The evening sun bled into curtains of coarse black, leaving waning rays to seep through the holes of the fabric. They left a soft glow upon the floating dust; lightly upheaved by the draft that snuck through crooked floorboards. Beyond the dying sunlight, dull tones of blue and grey had settled on slate blocks. Each block sat blanketed in dust and webs, shadows pulled over them by bare timber framing. The rafters and beams ran exposed beneath the cone roof’s tiling, though not absent of decoration: on opposing sides two meat hooks hastily thrust into the timber. Each one held a chain link with no slack - pulling from the centre of the room.

 

There was a whipcrack.

 

Splatters of blood burst from naked flesh, sinking into the boards and dribbling between the gaps. Small puddles had formed. Wounds stung and nerves pulsated. The draft cruelly caressed each of them, ushering the pain.

 

Another whipcrack. A groan shortly followed.

 

Coiled leather weaved into eachother, wrapped around a single barbed tip at one end. At the other end, a merciless hand flicked and hurled it; the face of the brutish man hidden behind dark cloth. He carved his bloody pattern across Orpheus’ back to look as if he’d had wings ripped from it. Orpheus’ head hung low and his hair with it. The scent of tainted iron lingered within his nose, but he could not tell whether it was the rusting shackles that held him by each wrist, or the blood that poured from his wounds. Through the blur, he saw the shadow of boots approach. They were his father’s.

 

“You are your mother’s greatest failure.”

 

Orpheus exhaled, mumbling inaudibly in reply.

 

The leather-bound steel barb struck fast, and deep. Orpheus winced.

 

“You will not speak,” his father said.

 

A brief silence fell over the room, filled only by the faint breeze that escaped through the curtain..

 

“How such a fierce woman came to coddle you, fill your head with benign dreams of flowers and waves and birds and trees, I shall never understand. Nor, shall I accept.”

 

The boots moved closer, taking one step then two. His father’s hand grasped his hair, pulling his chin from his chest so that their eyes would meet. His vision cleared and focused for only the briefest of moments, as his mind soon sunk into the ominous window of Urien’s eyes. Memories drifted into his every thought. He walked through the forked path again, wandering in clothes that were not his, speaking in voices he did not recognize. Each time he wandered through the sanctuary’s abyss, and each time he found himself kneeling before that rotten corpse. Relentlessly it replayed through his head, drumming across the interior of his skull.

 

“The Elder’s memories will have no doubt settled within your mind. I loathe to think you carry my blood, my name - his name,” his father continued. “You should consider yourself lucky that we noticed her gone. Had we found her dead, it would be only your head hung here.”

 

He was released of his locks, letting his head fall to a hang once more. 

 

“Utter a word of what you’ve seen, hint at it even, and you shall find yourself drowning,” Urien swiveled on his feet, his black boot disappearing from Orpheus’ view. “Though, your unbecoming nature will certainly have you try.”

 

“That thing,” Orpheus croaked through dry husk.

 

“That thing, you call my sister. It’s not, it’s not even alive. You play politics, with a talking fucking corpse, and idolize another,” Orpheus forced out between his long, pained breaths. “You’re all, you’re all bloody insane.”

 

His father paused, then let loose his final words before leaving.

 

“You will not cease striking until the sun has set.”

 

—

 

His temple lay rest against the cold of the slate; its sharp bite keeping eyelids from a close. A single ragged blanket lay over his shoulders, drying into the scabs across his back. It barely hid the blackening slashes across his chest, the wound seeming to writhe and twist by the kiss of light. He held his arms together around his knees, leaving his skin torn wrists to hover free of agitation. A blank stare followed the faint specks of dust that danced from his breaths. The days passed had escaped him as he sat, shivering in wait.

 

Upon an evening he could not discern a slow creak echoed from below. Then a thud. 

 

Orpheus’ bent closer into his knees. His hands dragged toward one another and clasped together. There was a brief flinch at the touch of his knuckles, now discoloured and rampant with yellow. Though he believed in no God, as he rested his forehead against his knees, one might think him to be praying.

 

Heavy footsteps made their ascent, riding the draft toward his tower room. He thought to be a maid, or a soldier, or perhaps even the executioner. Whomever it may be, optimism had long left his mind to hope.

 

The steps grew nearer still. Orpheus gritted his teeth with some sliver of will that had remained but, quickly, that left him too. His tired eyes rose to greet the door, and whatever fate that would soon enter.

 

The steps came to a stop just beyond the door then, almost respectfully, the door knob turned.

 

She stood there with much of her steel and fur absent. Instead, a brown tunic lay beneath a tight leather vest, containing the sheer muscle mass that swore it off. Trousers hung from her waist, folded up just above black-heeled boots. Her weaponry had been left behind, replaced  by a bucket, a cloth and a woven sack that dragged along the boards.

 

“Kezaiah,” Orpheus uttered. His brow softened with the briefest shuddering of his lashes.

 

“Almost thought you’d forgotten my name,” she replied. The water sploshed around the bucket, riding up and down to the bucket's rim as she set it down before him.

 

Orpheus had no reply, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep his eyes dry.

 

There was a short grunt, a heaving exhale and then the creaking of the boards. Kezaiah sat herself on the floor before him. Even while seated, she seemed more comparable to a boulder than a person.

 

“Turn around,” she said as the buckles of her bracers came undone and were laid beside her, revealing the weathered scars that painted her bare skin. Her hand plunged into the bucket of water with the cloth in hand and she wrenched the excess from its thread.

 

Orpheus’s body twitched and recoiled as he shuffled on the floor, dragging himself around and laying his forehead against the stone to hold himself up. He let loose a brief blow from his lips to push the dust from his face. He tried to roll the blanket from his shoulders, but it hung from dried scabs like a cape.

 

A careful touch of the cloth pressed against the blanket and the wounds beneath it. Slowly it moved its way around to soften the dried blood that held it to his back. Orpheus’ teeth chattered and champed as she pried it off, prompting a foul-tinged liquid to weep from each separation of flesh. Kezaiah dipped her hand in the bucket once more and caressed each wound to wipe them clean.

 

“When I was younger,” she began.

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said, though was immediately startled by a stinging that laced it way into his wounds. Kezaiah pressed harder than she should, and Orpheus held his tongue.

 

“When I was younger,” she repeated, “I was different. Shit, I still am.”

 

Kezaiah paused a moment, recollecting old thoughts and memories.

 

“I was the countess’ firstborn, but, you’d know that does a load of shit for you,” her tone changed ever so slightly, half-heartedly mimicking the noble tone. “You are a lady, Kezaiah. Smell the flowers, Kezaiah. Why is your dress torn, Kezaiah.”

 

She stopped and looked down to her forearm. Her fist tightened into itself as she watched the muscle fibres stretching and protruding from beneath her scars. Her gaze traced a few of them in reminiscence. 

 

“Took me a while before I’d figured it all out. I’d wondered why my father had never been spoken of,” she once again mimicked the tone, though their frustration crept from beneath her words. “Barbarian, the Dagon beast is a barbarian.”

 

“Quite obvious, was it not?” Orpheus joked under his breath.

 

“I guess so. Thought I was just a big kid at first. Turned out the countess was raising a mutt to sic.”

 

Orpheus had no reply but listened onward. Kezaiah’s words seemed to call forth memories of his own, flashing to the tune of her words. Resentment lingered.

 

“Eventually, words weren’t enough. They had to prove themselves right. Stones. Whips. Knives. Swords. So I left. Sort of,” Kezaiah washed the now yellow and red stained cloth in the bucket, scrubbing and wrenching it before hanging it over the rim. Her elbows rested on her thigh as she continued. “They say the barbarians have an impulse. Couldn’t argue with it really. We’re drawn to the sight of blood - some bullshit impulse to kill. And I did. One too many times. Some poor bugger named Bren. They sent me on my way, too much to control I’d guess.”

 

“But you’re here. In the same fucking place,” Orpheus replied.

 

“You think they could keep me here if they tried?” she said with a smirk, gesturing for him to turn around as to treat his other wounds. “Point is, you’re weak. You’re a mutt like me, sure, but your bite is half-arsed.”

 

“Your bitch of a mother wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, you think she’d just let me fucking skip away?” Orpheus asked. He snarled at the hopelessness of being trapped, his head lowering in frustration.

 

His gaze settled on his wrists, now being wrapped in bandages by the calloused hands. They paused a moment and one lifted beyond his vision. The hand settled upon his head, lightly scruffing through the red-hair that draped from his scalp.

 

“Well, you’ve got something I didn’t.”

 

“A brain?” he asked, though his tone seemed lathered in defeat. There was a slow exhale. Then she spoke.

 

“No. Me.”