(Continued from "A Finch's Beginnings: A Woman Named Averill - Part the Second".)
Every day she fought, tooth and nail, against her captors. Days became weeks and weeks became months, but the fire in her heart could never be diminished. They could take away her freedom, her health, her happiness, and all other manner of things. But what they could not take away from Averill was her will and her name. Yes, while everyone around her responded to mockery and forgot themselves, she still held onto her name.
Not even when she had the gall to act in rage towards one of their leaders, though she knew it not at the time. And why should she care? He was one horrible sorcerer among many here; just another vile excuse or a man who played with the living and the dead like they were mere toys. One target of her ire among many and she cared not who it offended nor that she’d be punished harshly for it. Of course, she expected the blows that came. She bore each and ever single one and cursed them loudly for every one of them. What she did not and could not expect was that her struggles would be noted and remembered greatly with sick interest and reviled glee.
But that is a matter for another part of this tale.
After this particularly painful reminder of her lack of freedom, Averill found herself opening her eyes upon the dirtied ground within the walls of Carn Dûm. But, aside from the reddened, corrupted sky above her, she saw a pair of light brown eyes containing both sadness and kindness within them. Averill merely stared for a moment as her senses and reminders of pain slowly returned to her. When she opened her mouth to speak, she made she that her voice sounded neither weak nor subservient.
“Come to finish the job?”
Her defiance was met with that same sad, kind stare and a sudden sharp pain in her wrist as she felt something being bound around it. Her green eyes shifted to see a bit of thoroughly worn, but clean strip of cloth being carefully and methodically wrapped about her clearly injured wrist, securing the small bones in place so that they would not be further displaced during what was sure to be a long and difficult healing process.
“No,” was his simple reply as he continued to pull strips of cloth from a rough-woven basket which contained all manner of things she had never seen on her fellow captives before. In fact, now that she was finally able to get a good look at him, he seemed quite different altogether. It was clear he was just as much of a captive here as she was – Averill would never use the world ‘slave’ for she would be beholden to no man and belonged to no one. This man was clearly quite tall and long-limbed but obviously skinny with malnourishment. His bare arms and what she could see of his ankles showed many old scars. His hair was thick and black like a raven’s feather but cut unevenly, as if done with a knife, much like she had done to her own dun colored hair when the knots matted and became unmanageable in her toil. He held himself like one wishing to go unnoticed; head down and shoulders hunched.
How curious, Averill thought, that the kindness she found in his gaze seemed to be exuded from every part of him. The darkness here had not taken it from him.
“What is your name?” she asked him, sitting up a little, though that pained her too. For a brief moment, the fire in her eyes turned to hope… until even that was slowly dashed out as the man simply shrugged at her.
“They call me Bên,” was his reply as he kept his attention focused to his task, continuing to bind her wrist and then applying some strange smelling salve to a few of her cuts, ignoring how she winced as they stung but waiting for the pain to ride out before continuing.
“Is that short for something? Like Benjamin? Benny?”
“… No. It’s a word in their tongue for servant.”
Averill sighed and then scowled, that same angry fire returning to her green gaze once more.
“You all forget your names so easily.”
Bên gave her a short look for a brief moment as a frown tugged at his features.
“And, so will you, in time.”
Averill yanked her arm from his grasp in a fit of anger but the cried out for the pain of such a sudden movement. But her tempter didn’t deter Bên at all. He patiently waited, hand held out, palm up, until she relaxed and then finally relented before taking her arm again to finish up his careful bandaging with the meager supplies that he had ‘earned’ from his masters.
“I won’t,” she ground out quietly, teeth gritted against the pain. “My name is Averill. I won’t forget it. I won’t let them take it. And, one day, I’ll make them sorry for trying.”
Bên shook his head and tied off the last of the bandages before standing, letting her rest where she was for the time being. “If you were wise, you’d learn to just accept your place here. You will never escape it. Accept it and avoid further punishment like this. You will have less pain.”
Again, it was curious to her to see yet another man here so broken and resigned and yet not completely stripped of his humanity. It stirred up something in the pit of her stomach she couldn’t quite place but did nothing to quell the perpetual defiance and anger within. She couldn’t understand it and wasn’t about to bother trying. Not just yet.
“Coward,” she fired back at him, though there was no real malice in it. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry with him. She was saving it for those who deserved it in full.
He turned away from her but paused for a brief moment. Silence filled the air until it was broken by his tired sigh, accompanied by his usual bowing of his head and slump of his shoulders, making him look shorter and smaller than he actual was. “Perhaps,” Bên replied to her. “Perhaps, I am… Have a care for yourself, Averill. I cannot always be around to help you. There are many others here who come away from labor and torment and they do not test fate like you do.”
She propped herself up against a blood-stained wall as she watched him walk away toward one of the dark city’s many buildings, shaking her head all the while.
A man named Bên. How curious.
(To be continued.)
