The Sanctuary

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nearly a day had passed. I knew every single second that had gone by, had kept track of the sun’s movement across the sky. I was astutely aware of each moment that fell past them, as the day wore on.

Even though I fought it, the only thing that stayed on my mind was thoughts of the Farsay prisoner. Not a single soul had entered his room. The Riders had commanded me not to check on him.

No food. No water. No bandages.

They didn’t want Madame Widow to think they were taking care of their Farsay prisoner.

So I clenched my fists and willed myself not to think bout him. I went through my day, fashioning new arrows. Teaching Kat how to read. Practicing my dagger-throwing, my swordplay, the bow and arrow.

I did everything and anything to keep distracted.

But as dinner came about, I could not do it any longer. My mind was only on the prison room that held the one person I hated. I could hardly stay still, could hardly think of anything else.

So when it came to a breaking point, I made a decision. Knowing Marina, the Kitchen cook, would be conveniently distracted by weaponry training, I stalked my way to the Kitchens. Resolutely, I grabbed small stock of dinner, a pail of water, towels and cloth. Hesitating for a moment, I also reached out for a canister of drink that I knew rested in the bottom cupboard of the kitchen.

Choosing not to think too deeply about my actions, I marched through the hallways as if I had some important purpose to get and made my way to the prison room. I raised my hands to open the door and paused, staring at my fingers. I wanted to pull them away, and walk aback to the girls dormitory. The feeling was so strong, I almost did it. But then flashes of the Farsay prisoner flitted through my mind as he gripped me, just a day ago, shouting my name. Calming me down.

I opened the door loudly.

The sight that met my eyes was pitiful. The prisoner was in nearly the same position they had left him yesterday, curled up in a ball, covered in blood and bruises. Fear enveloped me, and I peered at his body.

The slow rise and fall of his chest made me sigh inwardly with relief.

He was alive.

A pang of unbidden regret gripped my chest and guilt seeped through my body as I watched him breath in and out, covered in blood and grime. Shaking my head, I slowly walked over to the table that I always walked to, and set the materials I was carrying down.

“Come to finish me off?” a weak voice came from the mangled body. I jerked in response, and while taking a second to look furtively at the door, I busily began to prepare.

“Dinner,” I commanded shortly.

“I’m not hungry,” he croaked. He let out a bark that I had to assume was some form of laughter.

Ignoring pangs of remorse, I was startled at the relief that was slowly rushing through my veins. Trying not to focus too much on my absurd range of emotions, I crouched down next to him, observing him carefully. Most of the blood was coming from his face and various cuts on his arms and legs. Surprisingly, nothing seemed broken or fractured.

Small wins, I thought grimly. I reached out to touch a blooming bruise on his face, but in a second, he had my wrist in a familiar claw-like grip and was sitting up, glaring at me.

His eyes pierced into me, still so bright blue.

“What?” I tried to say, stiffly.

"What are you doing?” The Farsay hissed, quietly. I opened her mouth to answer him but he kept going. “If you are going to hurt me, then do it while I look you in the face.” He smirked at me, none too kindly. “Or at least take this chain off my ankle and make it a fair fight.”