Lunaria (A Soulmark Series Finale), page 8
"No," I repeat. "Stay back."
I maneuver around the bed intent to hide in the far corner of the room, where the desk and chair sit. His obsidian eyes dilate a fraction, with slivers of gold peeping through the darkness of his eyes. "Don't sit there," he orders. "Sit on the bed."
The rokama accelerates, and in response, I double my efforts to retreat until I bang into the chair and stumble sideways into the desk.
"Omph!"
He is at my side by the time I have blinked. Hot moisture wells up along my lower lash line as my hip sears in reignited pain.
"Here let me—"
"I don't need your help!" I snap back. The rokama flinches away, his eyes roaming to the paper fluttering off the desk to the floor. One, in particular, catches my eye, and then another, and another. My heart quivers.
The papers collected on the floor are drawings—and each of them is me.
Chapter 5
"What are these?" I murmur, fixated on the drawings.
He does not answer right away, though he emits a strangled whine that earns my regard. The rokama's face is unusually flushed. Yet, rather than acknowledging the mess I've made, he pins his sights against the wall.
"Why are there so many drawings of... me?"
The rokama grunts and jerks his gaze back to me. "I've told you already. How many times must I repeat myself? You are my heart’s content. I have crossed the realms to find you and be with you. You. Are. Mine."
Oddly, he bares his teeth after his declaration. I pitch back, a cluster of odd feelings creeping their way around my body. Frustration. Confusion. A queer thrill of...
"Why are you helping them?" I ask, voice numb. I examine one of the sketches, my curiosity insatiable. It is a portrait. My lips are modestly pouted. My eyes are drawn wide and expressive. "Why?" I slant my attention back to him. The rokama stays silent, his full lips sealed. The paper crunches in my closing hand. "Does your kind lack any sense of honor? Or are you simply a coward?" My provocation earns more than I expect.
He snatches the paper from my hand and ushers me aside to snatch up the rest. Once all of the sheets are collected, he shoves them into a drawer, careless of the few corners that peep out. I watch his hurried movements in profile, having sidled up to the corner with my knees buckled against the chair. Adrian is uncomfortably close when he turns to face me. The warmth of his body teasing mine.
"Do not mistake my coerced cooperation for willingness to help. The people and creatures of this plane are bound by different standards and morals, and these disgraced wolves...." He trails off, clearly displeased. "They allow themselves to be ruled by their baser nature,” he pauses to stare me down, stating his last sentiment with slow emphasis. “Much like the rokama, we cull from our packs."
I shift uneasily at his adamant reminder.
There are no stories of culled rokama among the fairy community or hint of redemption capable among their kind. I swallow the thick lump in my throat, conflicted at the presentation of such opposing information.
Could he be speaking the truth? Are the rokama I encountered culled from their own pack? Exiled due to their perverse nature and salacious need to feed?
An uncomfortable knot develops in my gut as I close my eyes. Now that the idea is conceived, I cannot shake it. I hug myself and open my eyes. Although I'm sure my wavering distrust is apparent, the rokama makes no comment. Deep in thought, he stares past me. We remain like this for but a moment, then his scoffs cuts through what thickened air has developed between us and turns away. He stalks to the end of the bed, allowing me space, but the view I am met with leaves me gaping.
Two spots of dark red are seeping through his shirt near his shoulder blades. My lashes flutter in astonishment. I take a tentative step forward. What—
He spins around, a hot glare aimed my way. "Understand this; I'm as much of a prisoner here as you and your friends. I will not be shamed for doing what I must to survive." His top lip furls. "If you seek a coward, merely look to the sorry dogs who have not the strength to leave here of their own will."
My bottom lip trembles as I withstand his incandescent reproach. A flush drives up my neck past my cheekbones and to the tips of my ears. I wish to retort, but no words pass my tongue. I inhale, not liking one bit the constriction set against my lungs at the task.
Try as I might to hold onto my indignation, it slips through my fingers as my sympathy tempers it. Alekos and Celosia enter my mind, their visages overshadowed by thoughts of Jax and Keenan.
I'm as much of a prisoner here as you and your friends...
If you seek a coward, merely look to the sorry dogs who have not the strength to leave here of their own will.
Without fail, Deval drifts into my thoughts with his torn reflection and handling of me. "How can I help you, if I can't even help myself?"
To reminisce on his confession brings a shiver down my spine that prickles all the way to my toes. Back arching with a stiff breath, I turn my face away from the rokama's intent study—but not for long.
My sight flits back to the rokama. His hand is perched on his thick collar. A smattering of blackened veins creeps across his neck and out from behind the metal that encases it. They're thin and fading... and they weren't there when last I saw him.
What did he do to deserve his most recent punishment?
"If I could," the rokama continues, his words soft-spoken yet no less impactful, "I would rid myself of this injustice." His dark eyes fall to my neck. "I would release you from your shackle as well, but our fates are now tied to this war whether we like it or not.” His shoulders sag. “I do not resist their demands of service because the consequences are far worse than you can imagine. You'll do the same if you have any sense of self-preservation."
His hand sinks down to cross over his chest alongside his other arm. Muscles bulge against his thin, long-sleeve shirt. Unwittingly, my eyes stray to the sturdy line of his shoulders and down the curves and dips of his biceps... but my attention inevitably reverts back to the adornment of his subjugation.
I choke back my empathy.
"Are you not mightier than the sorry dogs you look down upon? You are rokama." My feet slowly usher me forward. "Are you not the deadliest, the wildest and most ferocious warrior known to the Hollow Woods? You said yourself that the Dark Father, Raeva the Storm Bringer, blessed your kind.” My anger slips quickly into hot desperation. “With all that strength why can’t you free yourself? Why can’t you free my friends and me?”
He presents me with his back. The muscles there clench and the bloody marks adorning his blades stare back at me with spite.
"Unfortunately for us, my single-minded bloodlust is no match for this mortal magic. My dark prowess is no match for theirs." My fingers dig into my sides at his chilling rebuttal. "Did you believe I would slay these men without a thought the moment of my arrival? Do you honestly believe all rokama to be so terrible that we are mindless savages?"
I make no reply as memories of our first encounter arise. His earnestness and determination damage the monstrous image I conjure up of him and his kind now.
"To you, I am nothing more than a monster. To you, my kind is nothing but senseless killers, but you know nothing." A strangled snarl rips from the rokama. One so sudden and unexpected I jump back. His body shudders with the force of it, as does mine. He does not turn around to face me.
"Are you going to kill me?" Primal fear ejects the question from my lips.
He snarls again, this one far more unnerving than the last. I swear the room shakes along with his fury.
"Of course not," he seethes. "You're mine. I've endured their torture and ridicule for—" The rokama marches over to the dresser and slams a fist down on it. Wood splinters and cracks.
For me.
“Why do you refuse to accept the divine connection between us? Is your hatred of my kind so consuming you cannot see past the picture you have drawn, and see the man? I would love you. Protect you. Die for you here, because I trust in the divine and that we are meant to be one.” A long moment of silence stretched taut between us. “So be it,” he says hoarsely. “Rest assured. I will protect you as best I can here.”
The blasted mark hugging my hip pulses at the fervid declaration, even as a sigh of defeat fills the room with its hollow loss. I watch his back slump forward and his head bow. The bloody stains deepen in color and widen in their expanse.
I've endured their torture and ridicule...
"Rest," he advises. "You'll need all the energy you can muster."
My face pinches together. All of his anger has retreated, replaced by a sullen and dejected mood. He moves with swift purpose back to the door, snatching his coat from the wall hook and jamming himself into it.
"Wait," I plead, heart hammering at the thought of being left alone. He stills. The words I summon to address his impassioned speech crumble before I can get them out. "I—I'm hungry." Though they are not the words I intended to say, my admission softens his posture, nonetheless. "Please... I don't know the last time I ate, and I’m so sore. My body aches all over."
He spies at me over his shoulder for a brief moment. "There will be no food for you tonight or medicine." His tone belays his empathy. "They want you weak."
Blood drains from my face. Moisture threatens my vision, but I stem it as the rokama opens the door.
"Wait!" I shout once more. He slows but does not halt entirely. Heart hammering, I summon the nerve to ask what now dwells with shrewd pressure on my mind. "What did they do to you? My friends... they spoke briefly of your treatment. Please, tell me."
He stiffens, then strikes a pointed scowl down his back at my question. His black eyes raise to meet mine under his furrowed brow and I lose all breath in my body. He says not a word more and exits into the startling cold. The latch of the lock snapping closed echoes in the room. After several minutes of stunned silence, I seat myself in the desk's chair.
My shock does not wane as I sit numbly in the chair. I study the room with little enthusiasm, eyes roaming over the same objects a dozen times without lingering. Unconsciously, I reach for the drawer that stores the drawings of me. It slides open with ease and I soon discover it to be the source of far more drawings than the ones I knocked over before. I finger past the images of my face and figure, sniffling all the way until I come across one of home.
I pause with breathless anticipation, slipping the drawing out of the stack.
The rokama has captured the landscape impeccably. The trees aim high into the sky. The glossy surface of Lake d'Balle reflects each and every leafy branch. The shore is scattered with two-horned nozzles and whippersnappers. My fingers brush reverently over the pencil's meticulous strokes, only to lurch back when they smear the careful work. I gawk at the graphite smudges on my skin, before dropping the stack in my lap.
The papers slip, much to my dismay, and I grab at the bundle with haste, hissing when the abrupt movement causes my body to constrict painfully. My head whirls sickeningly, and it takes several deep breaths to right my mind.
I resume my cleanup more gingerly, though a few manage to evade immediate capture by swinging under the bed. I stare at them hopelessly, stricken by a sudden bout of self-pity so encompassing I find it difficult to move. Aching, alone, and scared to my wit's end, my hope begins to wither.
Murmured words of support breakthrough my daze. The voices of the Aunts and Gran raking past my inner turmoil. I steady myself with a shaky breath.
"Be strong, Luna," I say aloud to myself.
I place the handful of sketches onto the bed before squatting to the ground to retrieve the rest. A groan rides up from my chest as my body protests. I examine them one by one.
They're landscapes; one of the Reckoning Rock, two attempts at the shadowy setting of the Harrow Valley, and a few other landmarks unknown to me.
I fetch the last paper, stopping short when I see the two individuals on it. My heart takes a leap as I inspect it more closely and rest back on my heels.
They are rokama, it is easy to deduce from their sizable, leathery wings and toned physiques. They wear far more rugged and purposeful garments than the bright garb my fairy brethren don. I find myself staring at the broad grins depicted on their faces. Their proximity and relaxed body language speak of their familiarity.
The shading and smudged lines around them suggest an incomplete scene, and yet this portrait screams to me some vivid memory. The kind of memory where all else fades to the background, save the occupants with whom the memory is shared.
These are the friends he left behind to search me out. Or perhaps they are family. I find myself slowly shaking my head. How can one house such devotion to a person they know nothing about? To brave the strange wilds of the Hollow Woods is their pursuit. It is not a feat I can disregard, try as I might. I would never—I stop mid-thought, I would never what? Risk myself for a stranger? A curdled laugh bursts past my lips. The very day I arrived in the human realm I did just that. I chose Xander and the Adolphus pack, because he did the same for me without hesitation. My eyes slip closed. Maybe the rokama and I aren’t complete opposites after all.
Opening my eyes, I note a damp spot appears near one of the men's feet. My vision startles away from the scene as I drag the back of my hand across my wet cheeks. Rising with care, I place it with the others, my gaze returning one last time to the men's massive wings. More tears escape before I can stop them, but at least they don't ruin the painstaking work. I sit next to the pile, my hands rising to cradle my face as I start to cry in earnest.
The rokama's dark red blemishes plague my mind's eye, and a small sob bursts forth.
They took his wings.
The truth is too terrible to grasp and yet it binds itself around me until I cannot breathe. There is nothing to placate me after such a frightful revelation.
The sketches are returned to the drawer after a time. Only then do I shrug off my coat and shoes to crawl under the covers of the bed. My head pounds as it takes respite upon the thin pillow, little hiccups, and raspy wheezes emitting from me as I close my eyes and pray for sleep.
I know not when sleep finally arrests me, only that my last few thoughts retrace the rokama's words. Adrian's words.
“I do not resist their demands of service because the consequences are far worse than you can imagine. You'll do the same, if you have any sense of self-preservation.”
++
Pain rouses me.
It starts as a languid throb at the base of my neck and travels south over every ridge of my spine only to spear out at the apex of my wings. I roll onto my side and shove the bed's meager blankets down to my waist. On any other occasion, my wings would flutter and stretch, but under the coercion of the collar, they lay limp against the firm mattress.
The throbbing draws up to the top of my head, accompanied by a grumble in the pit of my stomach. I moan and crack open my eyes to be met with a darkened room.
Uncertainty settles upon me. I didn’t turn the lights off last night.
I stiffen and clamp down on my fear. With all my senses, I attempt to surmise if I am the only occupant in the room. I hear nothing and there is little I can see to be construed as another being. My pulse settles as no unusual disturbances snare my attention. I peer over my back, squinting and noting the other half of the bed empty and untouched.
A sharp rap sounds at the door. I startle, heart racing but I’m given no time to react. The lock's latch turns over and the door swings in, banging against the wall. Bright daylight enters the room without remorse. I toss an arm up to shield my eyes and cringe away from the onslaught.
The mind-numbing pulsation in my skull grows.
"Luna? You awake?" Deval's low voice is a welcome relief. I lower my arm, squinting his way as I agree with a small grunt. "I've brought breakfast." My stomach releases a loud grumble as the room's overhead light is turned on and Deval comes into the room. He closes the door behind him with a nudge of his foot, then places a small tray down on the dresser.
I exit the bed stiffly, and with as much haste as I can muster, head over to the food. The spread is unimpressive, but at least it is something over the nothing that I've had in... days? My uncertainty is discerning and makes me hesitate.
How long had we been held captive by the Wselfwulfs? Two, three days? The cellar we arrived in offered no sense of time—no clock or sunlight—and I'd been unconscious for much of it.
"Hurry up."
I bury away the distressing thought, lest I make myself sick, and snatch the water bottle first. I down half its contents, panting after I've swallowed. The only other items on the tray are two pieces of white bread. I mindlessly shove them into my mouth, releasing a pleased hum after every finished bite. My stomach lurches with discontent, but I ignore it.
"Is there... more?"
Deval's frown answers my question. "We need to get going. Put on your coat and shoes. It's a cold one today."
I do as he asks but stop short of leaving with him.
"Are you coming, or do I need—"
"I'm coming," I insist and spare him a slightly frantic look. "If it's cold I just want..." I avert my eyes to the dresser and open the top drawer. Inside are two thick sweaters. Thank goodness.
"We don't have time for this." Deval's impatience is laced within his tight-spoken words. But I am already shrugging off my coat and slipping on one of the sweaters.
It is at least double the size I am accustomed too, but its added warmth is immediate. The plush texture of my coat is quick to envelop me as I drag it on and follow Deval outside. Even with the added covering, my body seems to curl in on itself at the bitter cold.
"You can use the outhouse quickly, then we'll go."
My forehead crinkles. "What is an outhouse?" Deval views me with equal confusion.
"It's where you... take care of your business."
Business? I blink. He flushes but not with pleasure.
