A Splatter of Other #Wattys2015

VI

Stalls of wood and cloth line either side of the oval shaped bottom, with a wide gap down the middle, crawling with Outsiders in all manner of strangely coloured garb. My throat constricts in fear and I instinctively move closer to the two men beside me.

"If we want to get through here faster, it might best to clear our Marks," Fitz rumbles in his softer accent.

"Yes, that would be good idea," he replies, turning sharply and moving over to a shadowed alcove, that contained a stone basin over orange coals. He reaches in and pulls out a rag, wringing the excess water out he scrubs viciously at his forehead, probably taking of several layers of skin at the same time. Fitz follows suit and I stand awkwardly to one side while I wait. When they turn back, both have faces bright pink and dripping. Archer's shaggy dark hair had been loosely smoothed back from his forehead to reveal a handsome, clean face. My eyes are drawn first to Fitz's Mark, the triangle surrounded by artistic swirls, then to Archer's. His white and black Mark, against the gold of his skin, is much more impressive, with the swirls spiralling out from the main Mark at the centre of his forehead to brush the top of his temples. My eyes linger on his face too long, observing the way it sets of his beautiful green eyes...Fitz clears his throat and I turn away embarrassed and angry. I shouldn't be thinking of any part of this mongrel beautiful, he attacked my Mother and kidnapped me. He is a monster.

"Best be on our way Archer, your Father will be waiting." They flank me as we make our way forward again, into the dusky twilight made by thousands of burning bowls of oil. My eyes flickered around groups of dirty Outsiders, whose gazes in turn were meeting mine. They skitter away when they fall upon the men at my side, and they scurry back. Even with a reasonable amount of free space made around us, I still feel the pressing of curious and hostile eyes on all sides. There are gaps at intervals that lead into other caves and passageways, all of which were crowded by filthy bodies.

"They're staring," I whisper, unnerved by the silence that had fallen.

"Of course they are," Archer scoffs loudly, before shouting something out into the mass. With an almost audible sigh, everyone starts moving again, losing interest as more pressing matters guide their thoughts, but they still give us a wide berth as we stroll slowly towards the Northern end of the cavern. "It's your clothes, and lack of Markings. They won't notice you as much once the Sumkemp get their hands on you." I don't reply, worrying over the changes I might be subjected to. They were planning on turning me into one of them. If I wasn't scared before, now I'm terrified.

It takes several minutes to get to the North end, and the sudden release, the open space, is a relief. I feel as if I can breathe again, out of the masses, away from the cloying scent of unwashed bodies "We don't usually smell so bad, but we're on soap rations at the moment," Archer tells me as he gently pulls me over to an entrance way. Four guards, two on either side with handguns at their left hip and wicked looking blades at their right stand aside to allow us to pass through a gate of intricately shaped copper. "My father likes embellishments," he adds at my look, "you need to see the main doors to his audience room."

"Audience room? So this is like a castle?" My voice echoes strangely, bouncing off the damp, dark rock above me. Small pockets have been scooped out of the walls at intervals with burning oil to allow shadowed light on the path that sloped up gently.

"You could call it that, though it's more of an army base than anything else." I shudder at the thought and don't speak again. The ground is well worn and smooth from decades of feet, meaning I don't have to concentrate too hard on where my feet are being placed. How was I going to get away? The exit path was visible to all, and there's no way I'd be able to get past anyone arriving or leaving, the walls were perfectly flat, without a crack or indent. Not to mention the countless Guards that would be watching me at all times. And even if I got out, what then? If I didn't die of dehydration, I'd probably wander into Flesh Eater territory, and the fate that'd befall me there wasn't much more appealing than staying here indefinitely. On top of all that, the pain in my leg was beginning to distract me, and a faintness wash hovering in the back of my mind.
Up ahead the tunnel lightens and we emerge into a smaller cavern, with a domed ceiling dripping with stalactites. Columns of stalagmites rise up on either side, some solid from floor to ceiling, giving the impression that this place had existed a long time. These columns and stalagmites had been carved into shapes of savage animals, decorated in slashes of red, black and white, all reaching for the glittering stones embedded in the rock above them. The trek here is more treacherous, with hidden dips, and smaller stalagmites, and all my attention is focused on the painted floor as I try to avoid stepping in puddles or face planting a spike of stone. I finally look up when we stop, and before my mind can process what is happening I've shrunk as far back as the restricting grips on either side allow me. A beast of a man sits on the throne of blackened rock, cushioned with scarlet padding. His arms, swarming with Marks, bulges from a vest of black and sleeves red under shirt, his long legs are clothed in puffy charcoal pants, and his feet and wrapped in well-worn knee-high boots. His hair, long and pale blonde, bordering white, hangs past his shoulders, with plaits pulled back out of his face. Dreads with black beads in what looks like ivory decorate the strands. But it's not his usual, intimidating attire that scares me. No, it's the coldness in his eyes, such a dark blue that it appears black. His forehead is patterned beautifully in red and black, but doesn't have the same triangle as Archer, rather that of Fitz's. His face is so like Archer's that it's chilling, but where Archer's sharp plains are softened with amusement, there's nothing soft about his Father.