloth. She wore the jewellery that denoted her station: gold earrings in the shape of the Seal, the gold necklace with links of the Seal, and the golden ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Bara stood as she was before the creature, saying nothing, enduring the shameless gaze as calmly as she could, a gaze that would have cost others their eyes first and then their life, but that was for naught now.

He said something, a bark she did not understand. Bara forced herself to keep still, to not give into the urge to flee. None should say they had relinquished this holy ground willingly. These were not the Coasts. The Gods were still among them. He eyed her again. He wanted something, but what it was she did not know, and he had the sense to understand that. He barked something, still staring at her. There was movement behind him and one of his men, just as filthy as he, began walking up the steps though he stopped at a bark by the leader. They exchanged sounds. Bara detected some she understood. The leader said something more then looked at her before stepping up two further stairs, coming so close Bara wanted to step back. But to do so would show her fear and none should say she had cowed before a fhārch, never mind the dirt and blood, the smell of it filling her nose.

‘You here the mistress.’

His voice was like gravel. By his eyes she saw that he knew it was not rightly spoken. To acknowledge it, to even misunderstand, Bara knew, would mean her immediate death.

‘I am the First of this Sanctuary.’

Her voice did not waver, thankfully. There was another barking exchange, his ruthless eyes fixed on her. Bara understood some words. He was asking something about amounts. His man obviously knew to speak. The barking ended.

‘How many.’

‘We are few.’

‘How many.’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Women.’

He grinned and Bara felt ice slice into her. It was like facing a wolf baring its teeth for the kill.

‘Twenty-five men.’

She had forced her Order to leave, though they had cried and begged her to join them or at least let them stay, but Bara knew, she knew what was approaching. They thought she had not heard, but she knew the stories and commanded their flight. They would not disobey her. They were safe in the High Hills now, fleeing to the King, while she stayed behind. She was the First. It was her duty to stay when all else deserted, never mind what was approaching. The Order would remain intact, for she had trained Niria well. What else she lacked, Niria would learn in time, while she, Bara, would face these demons as duty demanded. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget such sacrilege.

‘You twenty-six.’

He was no longer grinning. He stared at her, as if searching her for a lie. She stared back. They were all beyond his and his horde’s reach, safe in the High Hills, possibly already under the King’s command. He understood this, she could see it. He looked her up and down again, and it was a different look, one she did not know. He moved then, as quick as a snake, and before she knew it he held her face roughly with his hand. The shock was severe. No man had touched her since she took her Oaths. There was the zip of an arrow and an agonized cry behind her.

‘Tell men stay.’

He was crushing her jaw in his hand, his eyes cold as steel. He would spill her blood right here if she did not stop the men, the bloodied blade was still in his right, unsheathed.

‘Linus! Erius! Stay away!’

Her voice pitched as she shouted, betraying her fear. There was a horrible moment of suspense. Then something moved but the leader moved as well. He lifted the filthy blade, blood crusted on the deadly steel, a command as it seemed to keep his men away. He scanned the portico quickly, a razor sharp glance. He could probably see more in one heartbeat than others in an hour’s time. He turned his attention back to her. Nothing happened for the time it took for a heart to beat and a body to breathe. Then he touched her lips with his thumb, roughly. Bara wanted to shout for the men but he stopped it when he pulled her down to him and planted his mouth on hers, the reek of sweat, dirt, and blood overwhelming as he forced his tongue into her mouth, the taste of it sudden and revolting.

Bara could endure only so much. She gathered all her strength and pushed herself away. Her hand flew the next moment and struck his cheek in a loud slap. It was hard enough to turn his head. Immediately, she heard the slicing sound of unsheathed swords. He barked something, but Bara didn’t wait to see what it meant. She ran but was caught by her wrist, yanked back, and thrown down the steps into something hard and solid. Hands grabbed her, men’s hands, keeping her from fleeing. More barking followed and Bara lost her head. She screamed for Linus and Erius, senseless with terror, as someone picked her up and dragged her away, the sound of metal and horses growing to thunder, the rush and trample of boot-clad feet reverberating through the heat as the horde charged across the white terrace, past the High Vesta, and stormed the holy quiet of the Sanctuary.

January 23, 2025January 23, 2025