Unintitled

Rose

         Rose looked around the dull, damp dungeon, straining her eyes to see. The only light was coming from a long, jagged crack in the corner; a lantern had been lit opposite the crack, but it went out long ago. The walls and ceiling were made of a plain, grey rock, and the floor merely dirt with a sort of fine netting over it. Across the crack were two makeshift beds—if you could even call them that—each just a bent, wooden plank with a thin, holey blanket and lumpy pillow placed on top. On the wall opposite the beds was a hole in the ground which served as a toilet. Rose tended to avoid the area, as it was beginning to smell—although, if she was to be picky about smell, the enclosure really wasn’t the best setting for her; the whole thing reeked of raw fish and dirt. Two dirty, cracked plates (which must have, at one point, been very fine china) held a loaf of bread each, and two cups water. And then there was the boy.
         He was sitting, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head resting on them, in the exact center of the room. Rose had not seen him move since they had arrived, though she supposed he must go to the bathroom some time. She tried not to let herself get worked up about this, however. He was—as she had to remind herself more and more lately, her forgetfulness rising along with her fear and curiosity—the reason she was here. She remembered quite clearly the day he had shown up at her house, pulled her from her comfortable life and forced her into whatever affair she now seemed to be part of.
         She had been sitting on the sofa, flipping lazily through a pocket-sized photo-album and savoring the black and white momentums, when she’d heard a soft tapping noise. Since the neighborhood strays often came to beg at her door for food, knowing full well she was too soft-hearted to deny it them, she thought nothing of it. Nonetheless, she felt her palms begin to sweat lightly and her heart-beat increase, anticipation filling the silence. It wasn’t harsh or heavy, but something in the air held a certain quality that made her nervous. Something felt different. It was the sort of feeling you get along with the coming of the storm—a soft, implacable feeling that something was going to happen.
         A sudden chill caused her to pull shirt around herself tighter in a desperate attempt at warmth. She stood up, letting the photo-album fall to the ground. The noise it made, that of a muted drum, made her jump back in alarm. She shook her head, mentally scolding herself for being so paranoid, and picked up the candle she was seeing by, determined to prove to herself that there was nobody in the small house but herself.
         She walked first through the kitchen: the room she was most acquainted with, as cooking was one of her hobbies. Although nothing looked out of place, the drying herbs hanging from the rafters, normally such a comforting sight for her, reminded her of people, hung, suspended in time, waiting for someone to save them. She shivered slightly, backing slowly out of the kitchen while trying to refrain from imagining her family hanging from her ceiling, their eyes black and mouths silently calling out to her for help.
         Before she could leave, however, she backed into something. She dropped her candle, causing it to distinguish, and spun around sharply to find herself staring into a pair of large, anxious eyes. They were big and blue, almost the color of the sky, with flecks of color ranging from navy to almost white. For a moment she just stared, entranced. After a while, however, her fear caught up to her and sent her reeling back onto her elbows.
         To her surprise, the figure—which she now recognized as a boy about her age, his hair charcoal-colored and falling in-front of his eyes, and his skin light and even—bent down, his forehead wrinkled with what one might entitle concern. He held out his hand expectantly, waiting for her to grab onto it, but she instead pushed herself up, wincing only slightly at a sharp pain in her wrist. She grabbed it instinctually, but just as quickly let it go, not wanting to look as though she had been hurt by her fall.
         “Who are you?” she asked, surprised by the soft hysteria in her voice.
         The boy’s eyes flickered down to her elbow, exposing that he had, in-fact, observed her injury, before once again meeting hers. She felt, once again, captivated by his gaze until he, this time, broke away to look at her forehead. He studied her for a moment before saying—slowly, as though talking to a child—“I need to see Diane. Is she here?”
         Fear faded into anger at the mention of her mother’s name…her mother…who was dead and gone now…she grasped her fists tightly together and squeezed her eyes shut to keep herself from either crying or yelling—for she didn’t know which one she would do if given the freedom. Instead, she quietly, controllably, replied, “Diane is dead.” She un-clenched her eyes to find the boy looking down at her, curiosity and perhaps even a little pain dancing in his dark eyes.
         “How could you come into my house, break into my house asking to see my mother who’s been dead for almost 4 years now?” Rose began, all sense of calmness forgot when she saw him looking at her with such pity. “What do you want? And STOP staring at me as though you feel sorry for me, I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, I don’t need her, I never did…” she broke off in sobs, both embarrassed that this boy, whoever it was, was seeing her cry and angry that he had made her.
         Instead of yelling back or hitting her, as she feared he might, however, she found herself in his arms, his chin rubbing tenderly against her forehead and his arms firmly around her, rocking her slowly back and forth. She unconsciously buried her face in his neck and, after a notable period of time, her whimpers began to quiet. As much as she wanted to stay mad at him, the way he was holding her—so securely, so lovingly, so like her mother had—made it almost impossible. She looked up at him uncertainly, waiting to see if, now that she had settled herself, he would try to attack her, hurt her. Instead looked down at her, his eyes still filled with sadness. This time, however, she recognized it not as pity for her situation but as empathy, and felt a surge of gratitude towards him.
         Before she could offer thanks and apology, or even orient out of his lap, a loud crashing sound emitted from the back of the house. The boy’s expression went from caring to worried as he swung his head around to look towards the noise. Even now, while she knew she should be far more worried about other things, she couldn’t help but envy his lack of fear. He pushed her off him roughly, making her gasp in pain as she landed on her bad elbow yet again, and whispered, “We haven’t talked, you’ve never seen me before, you fell trying to make coffee.” He left without giving her a chance to ask what was going on.
         She stayed lying on the ground, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible while silently cursing the boy and his family. And yet…he had seemed so honest, so kind when he had held her…she pinched herself sharply on the arm to keep herself from thinking of that and wearily began to maneuver into an upright position. The house seemed quiet now, and she allowed herself a small hope that they—whoever they were—had caught the boy and left. Almost as soon as she got herself to a steady stand, however, voices cut into the silence.
         “Find the girl, too.” It was a man’s voice, low and deadly, sending a slight shiver down her spine. With all the men’s voices she’d heard in her life, all of her father’s drunk friends shouting, this was the one that scared her the most.
         “No!” This time it was the boy’s voice, sharp, angry almost. “No. She doesn’t know anything…you don’t want her,” he reasoned, sounding almost desperate. The man laughed (although Rose could hardly call it a laugh, as it was cold and completely humorless), and Rose heard footsteps approaching. Before she could hide, grab something to protect herself, even wipe her face, the man appeared in the doorway.
         He was tall and pale, wearing a black suit with gold buttons: obviously of rich descendant. Her first impression of him was a business man, a bank owner, perhaps, or successful store-owner. She was almost relieved—surely such a wealthy man wouldn’t want to waste his time on a young peasant girl like her. “Rose, right?” he asked, smirking, dismissing all her hopes that he would leave her alone. “Innocent, sweet, pretty?” She almost rolled her eyes at the cliché description, but caught herself at the last moment, and instead nodded meekly.
         He nodded back, grabbing her roughly by her already hurt arm and pulling her forcefully towards the back door. She felt a sharp jab in her shoulder, and the last thing she imagined before everything faded into blackness was the boy, hanging by the rafters with the semi-dried plants.
         Everything was black. Rose heard her name being called, the voice distant and fuzzy, as though from the other end of a tunnel. She tried to answer back, but her mouth was not cooperating enough to grant her speech. In sudden panic, she attempted to sit up, but found that, like her mouth, her body was out of her control. Growing more and more distressed, she struggled to regain domination of her limbs. Finally, her eyes shot open, and she found herself back in the dungeon, staring at the slightly blurry face of her companion.
         The relief on his face was apparent, but only when he spoke did she realize how genuinely worried he had been. “Calm down, Rose. Shhhh.” It was then that she noticed how heavy and uneven her breathing was. She felt him press something cold and damp to her forehead—a rag, perhaps one of their blankets, soaked in water—and jerked away impulsively. The boy, in return, brushed a few pieces of stray hair away from her forehead. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” he assured, his dark eyes finding hers. She nodded and made to sit, but had hardly even moved before his strong hands were pressing her back down.
         “What happened?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.
         “I think you fainted,” he replied. “One moment you were sitting there, watching me—” she rolled her eyes and he raised his eyebrows, as though begging her to contradict it. “—and then you were lying on the ground screaming.” She felt her cheeks grow red, embarrassed by the scene she had made. “What were you…thinking of?” the boy asked curiously, obviously trying to cover a smirk.
         “Nothing…why do you care, anyways?” she asked, trying to avoid the question by changing the subject.
         He shrugged nonchalantly. “Fine…if you don’t want to tell me…” he let his voice trail off and she felt herself giving in. He had, after all, been nice to her so far (aside from somehow landing her here), and she felt as though she owed him something for it.
         “When you came, with those men…” she looked up at him, examining his face for a reaction.
         “I’m sorry,” he said softly, looking away in obvious regret. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry,” he repeated.
         “It’s alright,” she replied, feeling slightly guilty for his obvious discomfort.
         He cleared his throat looked around the dungeon. “We’re gonna get out of here, though. The others—”
         “Others?” she cut him off. “There are others? Your friends, you mean, people who know we’re here?”
         “Of course,” he replied as though it were obvious. “Everyone else in the group knew I went to get Diane. Of course…we couldn’t have anticipated my capture. But don’t worry,” he reassured quickly, noticing her face fall, “they’ll find out. When I don’t get back, they’ll come looking for me…” She let him continue explaining the heroic capture, how his friends, whoever they were, would swarm the castle, break through the rock wall, and rescue them, killing anyone in their way, while wondering vaguely whether he was trying to convince her or himself.
         Eventually she must have fallen asleep, his soft, confident voice acting as her lullaby.

Blaine

         Blaine watched Rose as she slept, studied her. They had been—if his calculations were anywhere near accurate—in the dungeon for nearly 4 days, but he hadn’t really looked at her yet. To be honest, he had been sitting in the center of the room almost the whole time, moving only when she was asleep. He supposed he could have been more helpful, but he didn’t know what to do, how to help. And that scared him.
         Most of the time he’d been thinking about the day they met. He regretted the incident enough without replaying it in his head, but something seemed so…different about it every time he recounted it.
         He’d been waiting outside her house for most of the day, entertaining himself by watching the clouds go by. When he’d agreed to go find Diane, to ask for her help, he hadn’t realized that her house was in the middle of nowhere. Nonetheless, he’d been faithful to The Twelve and followed through with his promise to find her.
         Finally, when the last of the sun had disappeared over the horizon, he’d knocked quietly on the door: two knocks, a pause, and then three more knocks. Waiting for Diane to answer the call, he’d studied the house. It was small, smaller than any house he felt he would be comfortable living in, and only one story high. There was something comforting, however, about the kempt, if scanty, garden in back.
         When Diane didn’t answer, Blaine had hastily opened the door and walked quietly inside. There was someone home; a girl, only a year or two younger than himself; Diane’s daughter, Rose. She was carrying a candle and walking through the kitchen which seemed to double as an entryway.
         She stopped suddenly, her breathing slightly shaky as though something had frightened her, and then began to back slowly out of the room. Before he could move she had bumped into him, and, with a sharp gasp, spun around. The first, and really only thing he noticed about her was her eyes: they were the greenest eyes he had ever seen, but he couldn’t tell whether they were light green or dark green or something in-between. They seemed to be constantly changing colors in the light, or perhaps that was only the flickering of the candle. Suddenly, she fell backwards, landing on her elbows. He waited for her to regain her composure, feeling almost ashamed for startling her so. He could tell that she had hurt, perhaps bruised, her elbow, although tried to pretend he couldn’t.
         “Who…are you?” she asked, her voice soft and melodic.
         “I need to talk to Diane,” he answered, becoming all to aware of the fact that his face was dirty and his hair messy.
         The effect of his words was startling: she recoiled slowly, mistrust shadowed in her eyes, and replied, in her soft voice which was now laced with pain, “Diane is dead.” He opened his mouth, prepared to ask for an explanation, but before he could say anything she began to yell at him. Although her words were slightly fused together due to the fact that she now had tears streaming down her face, he was surprised at how strong, how commanding she could sound when angered.
         And then she was crying and he was walking towards her, gathering her into his arms, patting her back awkwardly. Suddenly, there was another sound from the other end of the house, that of a door being kicked in. He stood up, knocking her roughly to the ground, and went to the back of the house where he found two men, one in a formal black suit—who he could recognize as one of the higher powers in The Denomination, Derrick—and the other in an equally dark cloak who, in the light, he could not identify. “I’ll get the girl,” Derrick said, his voice bored and indifferent.
         Blaine had tried to reason with him, assure him that the girl knew nothing and that they didn’t need her, but Derrick only laughed and preceded to the kitchen where, Blaine knew, the girl was probably still on the ground, waiting.
         The one in the cloak, who was short and rather broad, grabbed his arm and pulled him into another room of the house, what looked like the girl’s bedroom. The man tried to talk to him, but he ignored him, listening intently to the commotion in the other room. A few minutes later Derrick entered, carrying Rose in his arms. She was obviously drugged.
         “Now, are you going to come quietly or are we going to have to give you the star treatment,” Derrick asked, smirking slightly and inclining his head towards Rose. Blaine rolled his eyes, and, as he opened his mouth to speak, felt a sharp pain in his neck.
         Now he was studying, perhaps even finding himself drawn to the curious creature who looked so much like her mother. And yet, there was something different. They both had the long, wavy auburn hair, the bright green eyes, and the curved cheekbones. Rose, though, was still young, still just a girl who had encountered no danger and who had yet to be hurt.
         He sighed, watching her lean frame move up and down evenly with her breathing. Her eyes were shut, and yet he could still see a mischievous light dancing behind the lids. Her mouth was curled up in a sort of half smile—how quick she must be to smile, if she could do so even in a place like this—and her hands curled slightly, her copper hair fanning around her head like a halo.
         Suddenly, the small, wooden door on the side furthest from them in the enclosure, began to swing open slowly. “Rose,” he whispered softly, moving her hair from her face and gently touching her shoulder to wake her. Her eyes finally opened, and he nodded towards the now half-open door. The expression on her face, that of shock, fear, and confusion, suggested that she had perhaps not even noticed the door before now. She clung to his arm and he moved in-front of her instinctually, feeling as though it was his responsibility to protect her while knowing that it was quite possible he would be unable to.