Pomegranate Seeds ~ Editing in Progress

Chapter IX

AUTHOR’S NOTE: So, I said that I’d write two chapters for this, and I have. But the next one’s seriously awful, so it has to undergo some serious editing before I post it. Most of this was written on a train. Just as an interesting fact.

What has grown between Titus and I in the past few days is not exactly friendship – it is far too cold and distant, and not nearly intimate or companionable enough for that – but a certain grudging respect that is unwillingly echoed by both sides. For me it is involuntary – I have no choice in the matter. The man saved my child’s and my own futures, if not our lives. The traditional forfeit would be my soul - my filthy, corrupted soul, riddled with deceit and immodesty. It may be the debt I owe him, but it is hardly a fitting reward.

In spite of my new-found respect for Titus, I still find resentment and even doubt growing within me, and as three more days pass and we are still doggedly following the same winding mountain track. A couple more days, and we will have reached the summit. The only fitting conclusion I can draw is that he is taking me over the mountain range to the lands that lie beyond, but even with this reasonable explanation fresh in my mind, I cannot help but wonder whether it would not have been faster and safer to chose a simple detour around the mountains, for our current route is perilously hard, and I dread to think of what dangers lie in store.

As the misty dawn yields to a fourth morn, Titus wakes me gently and beckons me to follow him. I do as his finger dictates, noticing as I do so the purplish shadows that ring his eyes like fresh bruises. Once again he has “forgotten” to wake me for my watch. He leads me through the ragged spruce – the only vegetation that can survive the bitter winds of the expose mountainside. Eventually, even that fades out of sustenance, and only worn tufts of grass remain.

“Look up.”

At first the effect of the early sunlight greeting the pure white marble in an explosion of golden magic blinds me. By the time my eyes are able to focus upon the building, I am so awe-struck by its magnificence that my muddled brain firmly refuses to accept what my vision proclaims as truth to be reality. It is a palace of dreams, the ultimate display of wealth and riches; a beautiful oasis of tranquility, a haven from the eternal sameness of the mountainside. It is not just the vast proportions that astound me, nor the opulence of the building materials – an entire fortress constructed from snowy marble is the very pinnacle of demonstrated affluence. It is the architecture; the sweeping towers, the softened contours, the ethereal effect of dreamlike freedom. It rises effortlessly form the mountain with untouchable grace, as though its very roots were implanted in the rocky terrain. So natural, and yet so out of place, like a single rose in an empty flowerbed.

“Our destination.” Titus turns away and heads back to our pitiful camp. I follow, struggling to find the words in which to voice my thoughts.

“The… the person you are taking me to – the person we are seeking advice from – he lives there? And you know him? Personally?”

“No.”

“But… but then why…?” I leave my question unfinished, as the many whys of this matter scatter freely over my tongue.

“I know her. Personally. She lives there.”

“A woman?” I am shocked, having automatically presumed that our councilor would be of the male gender.

“There is nothing remotely masculine about Cassiel, of that I can assure you. The term “woman” is perhaps incorrect. I would say it generally implied human.”

“This person – Cassiel – she’s not human?” My confusion is growing rapidly.

“She is not of earthly race, at least not any more, although it is here that she resides. I know little if her previous history, so that is unclear to me. Like “woman”, the term “human” is debatable. You can decide that for yourself, I am sure. Although, let us hope that this particular decision’s consequences are not quite as fatal as some of the others you have made. “ He smirks to himself, and moves away, having clearly deemed his reply suitable.

I hate myself, more and more, as I follow him.

*

The interior of the white marble palace is just as impressive as its exterior. I lounge upon the floor of the dining hall - a massive room with floor-length windows running it’s length – sipping from a goblet of exotically spiced wine and pondering the large array of unrecognizable, dried fruits. The floor is spread with fringed rugs in a variety of flame-coloured silks – scarlet, tangerine and ochre. I reach out to select a fruit that has caught my interest. It is dark and shriveled, and explodes upon contact with my taste buds into a shower of tart sweetness. Titus is huddled in one corner; seated upon a broad floor cushion. He refuses all offers of food, but knocks back goblet after goblet of wine, downing the sweet, heady liquid as though it is water.

We have been shown the upmost hospitality since our arrival at the white marble thresh-hold several hours earlier, but our elusive hostess has yet to make an appearance. I have tried in vain to force more details out of the many serving girls, but they fend off my prying questions with practiced ease. There is only one I have left to ask; a timid young girl, a couple of years my junior, who serves Titus his wine in utter silence. She is clearly new, for she skulks in the shadows when she enters the room, and does not join in the other maids’ friendly chatter, instead standing awkwardly on the edge of the group. I smile secretly to myself. It seems cruel to take advantage of her obvious youth and shyness, but she is the most likely to provide the answers I so desperately crave.

To my wicked delight, it is the new girl who is instructed to bathe me, and then take me to my sleeping chambers. Bashfully, she leads me to a steaming bathtub. I lower myself into the scalding water, and allow the heat to envelop me in a wave of warmth, soothing my aching muscles. The gorgeous scents of various fragrant oils drift up from the water’s surface, perfuming the air around me.

I stretch out and relax, as the serving girl washes and cleanses my body with numerous creams and ointments. She then produces a wide-toothed, wooden comb, and proceeds to brush the tangles out of my wet tendrils of hair. Her own hair is dark like mine, but soft and shining, falling to her waist in a smooth sheet of inky blackness. Her caramel skin glows like honey in the deepest regions of a bee’s hive.

“What is your name?” I enquire, lazily.

She bows her head as she answers, dropping her auburn eyes to the floor.

“Mia.”

“I’m Lilith.” I smile at her from the bathtub.

“Yes.” She sounds close to tears; I can hear the strain in her voice from her throat closing up. I imagine them swimming in her lovely eyes, like silvery fishes. In my head, the effect seems tragically beautiful.

She remains in silence for the rest of the bathing process, refusing to look at me. I realise that I am going to retrieve even less information from her than from any of the others. As soon as she has shown me to my room, she flees. I hear the soft scuffling of her slippers against the floor. And that is when the horrible realization strikes me. She is shy with everyone else. But she’s afraid of me.