Inked

40

Blood, blood, all he can taste is blood. Blood as red as his vision. The blood in his body pounds hot and red through his body, out of his body, his mouth is filled with it. It spills over his chin, and it is hot and sticky, and it runs down his broken brow, catching in his eyelashes. And it is all red. Each hit is red, each lash. Their questions are red. He answers honestly -- "I don't know where she is," but the blood doesn't let it come out right -- and he gets more red in return.

As he slips out of consciousness, it is not black he sees, but red...

There can be nothing sweeter than a child's laughter, he thinks. It is spring, and Rosanna walks around on wobbly legs, ripping up grass and giggling at her ability to do so. Dustfinger tells her to be gentle, to look at these pretty flowers, look at this orange and yellow butterfly I made for you, but she grabs for those as well, dissolving into laughter, orange curls bouncing, as the butterfly vanishes at her touch.

The laugh continues as the image fades, and he sees scarlet hair, darker than his, curling around the face of a girl, a young woman. Her laughter is close, but not quite the same as his daughter's. Nevertheless, it throws him back into fits of springs with Rosanna, of trying to teach her how to work with fire. She was always so skilled, he remembered, even so young, but she much preferred crafting crowns out of flowers than out of flames.

He feels water on his face. It is no longer a sunny spring day. It is storming, his face and body soaked to the skin. But, instead of thunder, there is only that carefree laugh. Instead of lightning, there is only crimson hair crackling with sparks. 

Dustfinger wasn't quite sure when he slipped back to the present, or why, but he knew the beating had stopped. He was wet all over, sweat stinging the broken skin, warm blood soothing the bruises. The voice from his vision seemed to continue into reality, until he realized he was only mistaking it for the girl's, Soleil's. She was shouting at the guard. He tried to focus, his ears being the least affected by what had taken place. His eyes were swollen shut, but he saw movement of shadow and light that suggested the girl was waving her arms.

"The Bluejay? In Argenta Castle? But it's impossible! We've been waiting for him for months and he comes now? Forget this sod, go help search for him, we can't have this, Her Majesty will be so displeased we've -- you've -- let him slip through our fingers! Go. Go!"

Metal fell against wood as the guard deserted his display. Soleil bent down and grabbed Dustfinger by the chin, her sharp nails digging into the cuts there. He let out a halfhearted groan. "If you have any part in this, you better speak now. Better to save yourself than to die protecting the very ones who have left you here. After all, the Bluejay could have saved you too, if he's as great as they say. But he didn't, and what do you think about that?"

Dustfinger tried to form a reply, but all that came out of his mouth was a bubble of blood. It popped, splattering a droplet onto Soleil's face. The rest dribbled down his chin onto her hand. She didn't flinch, or move to clean herself, but merely through Dustfinger's head back and slipped out the room, locking it behind her.

Dustfinger could feel what little space was left between his eyelids aching to meet again, but before he let them, the edges of his lips cracked into a half-smile. The Bluejay was as great as they said. That and more.