Act 2. We are Your Demons Within

Act 2. Prologue

“Is…is the boy in your story…” She twirls a lock of her hazel-caramel hair underneath her veil.

“Is he…is he you?”

He raises a brow.

She leans back, turning her face sideways, her cheeks the color of peach warms to pink. “Are you…are you my…please, don’t be.”

“By the dead gods, no. He is a sullen creature that sulks like a toddler trying to understand why someone took his nose. He doesn’t find it funny.”

The woman suppresses a giggle with her hand. “My uncle…he remains unchanged.” He hears her unspoken thought: My da says he is still alive. I pray he is.

“You know his story more than I do,” he responds. “He is somewhere far, far from home.”

Her brows knit together, forming a deep crease above her eyes. “I want to know how he became a father…before he left.”

“How do you know he had a child?”

The corners of her lips curl upward, creating crinkles beneath her hazel eyes. She shakes her head. “Uh, is it rude of me to say I don’t like the courtesan, her mistress, and the goddess herself?”

He tilts his head to the side.

“You’ve woven the tale where they sound unbelievably pretty. Prettier.” She coughs. “You were blushing.”

He stifles a laugh. “Was I?” A breathy chuckle still escapes his lips. “I blame you, you’re sitting very close to me.”

He notices her cheeks deepen into a shade of soft, delicate rose as she looks away.

The bearded, acne-scarred man sitting across the table slams his fist on the table. “Awa’ from him. He’s stallin’. He is charmin’ you with his tales. This man-witch is using hexes and spells. Ye ask him why there’s green in the purple moon. He dun’ explain. I heard no green moon in his story. Mind his folk were to blame for the death of ou’ gods. That’s why the moon’s now green, not purple, green!”

The corners of her lips sag.

His captor scratches his temples, pauses, then coughs. “Ye know the mad ginger in his tale, wench?”

The woman’s eyes light up before she shakes her head. The bearded man fails to notice her smile hidden beneath her thin veil.

The open windows reveal a dimming, dark green sky. His nose twitches as the scent of the impending heavy rain grows stronger.

The bearded man stands and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m off to find me brother before the storm sweeps him awa’.” He walks toward the door, slapping his belly before letting out a belch. “Best keep yer distance from ou’ prisoner. The man’s evil. Foreign bastard.”

She turns, her brow furrowing, observing the bearded man move towards the door.

“He looks like the sun baked him brown.” He burps again as he exits. “Yer a damn good cook, wench. Better than the dwarves, I dare say.”

Their cook wipes away another crumb, tracing a finger along his lips. “You tell your stories as if you lived them. You ain’t just a blindfolded prisoner, are you, man?”

He smiles. “The storm is due by vespers,” he says, “best ready the lanterns.”

She rises, playing with the locks of his long red hair and tugging his blindfold before securing the lanterns. He finds her home, unusual for a peasant’s house, is well ventilated and boasts an unusually large hearth. It consists of a single timber-framed room with wattle-and-daub walls and a dirt floor strewn with rushes. Her house has little furniture, yet her kitchen rivals that of a common dwarf. Its cabinets and drawers are filled with pots, pans, utensils, and a variety of herbs and spices.

She sets three lanterns across the room, placing one close to his shackled stumps, severed at the wrists. The tall woman then makes careful movements with her hands, frowning after several failed attempts. “I envy those who can weave spells. I’m not blessed with magic, sadly.” Her brows knit together again, her eyes growing distant. “Blast, I used my tinderbox preparing supper.”

She fails to notice the curl of his lips as he raises his chained stumps. With a slight movement of his severed hands, the wick of the tallow candle glows.

“Wha….how?” the hazel-haired woman asks, her pupils dilating, her soft hands touching his severed forearms.

He rattles his shackles. The small flame extinguishes. “Best use them once the storm arrives,” he says.

He observes her sitting close beside him through his blindfold. The scent of wine and roses drifts toward him.

“I have neither milk nor juice.” The woman tips a tankard to his lips. “I’ve boiled barley with water, fig, and licorice root. It’s all I can spare.”

“Speaking of magic,” she says, wiping the liquid from his lips with her finger. “Before you continue the story of my brooding uncle. I was told…I was warned not to ask who is the mightiest spellweaver ever to grace this world in a room full of drunkards. Everyone is down to their tankards these days.” She sighs.

He chokes back a laugh. “I agree. Do refrain from asking such a question in a crowd. You’ll get people murdered.” He takes a bite, crunching another delicacy loudly. “You do know Lily, aye?”

“Aye.” The tall woman leans closer. “Many claim she still is the mightiest, yet others argue she has been surpassed. I know very little of her… equal.”

“It remains a matter…of considerable debate,” he responds.

“I’m listening.” The tall woman leans closer, smiling, her shoulder touching his.

“Before she rivaled Lily, she was but a lost little girl,” he says with a smile. “I think you will love her tale.”