The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 1

One year to go. One more year of history lessons. One more year of bland dinners and leftover lunches. One more year of the Baroness and her barbarism. If I behave, be the good boy who follows her commands to the letter, it could be a year free of isolation rooms and visits with Cy the guard. A year without The Frozen Chamber in the winter or Baltevmt's Maw in the summer. A year without rapped knuckles or a lashed back.

Just one more damn year.

The countdown will start tomorrow. For today, there are still crimes to pay for. The three new scars pulse with a cold rhythm; though Cy is a bastard with his whip, at least his concoction takes away the pain afterward. The scars, though, tough little raised lines of varying lengths, are forever. But like most of the others, they are worth the pain. Those pricks deserved their ass whooping. It's as if they forgot what it was like to be little and new and terrified. Hopefully they'll think twice the next time new orphans arrive at the Tower.

The door of the Recovery Room, heavy and metal, swings open hard. Cy, a bear of a man, hovers in the doorway. Only the light of the moon cascading from the barred window fills the room, but it's not enough to illuminate his face. A figure much smaller shuffles inside, a soft whimper accompanying the footsteps. The door shuts a moment later. The moonlight shows her face as she draws near: tight black curls that hang down to her cheeks, dark tearful eyes, a button nose, downturned lips on a brown face. Wordless, Kym hugs herself tight and sits next to me.

An acidic smell fills the echoing air, the lingering presence of Cy's healing concoction. It still stings on my back; it dissipates slow. Kym's must be more fresh; the scent that fries my nose is stronger around her. A shame, I think. She normally smells so pretty. It will be mostly gone by the time Cy returns to escort us back to our rooms, though.

"How many did you get?" I ask after a long silence, my inquiry bouncing off the stone walls.

"Three," she answers, stifling her tears with little success. "You?"

"Same. Did he go hard on you?"

"More than usual," she admits after a second. "Had to use more of his juice on the wounds this time because of it."

We both lean forward, away from the wall. Years of experience warn against resting back; the fresh scars are too sensitive for the hard and uneven rock surface. We sit close, our shoulders touch. It has been forever since we've been this close. Maybe that night on the edge of Valier Forest, the night of the Smith and that creature. Otherwise, back here at the Tower of Lost Children, there are what the Baroness calls "morality rules" that keep boys and girls apart. If only that crone knew what went on behind certain closed doors.

Augustin used to tell us stories of rebels in love and how they would have to hide their feelings in public, but in the solace of a locked door they could be free. Max often squirmed or tried to distract himself during them, but Kym always seemed to like those stories. So did I. Augustin made the stories sound so real, as if he was one of them. Sometimes I would even let myself pretend that Kym and I were such tortured souls. In the dark of night, after everyone is asleep, we would find each other at one of the secret rooms and let ourselves feel the things we feel without judgment or restraint. An enticing thought, but just that. Reality is far more complicated and unfair. I wouldn't even know how to find one of those rooms. Augustin had been the only person who mentioned them around us, and he left the Tower nearly a year ago.

"How about you?" Kym asks.

"Yeah," I answer. "I think he took the day into account and considered it a fucked up present."

"Sounds like Cy," she chuckles, soft and dark. Even in the low light, her smile shines.

She relaxes her arms, and her hands rest on her knees. I peek at it out of the corner of my eye, and something inside begs me to take it. Call it instinct, call it desire, it doesn't matter. It screams at me to reach out. It would be such a simple gesture, to hold her hand. It would be so easy. Just fucking do it, coward.

My hand covers hers in that moment, loose digits taking a gentle hold. For a long second, the term "sweet embrace" starts to make sense. It's so nice just to hold her hand. So peaceful. My heart kicks up dust and sprints up and down my chest. The warmth in that hand fills me with brimming joy and lightness. The corners of my lips curl up into an easy smile.

With a jolt, Kym pulls her hand away. She stares at me, her gaze sharp yet confused. Her dark eyebrows scrunch together in a scowl. Just as quickly as the happiness set on, I deflate and return to a cold solitude. She stares at my hand as it hovers over her knee, finally knocking it back toward me.

"What are you doing?" she asks with ice.

"I dunno." It takes too long for the answer to come out, and when it does it comes with a foundation of shame and regret. "I just thought it'd be nice to comfort you or something."

"I don't need your comfort," she says, low and hushed like a prayer. She turns away with the words, folding her hands in her lap and avoiding my gaze. They fidget there, as if she's trying to subtly wipe away my germs from her skin. If not for the chill that overtakes my heart, it's almost funny.

The door slams open, giving us both a start. The frame fills with Cy's solid figure.

"Come, boy." Stern and simple comes the command. I know better than to disobey.

"Sorry," I say to Kym before following Cy out of the Recovery Room. Her dark eyes catch mine for a moment, a cascade of thoughts swimming in her brimming tears.

"It's fine," she responds, softer now but still hot with offense. "Happy Birthday, Rokkoh," she adds after a moment, a flicker of a smirk lighting up her face.

Cy's large left hand takes hold of me then and pulls me back, the other shutting the metal door before I can give her thanks.