6 - Soft Hands

  Stone walls met every turn. This place - this “prison” - actually had a different purpose when it was built. A stone watchtower near the outskirts of Bastion’s Reach fallen into disuse when the city began expanding and shifting its borders outwards. The army kept it clean and repaired as per regulations, but it was largely used for storage. A small courtyard with a fountain, a stable and healer’s wings and a sturdy prison cell deep in the watchtower’s base and all within walking distance of the castle - a perfect little hiding spot for their troublesome little guest.

  Garrick hadn’t liked the idea of being so close to Fenric should things fall apart or Veylan’s clever little collar didn’t work, but Fenric had insisted on the location.

  “I’ve got a better eye on you and that thing if you’re close,” he’d told Garrick.

  “Aye, and a quicker death,” Garrick argued.

  Fenric didn’t even have the decency to deny it. He’d simply grinned and overruled Garrick.

  Deeper, the walls radiated cold. Iron bars stretched along the edges of a circular room. Each cell remained empty but the last. Here, the only light came from the flickering torches and thin windows. The only sound down here came from the gentle padding of Garrick and Bran’s boots on stone floors.

  Garrick noted Sir Bran Halek on watch beside the cell. For a moment, Garrick could only appreciate his knights. Halek was quiet, firm, not given to rash decisions, and kept his mouth shut. Though his dislike of the monster simmered beneath every interaction he had with the beast, it was never enough to prompt cruelty. Riven on the other hand, showed his distaste for the monster more vehemently than Bran, his sense of honor and pride keeping him from going beyond the necessary. Both Adernian through and through, both honorable and trustworthy. Without the Second Order, Garrick would have likely gone insane ages ago.

  As Garrick and Riven approached, Bran straightened and saluted his superior officers in the Adern fashion - fist to chest, fingers curled upwards. Garrick and Riven returned the salute before approaching the cell. Riven leaned against the wall, and grimaced as he looked inside with Garrick.

  “Thing’s been mostly asleep or mostly whining every day,” he said sullenly.

  Garrick just grunted in response as he took in the sight inside the cell. Just like Riven said - a girl, a young woman. Small, soft, and gentle, she looked for all the world like a gust of wind would blow her over in a second. But she knelt beside the cot, humming a soothing tune. And the monster…was responding. Garrick tensed as the first time she laid hands on him, the monster flinched and reacted, wrists straining against the shackles. But instead of flinching back as he expected the healer girl to do, she hissed as if she were the one in pain.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she said, hands gesturing, face contorted.

  The monster growled at her, its good eye flickering with pain and an intensity that made Garrick uncomfortable. But the healer was already moving, pulling out a large jar of ointment from her satchel.

  “This will help,” she whispered to him as if it could understand.

  The monster only growled more when she reached towards him again. The chains clinked. Its muscles bunched ready to retaliate. Beside Garrick, Bran tensed, ready to step forward.

  But then, something unexpected. Taking a knife from her satchel, the healer took the blade and drew it across her skin - a shallow but painful cut. Garrick started, his eyes widening.

  “Maeve!” Bran hissed.

  The healer looked up, startled.

  “What are you-” Bran started.

  “Shh!” she hissed at him. “Wait there.”

  She uncorked the jar, hooked a good helping of the ointment inside, and smeared it on her cut, humming that same soothing tune. It filled the air, replacing the sounds of ragged breathing and low, rumbling growls as she reached once more into her satchel and brought out a fresh roll of bandages. She cut a strip, wrapped it around her cut and looked at the monster before saying, “See? It doesn’t hurt a bit!” Then, she slapped it and winced.

  Garrick let out a soft laugh as Bran grumbled worriedly behind him.

  “I thought you said she was soft,” he murmured to his knight captain.

  Riven chuckled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  Bran just shook his head.

  After a moment, Garrick asked, “Will it work?”

  “It has in the past,” Riven said casually. “Only poor Halek seems to get more and more impatient with her every time.”

  “Just watch, sir,” Bran said, gesturing.

  And Garrick did. He watched as the monster, whose eye remained wary, seemed to ease with the sound of the humming, with the sight of the balm on the healer woman’s arm wrapped carefully beneath bandages. She continued, her touch gentle despite the occasional jerks of pain and discomfort. Maeve would always back away when it became overwhelmed and it would scream and gnash at her, humming softly the entire time. She let him settle, using hand gestures and miming. Bit by bit, the lone healer was able to do the work that five struggled to do at the very beginning. It was not easy. It was long and frustrating. But little by little the tension in its body eased, the growls became whimpers, and confusion gave way to cautious acceptance.

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  The only time she could not get him to settle was when she reached for the bandage over its eye. It jerked its head back violently, recoiling from her touch with a ferocity that belied its weakened state. She winced at the sight of the inflamed skin.

  “I know it hurts,” she murmured, reaching again.

  This time, the pain was too much. It cried out and thrashed about, pulling against its restraints. Its body convulsed, sharp and sudden, every muscle tensing into a rigid knot. A guttural sound tore from its throat and echoed off the stone walls. The chains rattled, a harsh clatter of discordant sound. Its strength, its desperation, was raw and born of agony and fear.

  Maeve gritted her teeth and tried to reach for it again, making her soothing sounds and gestures, but Garrick and Bran were already moving, Riven staying by the door with a hand on his sword while Bran grabbed for Maeve.

  “Take her out,” Garrick ordered, grabbing her satchel from the floor.

  “Wait,” Maeve breathed, but Bran already had his arms wrapped around her and was dragging her towards the door.

  The sharp staccato of every gasp beat in the mounting tension as the room held its breath, teetering on the edge of chaos. Crimson and obsidian magic flared to life, but the moment it hit the open air, it vanished inside the collar, which pulsed with Veylan’s signature gold glow.

  Garrick backed out of there quickly, and once he was out, slammed the door closed behind him. Then, he turned to Maeve who was taking deep breaths beside Bran who was already muttering.

  “I told you to back off when it gets that way. Seriously, Maeve, it could kill you,” he said, voice sharp.

  But Maeve’s face contorted in quiet rebellion. “Oh, stop it. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “You shouldn’t be-” Bran started, then stopped as he noticed Garrick watching.

  He straightened, then glanced at Maeve, who also straightened beneath the commander’s gaze.

  “C-commander Voss,” Maeve began, stammering.

  But Garrick cut her off with a quiet question. “How did you do that?”

  She blinked. “Do what?”

  “Reason with it. How?”

  “That was reasoning?” Riven asked, but a sharp gesture from Garrick made him go silent.

  “Explain,” Garrick gestured.

  “Oh,” Maeve said. “Well, I suppose I just…showed him. He obviously doesn’t understand anything we say, so-”

  “Obviously?” Garrick interrupted again.

  “Y-yes,” Maeve stammered. “Obviously. He doesn’t respond to words all that well. But tone or action? He knows that.” She gestured to her arm. “Demonstrations work well.”

  “You shouldn’t be hurting yourself,” Bran muttered.

  Maeve frowned at him and put her hands on her hips, wincing at her wounded arm brushed against her skirt.

  “It has to feel authentic, real,” she argued.

  But Garrick shook his head. “I’m afraid I agree with Sergeant Halek on this one. You are not to injure yourself again. If you require a demonstration, perhaps a model of some kind, or a pretence. If you cannot act it, have one of the others do so.”

  He handed back her satchel.

  Maeve blinked and took it absentmindedly. “Oh. I hadn’t…thought of that.”

  She looked sheepish. Bran just sighed and shook his head.

  “How well has this worked in the past?” Garrick asked.

  Maeve shrugged. “About as well as today,” she admitted.

  “Yes, sir. She seems bound and determined to get her neck snapped,” Riven said behind him.

  “Indeed, sir,” Bran said.

  Maeve’s jaw dropped. “No! It’s just that no one else will take the time to do it without hurting him. And Luka needs someone who-”

  Garrick’s eyes flashed. “Luka?”

  Maeve froze, realizing her slip. Her cheeks flushed. “I... I gave him a name,” she admitted softly. “I couldn’t keep calling him ‘the monster.’ It felt wrong.”

  Garrick studied her, silent for a long moment. “You believe it’s listening to you?”

  The young healer squirmed. “Not…not like you or I listen. He doesn’t understand like we do, but he’s trying. He listens with his eyes.”

  It was like a gut punch. Listens with his eyes.

  “Of course,” Garrick murmured. “It’s all instinct.”

  “That is an excellent way to describe that, yes,” Maeve said casually, eyes lighting up.

  Garrick nodded. A feeling crept through, something he was missing. Something he wasn’t quite seeing.

  “Thank you, healer Maeve,” he said, deep in thought. “I’m placing you as its head physician. You make the calls from now on.”

  Maeve started in surprise. “Oh! But I’m…only really an assistant-”

  “Not anymore,” Garrick said.

  “But sir,” Bran protested.

  “When did orders become optional?” Garrick asked.

  His tone was soft, patient, but the words were a warning nonetheless. Bran swallowed.

  “Yes, sir,” he said stiffly.

  “If you need anything, come directly to me. You’ll be in charge of meals, care, and ordering needed supplies, understood?” Garrick asked Maeve.

  “Y-y-yes, sir! Thank you!” Maeve said.

  Garrick took one look back at the cell, but his eyes were distant as if his mind were far away. The sounds of struggle had already faded, replaced by an exhaustive silence.

  “Luka, eh?” he asked. “You shouldn’t get so attached.”

  Then, he turned and walked away. Maeve flashed Bran a bright smile.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  “I heard you get orders to distance yourself.”

  “He didn’t say that,” Maeve protested. “He only said I shouldn’t. That’s not an order. That’s a suggestion.”

  She then trotted after the commander clutching her satchel and humming happily. Bran’s jaw clenched. Riven clapped a hand on Bran’s shoulder.

  “Careful, sir Bran,” he said with a grin. “You’ve chosen quite the girl to get sweet on.”

  “With all due respect, captain, shut up,” Bran murmured.

  Riven’s laughter echoed in the circular chamber even as Bran watched her long hair disappearing around the corner.