Woman of Sorrows-The Black-Veiled Woman

Repaid

In the dank of the cell, Thane hung, still strong when other men would have failed. He waited, in the dark, for days upon end. They had never left him alone for so long, yet now they seemed to have forgotten their prisoner. There had been no light to break the dark, yet he did not find despair. He was let be, no longer tormented by their endless questions, probing for information he did not have. Instead, he was left in solitude to reflect on the losses he had suffered. Whenever they had come in, they had brought the memory of his fiancée back to the surface, throwing salt in his wounds and forcing him to face his deficits.

Hearing footsteps in the hallway for the first time in four days, he straightened himself up as best he could, though standing erect was near impossible in the restricted manner he was chained. In the lock, he heard the jangle of keys, followed by the scraping of metal as the door was opened. Light flooded in, causing him to shut his eyes against the glare. When he looked back, a young man was coming towards him. Though his eyesight was hardly adjusted to the brightness, he could see the man was shaken, afraid by something. He was sweating heavily, and rushed towards Thane, keys in hand. Without a word, he began to unlock Thane's shackles, letting him down. Thane clutched at his raw wrists, barely able to touch them as raw as they were. Unsure, he looked at the man.

"What are you doing?"

"I cannot continue to live in this fear. I hope that in freeing you, I might gain favor."

"I doubt favor is what will be earned in letting a prisoner go free. I believe a noose might be more accurate," Thane answered, grateful for his assistance, yet unwilling to risk another man's life on the account of a man with an empty life.

"It is not their favor I seek," he responded, wide-eyes with fright. "But what do you care? I am giving you your freedom. Get out while you can."

"Who's favor would be worth such a risk?"

"The women in black. I saw her terror. She let me alone go free. I was to tell the other divides of her terror, but first, I must ensure I have something that will set me apart, so that I might not meet the same fate," he replied, obviously shaken.

"Now go," he commanded, pointing towards the open door, "I shall have nothing more to do with you."

His strength had not yet failed, for he was a strong man without need of food and water. He departed, dashing towards the door and not hesitating until he breathed the clean air outdoors. The night was fresh, and the outdoor air purified his body, ridding his lungs of the musk and damp from below. Whatever had happened, he did not care. It was likely the same who had slaughtered all in the village, for a particular Dendä seemed to be on a vendetta against the land of men.

The night was dark, a blessing for those attempting the impossible. To take into their possession the apprentice of the one who stood against them. The only one who dared to challenge them, but the only one who had information about their beloved, coveted treasure. For though the Rasonphel divide had been destroyed, the Yewflowers had not. Now that word of their rival's demise had reached them, they leapt at the opportunity to gain control over her. They did not believe the rumors, that she had felled them all with a wave of her hand. For if they did, they would not attempt such folly. Yet, in their ignorance, they failed to heed the rumors. So they made their move.

In the absence of the moon, they were able to move closer, stalk their victim. His mistress had gone ahead, leaving him to secure a place for the horses. He dropped the coins into the man's hand, nodding to him as he turned away. The street was empty, yet he heard the scuffle of feet behind as he made his way back to the inn. Glancing back again, he saw nothing but dirt road between the buildings. Still, he let his hand fall on his sword, concealed beneath his cloak. As he rounded the corner towards the place they were staying, he felt a hand clap around his mouth, and several more pull him to the ground. He struggled with them for a moment, trying in vain to free himself. Three men fought to keep him down, and though he was a warrior, he was outmatched, having been taken by surprise. His training was good, yet it was not enough so in this case. A heavy blow with the hilt of a sword to his temple rendered him unconscious, leaving him nothing but a limp heap in the arms of his attackers. Before he could wake, they bound his hands and feet tightly, ensuring there would be no ill-conceived attempts to escape. He was their prisoner, and now, his mistress would pay.

He would not be used as leverage, for the Yewflowers had long since given up the idea that she could be controlled. Though they had little interaction with her, they believed she would never be contained. Instead, they simply desired to send a message, and a stark one at that. He would not be a hostage, he would be a sacrifice. The Yewflower divide had taken to the ways of pagan worship, their favorite ritual being the spilling and burning of the blood of their enemies. They sacrificed them to Gesfel, hoping to please him and that in their victim's charred blood they would discover a map to the treasure. Yet, despite their fervent hopes, they had yet to find anything of meaning in the boiled and singed blood. Tarre and his mistress had known of their tendencies, and had done their best to avoid them, yet now, he was going to be a victim of the same fate. Perhaps in the sacrifice of Chalandra's only apprentice they would not only spite the master, but would be given the favor of Gesfel, for Tarre was the favorite of Gesfel's most grave enemy, that much they knew for certain.