Chapter 10 Eoin
EOIN
Days pass. I measure their turning not by the sun, which cannot pierce this deep, but by the rhythms of the fortress above. I remain in a state of absolute stillness, chained to the wall, my body a statue of cold stone. But my senses are extended, a silent, sprawling web that gathers information.
I am dismantling this place in my mind, piece by piece.
The clang of the forge hammer tells me they are resmelting scavenged iron; the tone is impure, the resulting metal soft.
A weakness. The scent of their cooking fires tells me their diet is heavy on grain and tubers; their meat is rationed, their hunters are inefficient.
A vulnerability. The shift of the guards above is predictable, changing every six hours with a tell-tale scrape of boots and exchange of muttered pleasantries.
A flaw in their security. I listen, I smell, I assess.
I catalogue every strength and every weakness.
I am not a prisoner. I am a predator, learning the shape of my cage so I might shatter it.
Once each day, she comes. The Anomaly.
The heavy door groans open, and she enters alone, carrying a wooden bucket of water and a bowl of the same tasteless, grain-heavy stew her people eat. She refuses to allow any of her guards near me, a decision born of either protectiveness for them or fear of me. I conclude it is the latter.
Our exchanges are silent, a battle of wills waged in the dim, flickering torchlight.
She sets the provisions just within the reach of my chains, her movements precise, her face an impassive mask.
She has learned to shield her expressions, a skill she did not possess five years ago.
But she cannot shield the psychic link. Through the ever-present hum that connects us, I feel the frantic, chaotic energy that seethes beneath her calm exterior.
It is a storm of defiance, terror, and a confusing, hateful pull toward me that she fights to suppress. It is a fascinating contradiction.
She never fails to have one hand resting on the the dagger at her hip. An anchor for her resolve. A foolish, useless gesture against a being like me, but a telling one.
Today, I break the silence.
“The specimen,” I say, my voice becoming a low, even monotone that sounds unnaturally loud in the small cell. “I require access to it for observation.”
Her back stiffens. She does not turn to face me, but I see her knuckles go white where she grips the handle of the bucket. “You will stay away from my son.”
“Its health, its unique biological markers, must be documented,” I continue, ignoring her emotional terminology. “It is a necessary step in the research.”
She turns then, and the hatred in her eyes is a pure, hot thing. It should be intimidating. I find it… intriguing. “He is not your research project, you monster. He is a child. You will never touch him.”
She leaves without another word, the slam of the iron door her final statement. A futile gesture. Access to the specimen is not a request; it is an eventuality.
Her refusal, however, proves to be an insignificant obstacle. The specimen is drawn to the anomaly of my presence. A day later, I sense him. A small shape, peeking around the edge of the cell door, which the guard Tarek has left slightly ajar.
He is a puzzle. I observe him as he makes these brief, furtive appearances.
The logical part of my assessment is straightforward.
I note the faint, silvery luminescence to his eyes in the dim light, a clear Vrakken trait.
I observe his speed when he thinks no one is watching, a burst of unnatural quickness as he chases a rat down the corridor.
I can feel the low, steady hum of the Purna magic in his blood, a sign of perfect health and vitality.
He is a flawless synthesis. The cure seems not only possible, but probable.
But there is other information, illogical and extraneous, that I cannot discard.
I watch as he falls while running, his knee scraping against the stone.
The Anomaly rushes to him, her face a mask of concern.
He cries, but the moment she gathers him into her arms, the crying ceases.
He presses his face into her shoulder, a gesture of complete trust and dependence.
She murmures something to him, her hand glowing with a soft, golden light as she places it over his injury.
The Purna magic, consciously wielded. Another new development I must account for.
I observe them in the courtyard through the high, barred window of my cell.
She is teaching him to track. He laughs, a bright, clear sound that is utterly alien in the landscape of my mind.
He exhibits a fierce devotion to her, his gaze constantly seeking her approval.
These are behaviors I cannot quantify. Attachment.
Affection. Love. They are chaotic variables, useless emotions that serve no logical purpose.
They clutter the equation, yet they are central to the specimen’s existence. It is a paradox I have not yet solved.
One evening, he is braver. He approaches the bars of my cell, his small hands gripping the cold iron. He does not speak. He simply watches me with an intense, curious gaze. I remain perfectly still, returning the observation.
After a long moment, he holds up a piece of folded, rough parchment. He pushes it through the bars. It flutters to the floor. He says nothing, then turns and scurries away.
I do not move for a long time. Eventually, I shift my weight, the chains clinking, and lean down to retrieve the offering. I unfold the parchment.
It is a child’s drawing. Crude, rendered in charcoal.
A massive figure with black wings and silver hair stands beside a smaller figure with long, golden hair.
They are holding hands. The face of the large, winged figure is a simple circle with two dots for eyes.
But from the corner of each eye, a single, charcoal line curves downwards. A tear.
I stare at the image. The depiction is obvious. The winged monster with the sad eyes. Me.
A foreign, unwelcome sensation registers in my chest. A pressure.
A tightening around my heart that has no logical, physical cause.
It is an anomaly in my own body, an emotion I cannot name and do not wish to comprehend.
It is a weakness. And it has been sparked by a simple drawing from a creature I am here to dissect.