Twisted Tales for Twisted Minds

Chains That Bind

She wobbled as she found herself striding over a cobbled road. Her heart was heavy and loud, screaming a terrified rhythm in her ear. Well, she had been a she. Was she still?

Glancing down brought two soft mounds jiggling against leather constraints into view. The leather was hard, and the slight trim on it left the delineation between the breast and leather furred. They weren't tightly held, hence why they moved so much. It was some relief to know that yes, she was a woman, but she hated what she saw in her clothes already.

There was a man in front of her—she knew who he was. Not that she could see him under the large pack he carried. He never changed; she did. He strode on, ignorant of what had happened behind him. His world had changed, been reordered by the gods. Whatever companion he had until this point had ceased to be, and she strode the world in their place.

She had to wonder if this man—this enemy—was ordained to kill her for an eternity. She had just come from a time when he beheaded her for crimes she couldn't have committed. Oh, whomever she took the place of had been quite evil, likely a werewolf from their descriptions of her. But it wasn't her—her own self.

But who was she this time?

"Janelle, come take a look at this." The man had turned the corner of the path around a cliffslide.

So she was Janelle. When she last died, he had been mentioning a woman of that name coming up in his line of work. So, he had beheaded the woman who she had been and found himself a partner to work with, and now she was that partner. This was far more than she got from most shifts.

She was still trying to process what little she had by the time she reached his side. He placed his arm around her shoulder as he shifted out her way, so as to show her the view before them. It was a small village, not unlike many of the ones he had worked in all these years. "This is where I want to settle down, once we finish our quest."

"What's so special about here?" Janelle asked this—whatever was left of her past self asked this. She no longer thought Janelle shaped memories, but compulsion forced some Janelle-esque things through her mouth. It was the same thing that kept her from hitting him for placing his arm around her shoulder. That last death hurt.

"This village is only a handful of years old. Most of the land isn't claimed, and they can use some more old soldiers who are ready to settle."
"I wish we were." Janelle and the she-within agreed on this. Perhaps if she didn't keep catching him while he worked as a solider, she wouldn't die so often at his hands.

But their path didn't lead them to the village—they skirted around its sides, walking on a path that seemed to lead nowhere as the sun sank low. He chose a campsite beside a fallen tree. "Help me pull off some of this old wood for a fire, my dear."

Both took off their packs and set about breaking up the deadwood. Once they had a modest pile, he set to making a fire, while she rummaged around in her own pack, trying to figure out what she had. Dry goods, cheeses, not much in the way of clothing choices, so she was stuck with this abysmal top. Janelle pulled out a small pot, a mix of goods, and walked back some ways to a stream trickling out over a modest rock outcropping, filling the vessel about half way.

The man had a hook ready for the pot, using it to lower their meal into the fire, carefully placing it in a way that would keep it upright. Then, finally, he sat down and gestured for the woman to join him, placing his arm over her shoulder once again.

This time he kissed her, lazily running a finger across where her skin met the leather, daringly dipping below it a few times. Part of her wanted to shove him off, screaming, but this body remembered him—wanted him even.

He pulled back for a second, and she took the time to stare at the changes in him. His hair had grayed since he killed her last. His eyes crinkled, and he kept a bit of scruff—something he had shaved off in most of their encounters. He spoke first. "Janelle, I need you to say it."

She struggled, thinking about what she was going to say. Eventually, she had to ask him. "Say what?"

He pulled away from her, placing his arms over his knees and looking at the woman. "At what point did you cease to be my wife?"

She looked at him, cocking her head to the side. "I don't understand."

"What is the first memory you have of this life, woman?"

"Just behind you, skirting around to see that village earlier today."

The man sighed. "I want my wife back. Can you do this for me?"

"I hardly have a choice in when I show up, sir."

"Well, we were going on a pilgrimage to end the foolish curse I placed on us as children, Magdela. Having you here or my wife here changes nothing. It needs to end."

That confession of his was what kept the knife she found sheathed in her boot firmly in its place.