Gilded Chaos

Defense

"No, don't kick with your foot flat on the ground. On your toes, come on. The kicks are better that way, with less of a chance of falling back", James Ridley instructs me, fixing my position with pokes and prods of his short cane.

He's teaching me how to fight. It's about time, too, as I've been begging him for weeks- he'd always say I'm too skinny and that I'm a girl, that I should leave the fighting to him; I spit in his porridge for that. He finally relented when I threatened him with something slightly worse than spit.

He and I seldom find time to train in the night, with everyone asleep. We train on the unused roof of the orphanage, as well eat whatever he steals from the market- Miss Adkin's food tastes putrid.

"Come now, let's get back to bed, we've only got two hours of sleep left."
He leads the way back through the rickety attic window and down the narrow staircase. As we walk down the corridor, past the staffs' bedrooms, I gaze up at the portraits of smiling groups of children on the walls- how fake they are. The nuns probably had someone paint a random bunch of smiling kids for a good image.

The inside of the building is airy and cool- it's never as stuffy as it ought to be with all the smelly, small bodies occupying every room.  I assess every inch of the place as James and I walk in a companionable silence, searching for a hiding spot for my cake. Not that I have any cake to hide yet but my birthday's coming up in a week's time and James will surely help me with either stealing or saving up for a cake from the baker down the street. Whenever we ask one of the nuns for a bit of a celebration on our birthdays, they refuse immediately, owing it to lack of funds.  

A pile of rubbish is what I believed their excuses to be; I often watch them buy more than what they claim we can afford whenever I'm able to sneak up to the roof to escape chores. I'd usually keep a lookout for James as he embarked on his many missions that ranged from sneaking into Ms Helga's office for her stash of pastries or sneaking into town to pick pockets. He'd taught me how coo like a pigeon in order to signal trouble, I had been beyond proud as I finally mastered the art, the echoes bouncing off every nun's nerves as I practised for days. 

James has been returning earlier from his missions these days. I think he's scared- a lot of the people living in surrounding buildings have been acting strangely- sleepwalking more and more, screaming at night for reasons that are currently beyond me. James and I either hear their wailing or watch their dead silent footsteps that somehow always lead to the orphanage. Watching their progress across the streets, their eyes look almost entirely a milky white colour, much like my hair. 

As James ensures I'm and bed leaves for his own dorms a few rooms away, I toss and turn, desperate for sleep. I can hear the wailing getting louder. I'm not sure if the sound has grown into my head, like harp string nooses, or if it's actually out there. 

I can bear it no longer when the cacophony of noises start to sound like my name, turning over I open my eyes and gasp as my blue eyes are met with pure white ones staring at me unblinkingly. James's eyes.

Gasping as I sit up through the twisted sheets at my waist, I don't get far as I feel someone gripping my arms. The sensation of my sweat-soaked clothes is almost as sickening as the images flashing before my eyes as I try to blink back into reality. 

"Pandora, wake up!"

Once Eric is satisfied with my state of consciousness, he lets go of my arms and brings me a glass of water which I accept silently; my throat feels far too tight for me to be adequately verbal.

After I've drunken some water and the shaking has subsided, I get up to wash my face and search for my luggage. Upon returning to the room, I'm feeling much better, the sway of the boat having no ill effects on me. Eric sits at a desk not far from my bed- which has my suitcase on it now. 

"What was that?" he asks as he turns in his chair to face me, metal in hand. 

He makes no indication to the subject but I have an idea what he's referring to. I don't mistake his question for a show of concern, though, as he clearly has business matters in mind.  

"They are commonly referred to as nightmares, though you may call it a night-fright if you like. It's not surprising that I'd get nightmares of this nature now, of all times; we did just face half-bull, half-man things without turning them into something edible. All that wasted meat shall possess my thoughts for a long time yet."

"Are you not concerned with the half-man part?" he replies with a slight twitch of his lips.

"The meat may be tougher due to that, not to mention bitter, as men are. But other than that, not particularly, no."

His expression suddenly straightening out, he asks quietly: "Who is James?"

After a moment of hesitation: "An old friend. Let's get forging now."

Instead of pushing his question, he simply obliges, lighting up the small cabin with his sparks. Looking at him with the flames accentuating the sharpness of his nose and cheekbones, and his eyes seeming to glow like a forge themselves, I cannot help but think of how different yet alike he and James are.

Forging the dagger has proven to be less of a challenge than I thought it would be, considering I'm using a handful of fire to forge this particularly stubborn material, it's rather fast work. Once the dagger is finally done, Eric heaves a breath and sits back in his chair, sweat rolling down his temples as his head lolls back on his chair. I assume it's because of exhausting whatever power he possesses as opposed to the actual furnace he's made of this cabin.

Twirling the dagger in my hand, it feels wonderfully balanced, a perfect weight in my hand. I must commend my handiwork, it seems Eric certainly won't. 

Sitting up, he gingerly plucks the dagger from my hand. "Best be careful with this, princess. You do not want to be on the wrong end of this dagger."

"Princess?" I scowl at him. I'll show him who's a princess one of these days. 

Flashing a smile that leaves my thoughts garbled, he wraps the dagger in a rough square of fabric and tucks it into a sack at his waist. Taking in his rugged ensemble is when I realize there's only one bed in the cabin. One bed and two people.

I suppose we'll be sleeping in shifts. I leave Eric to rest as I decide that, at long last, I'm going to clean up my appearance. Really clean up. Maybe it's due to the cruel memories, but I suddenly feel like being bare of any and all disguises. There are leagues and leagues between myself and land, separated by the vast ocean. If ever there ever was a time to abandon my masks, it's now.