The Things We Carry
This story takes place approximately a year after the events in book one. Begin the journey here: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1513690
Pix called out into the darkness. She was bound to a chair, with two Varanthian guards on either side of her. They were dressed in black armor, helms obscuring their features. The guard on her right raised his gauntleted hand and struck her in the face, the other one chuckling at the brutality.
Pix struggled against her bindings, desperately trying to work her hands free, but the ropes were tied too tightly. She cried out for Adair, but the only reply was the wailing of other prisoners.
“No one is coming to help you, grub,” the guard on the left snickered. “But by all means, keep struggling, it is so very entertaining.” Pix began to weep, panic flowing through her veins like cold water. She pleaded with her captors, her eyes beseeching theirs, but received several more blows to the head instead of mercy. The skin around her left eye was an ugly purple color, the lump forming there narrowing her vision.
The Varanthian guards chuckled, striking her in the ribs with blunt weapons. Just when she thought she could bear no more, a sound from the hallway halted the assault. She let her head drop wearily, blood slowly running down her face, stinging her eyes.
“Bout time the Butcher got here,” one of the guards said, testily.
The guard on the left smirked. “The Flayer, you mean?”
“Call him whatever you want. As long as he gets results.”
Pix heard the sound of whistling coming from the great dark corridor behind, an old sailing tune called The Piper's Lament. The door suddenly swung in, and a burly man entered. He was wearing a brown leather pinafore, smeared with blood and gore. In his hands he held a blade, its serrated edge glinted coldly in the dim light.
Pix struggled against the ropes that held her fast, shaking the chair. The dungeon master crouched before her, lifting the blade until its tip hovered mere inches from her wide, terrified eyes.
“Keep 'em open, girl, or else I'll gouge them out.” The man flicked his wrist and raked the blade down the flesh of her face. Pix screamed a single, desperate word, Adair's name.
An echoing voice, smooth and venomous, seemed to speak from inside her head. “He won't come for you,” Seth's voice echoed in her mind. “He's left you. Why would he care about an undergroundling?”
“Adair will come,” she whispered through bloodied lips. “I know he will.”
“What did you say, girl?” the dungeon master questioned, peering into her face.
“Adair will come,” she said, finding her courage. “And he will take no mercy!”
The dungeon master began to cackle, pitching his masked head back. “Pity it will be too late for you.” The dungeon master snapped his fingers, and one of the guards began to pour liquid from a canister, drenching the dark granite stones. A match was produced, and Pix held her breath as the flame sparked to life. The guard tossed it to the floor.
Pix winced as fire suddenly rose up around her. Wildly, she looked around, her eyes large and full of panic. Through the haze she saw a tall figure, little more than a silhouette, standing just beyond the dungeon master's shoulder. As the smoke shifted, the silhouette took shape before her, his golden hair gleaming. Her heart leapt, at the sight.
Adair frowned, a look of disgust upon his features. He lowered his gaze, turning his back to her, and passed through the open doorway. Confusion crossed Pix’s face, he was leaving her behind.
“Adair!” she shrieked, her voice raw with the effort. She thrashed about in her bindings.
She felt the heat overtake her, the scorching of her flesh. Then nothing.
A strong arm enfolded her, drawing her close. A man muttered in her ear. “Pix, you are safe, I am here.”
She opened her eyes, gasping. The bedroom swam before her, the candles burning low. Thin, grey, predawn light was glowing in through the sheer bedroom curtains. The warm scent of cedar and clean linen filled the chamber.
Pix raised a trembling hand, running it through her sweat drenched hair. She took a shuddering breath. Adair had his arm around her, holding her in a strong, soothing embrace.
“Were you dreaming of the dungeons again?” the king murmured into her ear.
“Y-yes, it was awful. It-”
“Shhhh,” Adair uttered, “you don't have to explain.” Adair himself had been sentenced to the dungeons before he and his companions escaped from the ore mine in which they labored. It wasn't a time he wished to ever recall, and knew Pix had similar feelings.
The Varanthians had fled after their defeat, some vanishing within the darker corners of the world, others fleeing beyond Avarentia's boundaries, taking refuge in uncharted lands. The Empire was broken, the threat of their regime had been neutralized. But their echoes lingered still.
Pix rolled beneath Adair's arm, turning so her face was now buried in his chest. Her arms still prickled with imagined heat, gooseflesh raising on them. Outside, bluejays and cardinals called to each other, their lilting songs calming her. He kissed the top of her head, holding her tight. She was safe, as was he. They were in Zeldon, not the dank dungeons of Roth. The heat of Adair's chest, the soft cotton of the shirt beneath her cheek…that was real, not ropes and fire, brutality and blood.
Pix smiled against his chest, her breath warm. She knew she should arise, there was much that needed doing. But she felt so warm in Adair's arms, so loved, that she drifted back into an easy, peaceful sleep.
She awoke a second time to the sound of splashing water. Adair was at the wash basin, shaving. He caught her eye from the mirror and smiled, a bicuspid missing from his own encounter in the dungeons.
“What time is it?” Pix yawned from the bed, stretching languorously.
“Half past ten in the morning,” Adair answered, glancing at the gear and brass clock. Pix was mechanically inclined, taking after her father, Crag, and had built the timepiece with her own hands.
“Oh, I shouldn't have slept so late!” She suddenly leapt up, flinging the fur covers off herself. “There is still so much that has to be done!”
“You needed it,” Adair said plainly as he stood bare chested before the wash basin. Pix’s eyes strayed to the many scars upon his flesh, reminders of his time spent in the dungeons and on the battlefield. Her heart broke a little seeing them. Each of them had been through so much, suffering great losses. Yet somehow, despite everything, neither had allowed the darkness to define them.
Adair turned to face Pix, pulling a grey, silken shirt over his head. “Don't worry, they won't start without you,” he smiled playfully at her, his grey eyes twinkling. Today was a special day for the king and Pix…it was their wedding day.
Adair finished dressing, buckling his golden breastplate on last, the etched phoenix glinting in the mid morning sun. The armor was lighter than his battle regalia, and polished to a brilliant shine. It felt strange wearing something so stately after spending many years in heavy plate mail. As a final touch, he sheathed a ceremonial longsword at his side.
Adair smoothed his golden hair back and padded over to Pix, who was standing in her nightgown still, and drew her into his arms.
“Never in my life did I imagine anything other than dealing with the Empire. Fighting was all I knew. I never dreamt I could have peace.” Pix ran her fingers down Adair's battle-scarred face. “Thank you for being in my life. You have brought joy to my heart, something that I never believed I would have had in my lifetime.”
Pix stood on tip toe to place her lips upon Adair's. She felt his lips turn upwards in a smile.
A knock came from the bedchamber door. Adair released Pix begrudgingly, and opened the door. There were three young Goblin women standing in the doorway.
“Is Miss Pix ready, Krohl Adair?”
Pix was hurrying around throwing clothes left and right, muttering aloud, looking for her bridal gown. Adair smiled at the three girls. “I believe Miss Pix needs a little more time.”
“Oh, can we help?” one of the Goblins asked.
“Yes, please!” Pix called from the bedchamber.
Adair stood aside and let the three women enter. “I'll leave you in good hands, Pix,” he said with a wink, exiting the room. One of the three Goblin girls closed the door behind him, which caused Adair to chuckle a little.
The king stepped outside and onto the sunny streets of Zeldon, Weilthrog’s capital city. Rebuilding was underway, and there was equipment everywhere. Large machines with ropes and gears hummed as they hauled giant pieces of stone into the air. In the year since the defeat of Seth Varanth, they had made much progress. But there was much still to do.
Adair turned his head, watching as the machinery whirred, dust pluming from the turning gears. A Goblin worker nodded at the king, and Adair nodded in turn.
He leisurely strolled down the city streets, taking a deep breath. The air was crisp, and the smell of fresh pressed apples wafted in on the breeze. The warmer months were winding down and now it was almost time for the later part of the year. The Goblins called it the Witherwane, but in Kael the season was simply known as the Fade. His boots crunched loudly upon the fallen leaves, the air fragrant with their spicy scent.
Adair passed a quaint little shop that boasted fresh pumpkin pies on its window balconies, and made a note to return after the wedding. Goblins waved at the king as he strolled down the city streets, the low sun turning the white buildings a golden color. Trees were beginning to slumber, their leaves becoming vibrant oranges and reds.
A smile spread over Adair’s face. He loved this time of year. It was a beautiful season within Tremain, yet was somehow even more beautiful within Weilthrog. They were getting ready to enter into a new season, a new era. And he vowed to be there every step of the way. He entered the market square, where Goblin farmers were selling fruits and flowers of all kinds from little white carts. There were young children running from cart to cart, purchasing great red apples, blueberries, and plums. Laughter rang out onto the city street, like the clear ringing of bells. One of the children ran over to Adair and handed him a golden flower. The king took it and thanked the little girl, and she giggled and blushed furiously before rejoining her mates.
The king slowly strolled from cart to cart, perusing the wares. One cart held carrots, potatoes and other vegetables from the garden. Another sold bright red and green apples. He chose a red apple, handing the merchant a copper piece. Adair shined the fruit on his shirt sleeve and bit into it, the juice running down his chin. He smiled, savoring the sweetness.
There was a time, during his imprisonment within Roth’s ore mines, where he thought he would never taste fresh fruit, or breathe clean air again. Adair knew how lucky he was to have escaped, and did not take the little joys in life for granted anymore.
Adair approached one cart, looking over the floral arrangements. He wanted to choose the perfect ones for Pix. “Excuse me,” he called to the farmer, her little sun hat casting her face in shadow. “What are these beautiful flowers called?”
“Crane flowers, Krohl Adair,” the female Goblin curtseyed to the king. “Finest in all the land.” Adair turned one over in his hand, debating.
“These tulips are fresh from the fields,” the farmer offered, sweeping a hand over a clump of vibrant red and yellow flowers.
Adair nodded, “They are very nice.”
“I would go for the orchids,” a familiar voice said from over the Adair's shoulder. “The violet ones. They symbolize passion and strength in our culture. Perfect for who I am assuming they are for, wouldn't you think?”
