“Henrieta...No...”
His desperate plea echoed once again through the cavernous warehouse. In front of him two of them held his sister in their steel-like grip. Roland and Fletch, both brainless oafs of The Shadows. She was only a kid still, he thought. His sister for shits' sake. He didn't mean to fail, but he could not do it. He couldn't. The man had a wife and kids; the daughter was Henrietas' age. He couldn't do it. And now she'll pay for that. How dare they, the bile in his throat rose. He loathed them, hated them, wanted to run a blade across their throats. Would have as well if there weren't one cutting into the soft tissue at his neck.
Earlier that night he crawled up the wall of the mansion towards an open window one of the maids left for him. It helps to have coins to spare, and a silver tongue for that matter, he thought then. Poor lass would be wondering when her mysterious stranger will appear, he grinned. Frankly he wouldn't have minded to just pop in by her before the time, but sadly, business before pleasure. The window was small and narrow, not the best he could find, but it would have to do for now. The maid would be in the room on the bottom section of the mansion while the Nobleman's was on the third floor. He had an interesting conversation with the lass the previous evening.
The deathly quiet of the house cocoonend him in its welcoming embrace. The dark, oak planks underfoot barely creaked as he made his way up the steps. Then a curious sound drew his attention – it sounded strangely almost like ... a hymn
He flattened himself against the wall near the door from where he could hear this enchanting melody trinkle. Behind the thick wood he could barely distinguish a woman's voice; young and filled with the peculiar essence of affection. The melody was familiar. The image of a loving young woman, long flowing rich brown hair cascading down her slender shoulders, flitted past him; Henrieta was also there. It was in another time. He shut his eyes for a second, burying this picture once more where it belonged – forgotten and gone.
The door creaked, the girl stared up at him. Her angelic face and full blue eyes looked anxiously back. She was but a mere girl of no more then perhaps 15 summers. How could they ask this of him? But if he didn't take her in, they will then just steal Henrieta away from him instead. There's been a number of orders for more female slaves, and the more expensive, the better; and they wanted her.
“Hi...” she stopped her singing.
“Hey...” he shouldn't have croaked.
For the first time his thoughts began to spiral out of control. The tight lid on his mind lifted and out sprung all his questions, all his fears, all his dread – his consciouns for the first time slammed into him. It encapsulated him in a angry mist so thick through which he could barely see; it froze him to the ground; completely and utterly rendered him subject to the inner recesses of his mind. He knew he couldn't do this. Old, rich men was something different, something he could understand to some degree. They were corrupt and filthy, no better then the rats that call this town their home.
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked cautiously.
No, he's not. He knew that then. He has to go back and face them.
~
He woke up in a sweat; and it was cold, very cold. His head ached, his side was sore and his mouth felt as if it made a trip through the deserts in Harad. He pained all over. His cloths were dirty and stained from the previous night's drinking he could barely recall. The empty pouch beside him on the Inn's bed filled him with a pliable disgust, enriched with sweet self-loathing. He can't carry on like this.
