Tattered Souls - Into Darkness Part 2

The sound of the heavy door's protest wakes Immalaine from her pain-fogged slumber. Chill air billows in, as if curious to explore the enclosed space, and soft footsteps follow. Immalaine keeps her eyes shut, feeling the throb of her injuries, as the visitor moves about the tiny room.

"Poor thing, poor thing," comes a soft voice - the stranger mumbling to herself - and Immalaine struggles to remember, forcing herself to lie still as a cool cloth wipes her forehead. "Poor thing."

The girl: it's the girl from last night - was it just last night? - that servant... what was her name? Familiar, like Merithele's ... Mary? ... no, Marybelle.

Immalaine turns and opens her eyes, catching sight of the serving maid's profile in the fitful glow of the candle. As soon as the girl realizes Immalaine is awake, she lets go of the cloth and steps hurriedly away, but the glimpse is enough to confirm Immalaine's memory. Marybelle...

"Marybelle!" Sallastin snaps, clapping his hands like a whip-crack as they enter the house. "Marybelle! Attend us!"

He tosses his gloves down on a table and strides into the dining room, leaving the guards to follow, tugging Immalaine, half numb with fatigue and cold, her wrists chafed by the ropes binding them together.

Exhausted from the ride, Immalaine barely protests as she's pulled along to the dining room. She keeps her head down, though her eyes dart around the area quickly, making a mental note of where everything is in the room. With a deep sigh, she tugs against the binds on her wrist, trying to get more comfortable against the burning chafe.

Sallastin points to a chair at one end of a long, polished walnut table. "Sit her there," he orders. "And tie her ankles to the chair." He fixes her with a cold stare. "Can't have my little girl trying to run off again. I'm not done with her." He wheels about and calls again, "Marybelle, where are you, you worthless, lazy..."

But the girl is already cowering at the doorway, head down. "I'm 'ere, sir."

"And where's my meal? And wine?"

"It's waitin' in the kitchen, sir, keepin' warm for yer return."

Sallastin's voice goes low. "Well, I'm not in the kitchen, am I? Bring it here, at once!"

The girl recoils back at his tone. "Yes sir," she whispers, then turns and flees back out of the room.

Immalaine flinches as she's pushed down into the chair, her ankles grabbed and bound to one of the chair legs as she stiffens against the indignity. Glancing up from the table, she catches a glimpse of the girl, Marybelle, as she rushes off to the kitchen at Sallastin's command, and looks back down again before he can see the defiant flash of anger in her eyes.

One of the guards pulls up a padded armchair for Sallastin, and he flops down into it with casual grace, stretching out his feet for the guard to remove his boots before placing them on a low footrest. He waves a hand to the door. "Wait there. I'll be taking that one" - he points dismissively at Immalaine - "downstairs after I eat."

The guard moves to stand by the far door as Marybelle returns with a covered dish. She places it in front of Sallastin, along with a bottle of red wine then steps back, shooting a quick, wide-eyed glance at Immalaine before lowering her head and folding her hands in front of her.

As the smell of the food wafts from the covered tray, Immalaine feels her stomach protest against its emptiness, but she willfully ignores the grumbling and turns her head slightly to see if she can glimpse the girl standing nearby. Not able to see much from that angle, she looks down again at her hands and remains quiet, hoping not to call any undue attention to herself. She watches the light of the fireplace cast dancing shadows along the table.

Sallastin scowls down at the food and goblet in front of him. "And where is my water?" he asks, in that same low voice.

Mary's in-drawn breath is audible from across the room. "Oh! Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'll fetch that right away."

Sallastin raises his flat-eyed gaze to her. "Do."

With a small sound, like a muffled sob, Mary turns and speeds from the room again.

Sallastin sighs and picks up his fork and knife. "I hope you'll learn to be a better servant," he says, conversationally, to Immalaine as he starts cutting his roast with swift, precise motions. "Your training was... interrupted a few months ago." He raises up his knife and considers it, turning it back and forth in the firelight from the great hearth to his left. "I fear we may have to start from the beginning with you." He sets the knife down and begins to eat.

Immalaine glances up, watching as he takes a bite of the food, and bites her lip before turning her head to watch the flames. Training? More like torture' she thinks to herself and shudders at the memory of what he had expected her to do. Through the exhaustion, her mind grabs for something, anything to focus on, other than what Sallastin is capable of, and a pair of guileless blue-green eyes come to mind. She takes a breath and focuses on them, trying to block out the memories that still haunt her dreams at night. Memories that look to be becoming her reality again.

Sallastin turns at the sound of light footfalls from the kitchen door, and leans back in his chair as Mary hurries in with a goblet and cut-glass water pitcher. "Your ... your water, sir," the girl stammers, a little breathless from her run out to the mansion's well. She places the goblet in front of him, then pours the water, but her hand is trembling so much that some of it splashes over the pitcher's edge and onto Sallastin's lap.

"Clumsy fool!" he shouts, jumping to his feet and striking her across the face with the back of his right hand. The pitcher goes flying from her grasp to shatter against the far wall, and she staggers backwards to the floor, her own hand rising to her burning cheek. Blood wells and trickles down from the cut left by Sallastin's heavy ring. He throws his utensils onto the plate and snarls at her, pointing to the broken glass, "Clean that up!"

Then he turns to the guard. "Dinner is ruined. Take the other one downstairs and get her ready. I'll be down as soon as I change clothes." He turns and strides from the room, not sparing either girl another glance.

Mary's wide eyes follow him, then, in silence, after one more covert glance at Immalaine, she pulls herself to her feet and limps over to the wall, where she begins to gather up the fragments. The guard steps up to the table and, without a word, squats behind her chair to undo the ankle bonds.

The shattering pitcher having pulled her abruptly from her thoughts, Immalaine spares a moment to look up as the guard unties her. Feeling sympathy for the young girl bending over the shards of glass, she watches the bowed head until she's hauled from the chair and roughly dragged away from the dining room, too exhausted to put up a fight.

Now the same serving girl is in Immalaine's room, placing a clay jug and bowl of what smells like vegetable stew on the battered table in the far corner. Her head is bowed, but the light from the candle clearly picks out the bruising and angry welt on one cheek.

Quietly, Immalaine lifts her head up from pillow and watches Marybelle work, studying the slight form as the light reflects off her red hair. With Marybelle's attention distracted away from Immalaine, she takes the opportunity to look around the small room. Other than the bed she’s laying on and the small table and chair, there seems to be nothing else. No windows, no hangings on the walls; the only way in and out was the heavy door, dimly illuminated by the candle on the table. After her brief examination, Immalaine turns back to watching Marybelle and flinchs in sympathy at the bruising on the girl's cheek. "Hel ... hello, she whispers.

Marybelle glances over at Immalaine, then turns away, her hair falling down to hide her bruised features. "I'm not supposed to talk with you," she says in a low voice, almost inaudible, as she finishes laying the corner table.

With a hard stretch and whimper of pain, Immalaine sits up and watches the girl work for a moment before she speaks again. "It wasn't fair, what he did t' you," she says quietly, sensing the girl is scared to talk. She opens her mouth to say more, but her stomach growls loudly at that moment and she reaches her hand down to rub it, noticing as she does the burns on her wrists from the rope.

"You ... you can't talk like that," Marybelle says, glancing nervously at the door as she wraps her arms about her middle. "He'll hear you... and then he'll hurt you."

Immalaine shudders at the memory of what he'd done to her, downstairs, before she'd passed out. Deciding to change the subject, for fear of getting Marybelle into any further trouble, Immalaine instead focuses on the food. "Is that ... is it for me?" she asked.

Marybelle nods, still not looking at Immalaine. She takes half a step sideways, towards the door, then stops, arms remaining wrapped about herself.

Warily, Immalaine looks over at Marybelle, then over at the food and carefully stands up. For a moment she starts to wrap her arms around her own stomach but then drops them and straightens her back before looking at the table. Her stomach rumbles angrily and she steps forward, then pauses, a vague memory entering her mind from the past. She looks back at the other girl. "Is it ... safe to eat?" she asks. "There's nothing in it, is there?" She remembers how Sallastin sometimes used herbs in the food as a way to make her drowsy. Torn between hunger and worry, she sways on her feet, but waits for the Marybelle’s answer.

The other shakes her head. "It's the same as we had in the kitchens. He ... he just said to feed you. Then he left."

For a moment Immalaine studies Marybelle's face. Deciding the girl is telling the truth, Immalaine takes the remaining couple of steps to the table and lowers herself gingerly into the chair. Picking the spoon up, she stirs at the soup, then tries a bite. The heady flavor and warmth of proper food – her first in days – floods her mouth.

"Where are you from?" she asks Marybelle, as she spoons up another bite. "How did ... Sallastin ... how did you get here?”

Marybelle shies away, moving halfway to the open door. She glances toward the hallway, then back at Immalaine. Finally she answers, "From the village. Not far. I ... he - my master - he owns my mother's house." Her voice falter and trails off.

Queasy at the word 'master', Immalaine pauses in mid-bite and looks over at the girl. Even growing up, the farmhands had been treated as equals on her farm, she couldn't fathom the thought of someone thinking they owned someone else. Sensing the girl was unaccustomed to much kindness, Immalaine looks down at the soup. "Are you hungry?" she asks Marybelle.

Marybelle's eyes fly up to meet Immalaine's for the first time, then she looks away, just as quickly. "No... I already ate. In the kitchens. That's for you." She hesitates, then adds, "but I could maybe get you more, if you want. He ... he didn't say not to."

"No, this ... this will be enough," Immalaine says, taking another bite of food, then looks up at the girl’s bruised cheek. "I could look at that for you," she motions with her finger to her own cheek to indicate what she means, “if you’ll let me. My friend, she's a healer. I learned a little from her."

Marybelle's hand flies up to her face. "No ... no," she says. "I shouldn't have spilled the water. He was right to be angry." She looks around in sudden fear, as if expecting Sallastin to stride in at any moment. "And … and I'm not supposed to be talking with you!" she exclaims, and scurries from the room. The heavy door swings to; the bolt slides into place, and then Mary's footsteps can be heard, leather soles on flagstones, as she hurries away down the hall.

Immalaine looks down at the remaining soup and sighs heavily. That girl’s even more scared of Sallastin than I ever was, she thinks. I’ve got to find a way to get her to open up to me. She looks around the room again and nods to herself. She has to get out of her, and soon. But without an ally, there was slim chance she'd manage to escape. But with one? Maybe.

Immalaine resumes eating, determined to keep her strength up. Somehow she has to gain Marybelle's trust. Then, maybe, she can get out of this prison - get them both out and away from Sallastin.