Inked

39

The Bluejay tiptoed around the sleeping soldiers. Boys, most of them, thinking themselves invincible, horribly, blissfully ignorant to the relentlessness of Death, though it walked among them.

Death had not spared even the youngest, most bright-eyed of them. Whatever it searched for, it could not seem to find; so it happened that each day, without fail, another young man went to sleep for the last time. 

Some of them slept lighter now, apprehensive of the day Death chose them. The Bluejay avoided these as he made his way across the room. The rest were foolish, he thought, to not fear Death, especially when it was at present so angry and nondiscriminatory in choosing its victims. Who would it be tonight, the Bluejay wondered, the peach-fuzzed blond whose green eyes were constantly laughing, whose thin mouth was constantly yelling, feigning power and bloodthirst? He would die quickly on the battlefield if Death did not take him in his sleep. 

What about the stone-faced boy, no older than Meggie? He was not so boisterous as the former, and often kept to himself. Grim focus was painted on his face as he trained; he was aware of Death, did not underestimate its power. But Death did not seem in a mood to form allegiances.

The Bluejay reached the hall, marble cooling his stockinged feet. He removed the long socks, whose soles had been cut out roughly with a knife, and fashioned a crude mask out of them. It wasn't his normal Bluejay look, but it would have to do. 

The guards were not his biggest worry. They were just people, and he had sneaked past people before. No, his main worries were the awful little creatures that Devondria's fire-eating spies reportedly sent around the castle at night to catch wanderers. So far, Mo had only heard of them catching sleepwalkers, but he had yet to actually see one. Even though he knew it was probably too good to be true, he hoped it stayed that way tonight.

All he needed was to get Meggie out of the castle and back on her way to Ombra as soon as possible. The ridiculousness of her being here in the first place was not lost on him, but it was hard to be a proper reprimanding father in his current situation.

The Bluejay thought he heard the hint of a whisper from somewhere off the main hallway, but, staying close to the wall, he scanned the darkness and saw nothing. The guard at the end of the hall remained facing away from him. 

The Bluejay continued toward the soldier's staircase he knew dropped off toward the dungeons. There was a gate there, but no guard except at the other end, where the main entrance was. Meggie would have to be somewhere between him and that guard at all times, so as long as he was careful -- which he always was -- he could find her and take them both back the way they came. Getting her out of the castle would be the hard part in all of this, but he had a backup plan, and a backup backup plan, should things go wrong.

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It took his eyes a while to adjust to the dark, but not as long as it once took regular Mo's eyes. The Bluejay could use what little light he had and make out plenty to help his other senses out. The only challenge was keeping quiet. The floor of the dungeons was always littered with stray puddles, and he knew the sound of dripping or splashing water wouldn't necessarily give him away, but he was reluctant to take chances nevertheless. He knew a bored guard would take any movement from his few prisoners to let out some of his energy.

Only two cells were occupied down here, ragged breathing coming out of one, and silent snoring out of the other. The latter must be Meggie. He wouldn't believe they had done anything to her that would make her sound so distressed even in sleep. 

He felt distress in his own heart, and he knew part of it was Dustfinger's. He also knew he was a tough man -- tougher than any man Mo had ever met -- and that the Bluejay would devote all his energy into helping him after Meggie was out of harm's way. 

A hand reached out of the darkness in front of him and grabbed his sleeve. He froze. "Mo?" A sleepy whisper. A little hoarse. It was his Meggie. 

Without responding, Mo started on the door lock. Meggie held on to him the entire time it took him to get it open. A creak hit the stone walls as the door swung forward, and Mo's attention went immediately to the guard. Mo heard movement, first a ruffle, then a huff of breath, then a footstep. 

Mo could hear Meggie's breath catch as panic rose in her. The guard did not become uninterested when there was no more noise, but rather made a big procession of walking down the cell line.

When he reached Meggie's door, he pulled out his keys and unlocked it. The girl was a shadow against the far wall. "Oi," he said, "What're you doing? Go back to sleep."

There was a long pause. The guard took a step into the cell. "I..." He stopped at the sound of her voice. "I had to relieve myself," she said, and he saw her shift position in the dim light. 

Boring, he thought. Why did no one ever go mad or dare an escape like he had heard about in training? He had exhausted all measures of keeping himself entertained and awake down here. "Hmm," he spoke into the darkness, the smell of the waste bucket keeping him from taking a step further. He was definitely not cut out for this job, but he was a loyal Argentan, and this was what loyal Argentans did. 

Damn loyalty, he thought as he locked the girl's cell once more and trudged back to his post, dragging his long, unused spear with him.

The Bluejay seemed to literally emerge from the shadows in the corner of the cell, where he had pressed himself, facing the wall to let his overgrown dark hair blend into the darkness around him. Meggie and him had communicated, silently, that although he was tanner than ever from daily outdoor training, the slightest catch of light on his face could make or break the moment.

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They made it to the kitchens before the Bluejay allowed them to stop and for Meggie to finally get a look at him. In the moonlight, his eyes were duller than she remembered through the holes of his makeshift mask. His facial hair was neatly groomed but nevertheless longer than she had ever seen it, as was his hair. His shoulders were broad from swinging spears and swords, but his belly had not quite receded after his year off as a full-time dad. That was the most familiar thing about him to her.

She peeled off the mask, which appeared to be a sweaty mess of cut-up socks. "Mo." The syllable had barely left her lips when she collapsed into him, a tear or two melting into his shirt. 

"I know," was all he said, over and over again. "I know, I know, I know." His commitment to the Bluejay was falling apart as he held her in his arms, angry and sad and confused all at the same time. 

They let their emotions hang in the silence of the empty, moonlit servants' kitchen, until the lightest footstep hit their alert ears. Meggie's heart picked up again, but she kept her breathing shallow as she searched the kitchen. She could have sworn she saw the glint of moonlight on the blackest of hair before it disappeared out of the kitchen entrance and back into the castle. 

Mo and Meggie looked at each other, communicating again without saying a word. Let's go.