As with chapter 5, this chapter will also be broken up into two parts due to length. Enjoy!
Late afternoons of stargazing on the beach transition into brief walks in the snow and fireside book reading in the library. The typical seasonal shift, only now Kym and I sit closer. Sometimes she leans into my body while my arm drapes around her shoulders, other times my lap becomes her footrest. Through it all, no matter what position we take on the divan, there is a comfortable wordless happiness between us. Similar to the feeling before the night of the trip to Allendar, but stronger, warmer, more addictive. As the winter winds blow and the snow piles up outside the Tower, as my days dwindle with the fading reclusive sun, I need her more and more. Every second spent away from her is another second closer to the day I ride the carriage to Allendar alone to begin my adult life. As we inch day by day to that departure, we in turn inch toward a stretch of months before she and Max are free of the Tower. We cannot waste time, not now that this vulnerable honesty binds our souls evermore into that wondrous storybook destiny.
Max, to my surprise, pays no mind to the romantic development. Sometimes he even encourages it. On more than one occasion, he has offered to give us space or disappeared unannounced. But on the days where he finds something else to occupy his attention, there is often a hint of some hidden intention. He tries to keep it under his skin, but every now and then it seeps from his pores and bleeds chartreuse with envy. It infects his energy, pulsating out in waves until he goes off to steal a snack from the pantries or vanishes like an expelled spirit.
Yet through it all, despite the subtly screaming jealousy, there is no malice. On the other side of the coin is glee, relief, an exhale of a long-held breath. Finally, the blind can see, the deaf can hear, the mute can sing. After all this time, all the years spent in our little troupe, Kym and I recognize and accept the special bond between us. Sometimes, when he thinks I’m not watching, a proud little smile graces his lips. How long has he seen it and said nothing? How long has he been waiting for me to hold her hand, to sit beside her, to just be with her? How long has he known but kept the secret to himself?
I hope he can have the same someday. I hope he can find a person whose hand he can hold, someone to sit beside, someone with whom he can simply be. He deserves that more than anyone else I know at the Tower. Perhaps when he sees us together, he thinks of all the time he would spend with Augustin. That camaraderie, that strong connection, that kinship. I have to admit I also find myself missing our fiery friend from time to time, but he and Max were always closer than Augustin was with Kym or me.
In only a few months time, it will be my turn to leave like Augustin did, like all the others do. The twins will remain then, an island lost amongst the ocean. They will be fine, I’m sure of it, but I still worry that Wassim will intensify his harassment once I’m gone. Worry not for Kym or Max, but for the little bastard. Nothing would hold them back, save for the harsh scars on their backs and each other. Maybe one of them will teach Wassim a lesson that will leave the halls of the Tower safer for everyone. One can only hope.
“This book is boring,” Max yawns, shutting the tome in his hands with a loud clap. “It’s putting me to sleep. I’m going back to the dormitory.”
“Don’t get lost,” Kym says, not taking her eyes off her own pages. It’s a blend of sincerity and sarcasm, and I can’t tell which side has the majority.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he tells us as he gets up from his thick stuffed chair. He casts the book onto the short table, its thud enough to wake someone. For a brief second, I catch that bittersweet look in his eyes and weak smirk. But he is gone all too soon, taking his mystery with him.
Kym pulls her feet from my lap and scoots along the chaise until she’s next to me. Without breaking away from her book, she takes a gentle hold of my arm and places it around her shoulders. She leans into me, getting comfortable, wordless and serene. Perfect.
We stay here for a long time, her body nestled into mine as we read. An occasional peek leads me to believe that her book involves assassins and their penchant for regicide. A thrilling tale, I’m sure. The story that grabs my attention when she does not follows a knight of a long-forgotten kingdom. The tale’s hero, Sir Goodwynn Braithe of Tart-tangle, meets his nemesis for a duel. Daedalus Korvane, the villainous fiend, had besmirched the good name of fair maiden in front of Sir Goodwynn, hence the scheduled battle. After an exchange of verbal jabs, the duo square off and prepare their swords. The lady, Duchess Francesca la Norte, watches from the dueling grounds’ gallery as the two men run toward each other, her heart pounding.
A quiet sound, a tired breath, eases from Kym’s lips. She closes her book like a soft kiss and sets it in her lap for a moment. The gentle hum in her tickles my bones as she fights off the encroaching and inevitable predator known as sleep. Her chest rises and falls with every slow and deep lungful. Despite the engaging scene on the page, the one in my arms silently, and probably unintentionally, demands my attention.
“Think it’s bedtime.” Her words vibrate under my skin.
“Yeah, I think so too,” I tell her. “Gotta get up, though.”
“Mm-mm,” she sounds, shaking her head a little. “Too comfy.”
Those two little words breathe a warmth into me. It fills me up and leaves a grin on my lips. Perhaps this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Could this be the setup for the simple yet sweet event? Once we take this step, what comes then? The endless possibilities swirl around my imagination, glimpses of rings and a woodland cottage looking most appealing. All it would take is that precious little kiss. If only our positioning were better…
Kym sits up, arching her back as she stretches. Releasing a relaxed little moan when she is done, she sets down her book on the small table and turns to me. Her tiredness shines bright in her dark eyes, eyelids hanging a little lower. Another yawn escapes her; she shuts her eyes tight and covers her mouth with an open palm. All that remains of my heart is a happy little puddle. As the thought of taking the opportunity the moment presents, she gets to her feet.
“Escort me to my room, Rok?” she asks, a playful pout on her lips. She holds out her hand, slender digits begging to be held, and I take it. My book joins the others, and we stroll hand-in-hand out of the library.
The halls at this hour are often quiet; most children have already filed back into their rooms for the night. Tonight, it seems, is no exception. Kym and I make our way down the spiral staircase, passing the floors for classrooms and activities. Small torches line the rounded walls, their tiny flames providing impressive light. At the very bottom, the arched doorway leads into the atrium. From here, larger archways lead to the dining hall, kitchen, pantries, and gender-segregated dormitories.
The girls’ wing waits near the kitchen and pantries. As we draw near, hushed voices trickle our way. We slow in our steps at the growing exchange. Two voices come; one overpowers the other in an aggressive slurring while the other remains meek, almost scared. One look between the two of us, perplexed and curious, and we quicken our pace past the dormitory door. A peek beyond the swiveling wooden gate of the pantries reveals only food. Further down the hall, we pause in the doorway to the kitchen.
“I said I didn’t want any,” the smaller voice pleads.
“Come on, stop being such a prude,” the other voice insists.
He towers over the other, balance questionable as clumsy feet barely keep him standing. He breaks from his pressure for a moment to take a swig from a bottle. Wassim’s profile comes into view then, eyes closed and a drunken devilish pull on the corners of his mouth. His greasy slicked-back hair comes loose at spots on either side of his head, disheveled from his alcohol-fueled foolery.
Behind him, face scrunched up with the fear that pins him to the wall, is little Pinnow. He looks so small, so young compared to the inebriated tyrant. A mouse cowering before the cat. Luckily for the mouse, two hungry wolves eye the cat, their razor-sharp teeth begging to rip and shred until there is naught but blood and fur.
“Hey!” I bellow out as Kym and I storm in. Our hands break apart, four fists prepared to strike.
Wassim whirls around mid-gulp, the bottle leaving his lips. A trickle of dark liquid trails down his chin, escaping the greedy maw. His eyes go wide for a moment, caught like a deer in a trap, and I imagine he expected Cy or maybe even the Baroness herself. A brightness lights Pinnow’s face when he sees us, bathed in relief. He remains at the wall, however, for the cat may still paw at him.
“What are you doing to him?” Kym snarls.
Wassim relaxes once he realizes who stands before him. His eyelids droop low as a big dumb grin spreads on his face. He even raises the bottle to his lips once more. He lowers it after another long and greedy pull. He holds it out to us, a peace offering perhaps. When we ignore the offer, he takes it back.
“Weren’t doing nothing,” he says with a glance back to Pinnow. “Were we?”
Silent, Pinnow looks between Wassim and us. That fear returns, that pleading.
“Just enjoying a drink Telarria hocked for us,” Wassim explains as he faces us once more. “Girl had to run off, though. The twins were keeping watch but started fighting about something, so she’s calming them down. So it’s just been Pinnow and me. But hey, how’s about we let bygones be bygones and you two join us? There’s plenty left still. Maybe it would even help loosen you guys up and we can have some special fun once he passes out.”
“Are you okay, Pinnow?” I ask, looking past the drunk teenage boy and ignoring his vulgar suggestion.
“He’s doing great!” Wassims exclaims, tussling Pinnow’s yellow hair with a rough hand. “Just a little shy when it comes to the wine. Always thought the little folk loved their wines and booze, but I guess this one is just being a little stubborn. He’ll give in, though, they always do. Just gotta learn how to relax a bit.”
Wassim returns to Pinnow, the bottle in his hand tipping upward at the little one’s mouth. Pinnow squeals, his lips closed tight as the wine drips off his chin. A small hand attempts to push the bottle away, but Wassim presses it further into Pinnow’s face.
“Come on, just drink!” the bully shouts, a touch of glee in his voice. It makes me wonder if he takes joy in his sadism, or if he is even aware in his stupor that the little boy does not consent. Regardless, past offenses alone have earned him a good ass whooping. His treatment of his so-called friend, doubly so.
My firm hand whips him around hard enough for his grip on the bottle to loosen. Slow eyes go to the clash of glass versus stone, the contents of the wine leaving a large splat mark. His face goes sour, tinged with rage and contempt. My other hand remains in its tight fist, pulled back and building momentum.
Kym holds an open palm up, her fingers mere inches from Wassim’s face. In a blink, light emanates from her hand. It burns bright, enough that my strike fizzles out of its motion so I can shield my eyes. Wassim yelps and steps backward out of my grip, issuing slurred insults that come out incomprehensible. The light dims a second later, and I uncover my face. Pinnow crouches with his face hidden in his knees. Kym stands triumphant, narrow eyes shooting daggers at Wassim. The latter rubs his eyes, trying to get rid of the stars.
“You fucking witch!” Wassim spits, still blinded by Kym’s light. “I knew there was something wrong with you! Witch bitch!”
Kym holds out a hand to her side. From a hook hanging above a wash basin, a black pot speeds through the air and into her open hand. Caught in awe by the wordless summon, I can only watch as the pot swings and crashes down on Wassim’s head. His voice gets lost in the stomach-churning yet just DING. He stumbles back once more, falling to a knee and looking between the two of us in disbelief.
For a moment, the four of us say not a word, make not a sound. Frozen in time like a painting. Then the screaming comes. Wassim’s whole body shakes with his battle cry as he rises to his feet. Hands balled into fists, he charges. Another swing catches his face, and the bull collapses to the floor. Limp and moaning, all fight bleeds out of him.
Something plays in Kym’s eyes as she watches Wassim. Curious, hungry, deviant. Opportunity. Her grip on the pot handle tightens. Her lips pull into a faint smirk. An unfamiliar darkness shines there, filling her narrowed eyes as well. She steps forward, slow and deliberate, and looms over the broken boy. She waits there, her back turned to me, for a long contemplative moment.
Pinnow eases out of his position, finding Kym and her pot. Confused and frightened as ever, he whispers her name in a shaky breath.
“Run along, Pinnow,” she says with an eerie calmness.
He doesn’t hesitate, taking flight with the pitter-patter of his tiny feet. Once Pinnow’s echoing footsteps fade into silence, Kym moves. She steps over Wassim, feet on either side of his torso. She looks down to him for a long moment, her tiny curls hanging. She doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare to. Cold rushes through the kitchen, trickles into my veins, and a pressure sets upon my heart. Slowly squeezing, a too-tight hug growing stronger and stronger.
But Kym seems unaffected. She gets to her knees, resting on Wassim’s lap as he gives up on trying to even wiggle away. She absorbs his powerlessness, unmoving for a long time, until finally she takes the pot handle with both hands.
“Kym, what are you doing?” I manage to ask. The torches dim at the question, or perhaps the tension in the air makes that effect.
“I think you were right, Rok,” she says, that unnerving evenness coming again. “Someone has to stick up for the others. Someone has to teach this fucker a lesson he won’t soon forget. He deserves this.”
“You’ve done enough,” I urge, the pressure not enough to silence my tongue. “Leave him be. Someone will find him and take him to the infirmary. He probably won’t even remember who did this to him. You don’t have to be the hero.”
“Not everyone wants to be the hero.”
The pot rises high into the air, wielded like a mighty sword in the stories from my book. And then it falls. Its ringing clash stops my heart, the pressure holding me tight in my spot and rendering me speechless. The pot crashes down again. And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And oh fuck, dear sweet Novhina, again.
MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP
Her breath comes out jagged when she’s done. Her body gives little shakes, muscles too tired to continue.
He doesn’t move anymore. He doesn’t even breathe, as far as I can tell.
The pot clangs to the floor, dented and splattered scarlet.
She weeps.
The cold dissipates and the pressure relieves. The chokehold on my heart lets go at the sound of her sobs. The torches on the walls brighten to their natural illumination. The surrounding silence takes over, only allowing enough room for Kym’s tears.
Careful, with a gentle touch, I help Kym rise to her feet. My hands on her shoulders, I guide her away from what is left of Wassim. She turns in my loose hold as we step closer to the doorway. Tears build up and overflow, her eyes lost between horror and unapologetic. Her crying breaks with a soft little laugh, her downturned lips briefly spreading out in a small smile every now and then before returning to the frown. Our eyes meet for a moment, hers drowning in fear while mine bleed worry. She melts into me, the tremors and tears coming softer.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she whispers. “What are we going to do?”
My heart gallops as I hold her gentle and close. Love and panic helm the stampeding cadence, the two of them taking turns as the leader in an endless back-and-forth.
“Get to your room as quick as you can,” my words finally come hushed but urgent. “I’ll take care of this.”
She pulls away, leaving us linked at our hands. We stand there for a heartbeat and trade wordless care and concern. She nods once, reaching beyond the veil of uncertainty and taking hold of what resolve she can find within herself. She doesn’t look back at the archway leading back out to the hallway. She disappears around the corner, and in the distance I hear the open and close of a door.
Tyler Gohde 
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