Victor

I lead Fion to the dining hall where smelly beasts have gathered, all officers in the witch’s army, growling possessively over their rations, great haunches of raw horse meat. Some quarrel and snap at one another; at the other end of the table, a fight breaks out. I watch it all with jaded eyes, leading Fion to my seat at the head of the table. She remains standing while a plate of meat is set before me. I glare up at her.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“This fare is unsuited to me.”

I snort with contempt. “Too good to eat with me, are you?”

She does not answer, but stands silently at my side while I devour my meal. It’s true, in this form, raw meat is not so palatable to me, but I’ve grown accustomed to it over the years. It’s all anyone in this palace eats most days, even Mirantha. Though occasionally bread or produce is served at special occasions, it is not valued by these monsters, and is often passed over in favor of this staple.

I devour my portion, ignoring the feeling gnawing at the back of my mind that I am behaving like a savage in front of this lady, refusing to give consideration to her objections.

Having my fill, I rise from the table and she follows me out of the room. Most of the officers are too engrossed in their meal to pay us any mind, but those that dare to look up at Fion I cut back with a warning glare.

Do not touch this one. She is mine.  

I go about the rest of my day as scheduled. Though I’d like to ignore her completely, Fion’s constant presence in my peripheral vision refuses to let me forget her. I feel strangely self-conscious as I go about my usual tasks, setting things to order, beating belligerent troops into submission. At some point, Dors Grobeez flies in to confer with me about the scouts I ordered sent out yesterday.

“All have returned with favorable reports save those we sent north.”

This news brings a frown to my face as I think of that dust cloud I noticed while flying back to the castle with Fion. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I don’t like to think of leaving even a single opening in our defense.

“Send four more scouts north. If none of them return by morning I’ll fly out myself.”

Dors licks the corner of his mouth with his lolling tongue, and his eye rolls to Fion with a hungry leer.

“What is she doing out of her cage?”

“That’s my business.”

“Her scent is distracting the troops.”

“Then they need more discipline. Shall I dish it out myself?” I snarl, and Dors bows, his stone plates grating harshly with the gesture. “Go, see to your task. Leave this one to me.”

I watch the gargoyle hobble a few steps before stretching his wings and lifting himself into the air. Then I look instinctually to Fion. She follows the monster’s movements with uneasiness.

“You dislike him?”

“An unnatural creature,” she shudders. “Without blood or bone, I cannot understand how it is alive.”

“He’s not alive, at least not in the sense you’re imagining. The power of Morass possesses the stone, like it possesses the corpse army that follows Mirantha now.”

“Corpses?”

“That’s right,” I answer without feeling. “She left the living behind in defense of her castle and took the dead on her campaign. They travel faster, needing neither to sleep nor feed.”

“Valion protect us,” she gasps softly, clutching her hand over her breast. I sneer at the name she’s invoked.

“Don’t tell me you actually worship that deity.”

She looks to me sharply. “You do not?”

I smirk. “Open your eyes. Are you blind to the evil all around you? Either your god is dead, or he’s powerless. Either way, he’s not someone I’m interested in bowing my knee to.”

Fion has no rebuttal, and I can but meet her silence with mocking laugher. Pathetic, I think as I turn from her. As pathetic as the god she serves.

I carry on with my work, leaving the castle grounds to visit the smelter. The place is scorching hot and running with molten slag. It’s unpleasant, but I endure it to argue with the foreman about iron production. They’ve fallen behind since Mirantha left, and the smithies have no metal to work.

The foreman brings me papers with crude tallies telling of how much they’ve produced, but a quick glance around the place tells me these numbers don’t match the product I see lying around. I beat them soundly and set them to work doing inventory while I wait, sweating uncomfortably.  

Again I notice Fion standing tall out of the corner of my eye, and I catch myself looking to her as a cart of lumber is wheeled to the furnace. Sweat beads on her brow, but she does not complain, nor does she weep, I note, at the destruction of her beloved trees.

“They’re like family, no?” I nod to the lumber pile as they begin tossing it in to feed the flames. “Aren’t you sad to see them burn?”

“They are not family,” she answers me simply. “Sometimes trees must burn for progress. That is the way of it. I cannot mourn every fallen sapling. Even so…”

“What?” I prompt her.

“This is not progress.”

She’s not wrong, I think as I watch the men work. If anything, Mirantha’s agenda is taking us backwards, pulling the island into a dark age from which I wonder if we will ever recover. But what can I do about it? If Mirantha could be stopped by will and force of might alone, I would have done it years ago. Instead…

I stop myself, shake myself from those memories that would cripple me if I let them come to the surface.

I learned my lesson, learned what becomes of those that defy the Crimson Witch. What choice did I have? What choice did any of us have, but to bend ourselves to her will?

At last the foreman comes to me with an accurate tally of the iron bars produced, less than half of what they claimed. I beat him again for good measure and turn him loose, and he in turn beats his lazy assistants, who beat the workers. Like this, the message gets across. Ekrek is dead; Victor has returned. Tolerance for their foolish, lackadaisical behavior has just dried up. They will work double what they did before to make up for time lost. We must restore weapon production to its proper quota quickly, or it will be my ass on the line.   

We leave the smelter and step into the cool evening air, a relief.

“It’s been a long day,” I sigh. “We’ll eat supper and turn in for the night. About your sleeping arrangements—”

The loud grumble of Fion’s stomach startles me. I suppose till now I’d put her on a sort of pedestal, imagining her as something more than human, so this sudden reminder of her mortality shocks me.

Her usually cool expression is traded for one of embarrassment, and her cheeks color faintly as she looks away from me, refusing to meet my eye.

Cute, I think, and I very nearly catch myself grinning. I clear my throat sharply. “I’ll take you to the dining hall.”

Nothing has changed, it is as noisy and smelly as before, but this time Fion sits beside me. I don’t know why her presence causes me to sit up straighter and recall manners taught to me by my aunt what feels a lifetime ago, but it does. And when a jackal brings a lump of raw meat and sets it before her and I see her blanch, I answer him with a furious slap to his snout.

“You’ll make her sick with that fare!” I berate him. “Return to the kitchen and bring back food fit for a human being.”

“Food… for humans,” he repeats nervously, licking his chops as he eyes the officers lined up and down the table. There are plenty of humans among them, though they act like beasts, tearing at the raw meat with their hands and teeth.

I snarl in response. “Find some bread, some fruit, you halfwit! Now!”

The jackal scurries off to the kitchen on all fours and returns a few minutes later with a sorry plate of moldy bread crusts and two withered green apples. I rise to kick him in my fury, but Fion stops me.

“This will do,” she says calmly, then to the jackal, she murmurs, “Thank you.” 

He laughs, a nervous, frantic laugh with a trace of mockery. Then he scurries off once again before I can get my hands on him.

“You needn’t waste your words on them; they know nothing of manners, these beasts,” I remark, settling back into my chair, feeling suddenly ashamed of my bloody meal as I watch Fion take the apple in her hand.

I watch with awe as she breathes upon it, and the apple is fattened before my eyes, growing rounder and regaining its lost luster of brilliant green. The others watch it as well, and an eerie sort of hush falls upon the room as she lifts it to her lips and takes that first satisfying bite.

I swallow reflexively, and notice some of the officers licking their lips. I rise abruptly to glare them all down, and they shrink away from my look. As before, I communicate my intent with my eyes, so there is no misunderstanding.

You will not touch her. This girl— is mine.