Rokkoh and the Final Year, Chapter 7, Part 2

This is part 2 for the seventh chapter of the current Rokkoh novella. If you have not yet read part 1, please click HERE to catch up!

FUCK THINK WHAT AM I GOING TO DO THE CLOSET MAYBE SHIT GOTTA HIDE HIM GOTTA PUT HIM SOMEWHERE NO ONE WILL SEE FUCK FUCK FUCK

A chill trails down my spine as I breathe in deep. Eyes wide and sweat building on my brow, I can’t stomach to look at Wassim. My heart leaps into my throat and throbs there, sending its pumping into my ears until all I can hear is its rhythm. Subtle yet awful metal permeates the air and stains my nose. The smell threatens to upheave my dinner the longer it lingers. Turning slow, my eyes drift toward the discarded pot. A crimson puddle gathers underneath its dented cast iron surface. Its handle retains the warmth from Kym’s hands, the rage and power palpable.

Droplets lead to where I don’t want to look. Lying still, as if sleeping, he waits. Splayed out, prepped and ready to serve for mealtime. His shirt, white with the top few buttons loose, is speckled with the red. His tan skin blushes more and more on the way from shoulders to neck, neck to jaw. His face…

Oh fuck, his face…

“What have you done?” comes a voice, cold velvet, from behind. The sound stills my frantic heart, and I am frozen once more.

Peering over my shoulder, I find four figures stare from just inside the doorway, horrified. The smallest of them stands on the far right, the older woman’s white and red nurse’s smock layered on top of a pale blue dress. She looks as if she is about to vomit; I don’t blame her. Telarria sheds tears in anger next to her, standing a few inches taller. The bear Cy puts a protective hand on the girl’s shoulder, ready to squeeze and hold her still in case of an outburst. At the end, prim and proper as ever, is the Baroness. Copper hair up in a stylish bun, decked out in an intricate colorful nightgown, she looks simultaneously disappointed and validated.

I beg my brain to come up with something, anything to explain the broken boy and the bloody pot. I plead my tongue to say whatever my mind can’t create in the hopes it will suffice.But their collective gaze renders me speechless. My fingers around the pot handle loosen and let go of the makeshift weapon. A numbness makes its way from the top of my head down to my toes, seeps from my pores and coats my skin. I just hope Kym made it back okay.

“Cy, escort Rokkoh to my office and wait for me there,” the Baroness orders. “Sister Signe, check on the boy.”

His thick hand goes from Telarria’s shoulder and comes for me. For a moment, I expect her to rush forward in her rage, claw at my face until I am left just as ugly and bloody as her beloved. The others would even let her do it. They would watch on in glorious justice. After all, I would deserve it. But she remains in her place as the meaty digits take hold of me rough, narrow fox-like eyes trained on me as he drags me from the room.

Cy’s long legs leave me struggling to keep up. I have to nearly break into a run to not fall behind or just let him pull me along. He would be better off just carrying me, but I guess there is little satisfaction in it. There is a power in jerking someone around, making them follow you through corridors, up and down staircases, and finally shoving them through a doorway. He points to a chair on one side of a desk, the one on the either side (a high-backed and flawless thing made to look like a throne of sorts) reserved for the Baroness. I dare not disobey. He pulls the door shut, its loud slam followed by the turning of a lock.

A window behind me lets the moonlight in. Tall and curved at the top, it offers a view of the gorgeous icy sea. The road runs near it, the snow plowed to keep the path clear. At the bottom of the window, peeking just over the windowsill, is the top of the Frozen Chamber. The bars checkering the open hole sneer at me, knowing my fate.

 The Baroness’s office, while small, is well-kept with everything in its place. A faded painting of a handsome older man with platinum hair and pale skin squints dark eyes down his long, pointed nose. He judges from his plush seat, a wine glass full of red in his hand.

Below his frame sits a writing desk, its top covered by neat stacks of paper, a quill, and an inkwell. On occasion, for the most minor infractions, writing lines under the judging man would be the punishment. Most youngsters got their first taste of discipline at that desk, myself among them. If memory serves, I had been five years old and said a naughty word taught to me by an older child. And now look at me. Twelve years later with a record marred by petty thievery, curfew violations, and the occasional fight, I wonder how my stay at the Tower of Lost Children would have been had I heeded that initial lesson.

Before me, on the large desk, is a column of older weathered tomes. The letters running down the spines are elegant markings, some sort of Elvish I cannot read. Theories of the Baroness’s past creep in for a moment, a sneaking nighttime time, but recede just as quickly.In the center of the desk waits another set of stacked papers and quill resting its tip within the depths of an inkwell. Curiosity suggests I peek at what is written on the top page, but the small print makes whatever is there illegible. A wine glass, tall and wide, sits empty and patient next to a bottle tinted green. It bears no label or decorative markings, but running down the seam is a streak of scarlet. A bead of the red nestles itself where the glass meets the wood, a lone rebel breaking rank to embark on its own mission.

Several paintings hang on the expanse of wall behind the desk. Some are landscapes: waves of golden wheat; a dark yet delighted deity in the clouds over violent waters; a white cliffside city with tall towers glistening in the setting sun. Some are more portraits: one of the Baroness herself hangs in the center, around which all the other works of art gather; a small pale-skinned girl with freckles and two ginger braids; a brunet boy with haunting eyes; the two children accompanied by parents who look just like them.

Where are these places? Who are these people? Other than the portrait of the Baroness, what links all of these together? My gut tells me that they are not randomly collected pieces, but each a glimpse into a life long gone, places left in distant memories. Clues to a mystery perhaps better left unsolved. After all, following the breadcrumbs could lead to the disillusion of her mystique. Or, arguably worse, one’s demise. Knowledge is priceless, but the lengths I would go for it have their limitations.

The door swings open, hard and fast. The Baroness stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hall’s candlelight like an encroaching nightmare. She waits, still as a statue, for too long. Though her eyes are shadowed, mine lock on to where they should be. Back erect, hands neatly folded, her pose is not what delivers that ice into my veins. It’s the silence, the stillness, the unyielding gaze, the pending brief trial, the unknown punishment fit for the heinous crime.

The door closes behind her as she steps slowly to her side of the desk. She takes a seat with a sigh, tired hazel eyes going to the green bottle. She pops the cork and fills the wine glass, the crimson liquid innards filling it nearly to the brim. She inhales its aroma for a moment before taking a sip. A long breath escapes her nose, her eyes closed, as she enjoys her precious red wine. Setting the glass down, the hazel orbs turn sharp as they open and find me.

“What did you do?” she asks, a hint of frenzy behind her calm demeanor. Trying to keep her composure. As far as I know, there have been no incidents to this extent. Sure, Max, Kym, and I have gotten into our share of scraps over the years, but never anything like this. 

I hesitate. Like back in the kitchen, my mind goes blank. I need to come up with something, fucking anything. My heart picks up its rhythm again, and I think of Kym. I can’t let the Baroness know she had actually assaulted Wassim. I can’t let her get in trouble for this. She still has several months left, and I don’t want any of that time to be spent paying for what she did. Me, on the other hand, that’s a different story. Just a couple of months left now. I can handle whatever comes my way. I’m almost gone anyways. What could it hurt if I take the fall for her? 

“He deserved it,” I say, plain and honest. 

“Why?” she fires back quick.

“He’s a cunt.” The word sends a sourness through her, pinches her face in disgust.

“Language, young man,” she warns, returning to the stoicism. “Why did Wassim deserve such a violent attack? What did he do to provoke you?”

“He cornered Pinnow,” I answer, again providing the truth. “He was trying to force Pinnow to drink. So I stopped it.”

Her hazel eyes narrow at my explanation, her lips puckering as she analyzes. She rests her hands on the desk and leans forward, an inquisitive eyebrow arching.

“And why did you not notify any of the adults of Wassim’s harassment?” she grills. “We could have intervened and avoided this debacle.”

“Really?” I breathe out a chuckle. “So you could come and tell us to stop squabbling and get back to our rooms? Wassim and his friends get off on picking on the smaller and younger kids. They don’t change. They take their punishment and go back to doing it again. Wassim deserved what he got. Deserves worse, honestly.”

“And if he were to not survive, would you feel any guilt? Any remorse?” She has already decided my answer as she stares me down. She just wants to hear me say it.

“His grave would be a waste of good land,” I tell her.

“What about Kym?” she asks without missing a beat.

“Kym?” I repeat. The question rattles me, knocks me off my guard.

She knows. Fuck! She knows! I need to think of something… she only watched. She tried to stop me but I told her to get out. She ran off when Pinnow did. That should work, she’ll believe that. Right?

“What if it were Kym?” she asks. “What if someone did this to her?”

“Oh, um,” I stumble for a moment. “That’s different. She’s my friend.”

“Ah,” the Baroness breathes, relaxing back into her chair. “Your friend.”

Accusations fly silent from her piercing gaze. Wordless little daggers looking for places to slip through and sink in. The red of her lips stretches out of the pucker and into an easy grin, satisfied but still wanting more. Her eyes, those hazel devils, glow in her lust for secrets I should not tell.

“Where was she during all of this?” she asks, a checkmate only a few moves away.

“What do you mean?” Sweat builds on my brow. I swallow a gulp of nothing in hopes that she can’t hear my heart quickening, though I am not confident.

“You two are always together,” she says, slow and cool and cruel. “And Maxwell. It has been that way since you were all little. Especially ever since that Augustin boy left. So where was she? Where were either of your friends?”

Okay, you’ve got this, Rokkoh. Just tell her she watched and left. Easy. Simple.

“I don’t know,” my tongue lets loose the lie.

Dammit.

“She was in her room already, I guess.”

“You guess?” she repeats. “What were you doing before you went into the kitchen?”

“The three of us were reading in the library,” I respond with the truth. “Then they left after a while. I stayed a little bit longer,and then headed to bed when it got late. On my way, when I got to the atrium, I could hear voices from the kitchen. Wassim was trying to make Pinnow drink something and I stopped it.”

The Baroness goes quiet for a long time. Her eyes narrow once more, a slight change to her examination. I can’t tell if she’s trying to find the lies or intimidate me. If it’s the latter, the trickle of sweat down my cheek should give her satisfaction. If it’s the former, she likely will find them soon enough; they weren’t buried very deep, after all. 

“According to Telarria,” she sets in, taking hold of her wine glass once more and giving it a swivel, “she and Kym crossed paths in the girls’ dormitory. Kym appeared scared; she was shaking and had a hard time telling Telarria what had happened. Do you know anything about this?”

The Baroness sips from the glass again, taking a longer pull but keeping her eyes on me this time. She doesn’t want to miss the moment I crumble and dissolve into a mess of broken trust and blubbering honesty. The queen readies herself on the board, sliding into the necessary square that will ensure victory. My king must be guarded, must be protected by all means possible. A fight to its inevitable end, and I will do what I must.

“How would I know?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “I was busy bashing Wassim’s skull in with a cooking pot.”

The unabashed bold statement breaks her from her drink. She sets it down hard. A splash of the red wine leaps over the walls of the glass and finds a more comfortable spot on the wood of the desk top. The glass leaves a ringing, a mournful note for the escapee. She glares for a long, silent minute. The ice from her stare turns to flames, burning holes into me.

“Cy!” she calls out. The door opens once more, his massive figure stepping into the room. “Take him to the Frozen Chamber.”

Cy’s huge rough hands rip me from the room. I can only hope that Kym won’t be the next one pulled into the Baroness’s office for interrogation. And, if she is, she does not meet the same fate. The company would be nice, though.

Continue to Chapter Eight