Book of Brutality

Chapter 4

Léon knew the look of hatred in Alexander's eyes well. It was a look of rejection and revulsion for the mark that was on his arm. It was the mark of heresy, plain and simple, which all the people under the Hierarchy fell for. The great lie that dissuaded them from trusting any outsider, which he just barely kept a secret from the villagers of Calliope's home. One she didn't scorn, but that made her an exception, and a dangerous one at that. Especially for the guards. If they sniffed her out as a sympathizer - as a partner to one of the Furahsee she would be branded a heretic and put to death. The town was no longer safe for either of them. It was time to go, and it would be no sad departure for Léon.

Time was limited. Alexander was not a simpleton, he was astute but also dutiful. He would not wander down any stray path which might distract him from his holy charge. If it wasn't immediately important to the church he would stay his hand until ordered to act. That graciousness was a blessing for Léon. It gave him a chance to run before the knights pieced his presence together and dared to peek under his bound arm for the mark. He kept it bandaged up once again. They wouldn't see it so easily. He had tricks to keep himself hidden and would not be caught bare skinned again. He wouldn't be caught at all. The soldiers would surely return in time with their report of the horror in the woods. One missing villager or two would be natural.

He just had to get his second, Calliope, to come with him. His confidence wavered. He looked upon what he was set to leave behind, the meager but hand-made life of primitive practicality. It was all he needed and nothing more, and it could be made again. There were no warm hearths or fine rugs or stone walls or tiled roofs in his world. Nothing that needed a village to make, only his own hands. The comforts and conveniences of the Castletown were what Calliope knew best. She was born and raised there and became a woman before Léon entered her life. She was accustomed to all of that. He thought it wouldn't be fair to tear her away for his own selfishness. She could just as easily divorce herself of his relation, reject him like the other villagers often did, and live out her life in peace. It was a painful thought, worse than a piercing wound in his back. Worse than the pain that accompanied his branding the day the village elders marked him as his forefathers were marked.

Léon gathered up his things into his carrying bag. It was a rucksack of stitched together stag hide lined with treated bones to give it a solid hold and purchase so that he could layer more things into it. He gathered up the things that were too hard to make again - his composite bow, a quiver and arrows, sharpened stone tools and limestone balls bound up in dry skin pouches, some waterskins for the long travel, thick boots for treading dangerous ground, many layers of skins to repair clothing, smoked meats and dried berries; he had enough packed for weeks in the wilderness. Split with another, time would be less. Adding any hunting would expand the range they could walk until they found safety. And then he would rebuild.

He kept on his person his dagger. That did not need storage. It had a more pressing use. Should the guards come for him, he'd leave them where they fell and leave before they could be found. It had to be that way. Else they might seize him and test Calliope's nerves by offering him to a public sacrifice. If it came to that, and she was already gone, he'd be fine. He was a fighter, and far stronger than any armored man. But she was not. His mind raced to protect her before blood had to spill. It took her so long to grow accustomed to the regular butchery of wildlife in his hut. He remembered scaring her off when he flayed a rabbit right in front of her. She came back later that day, laughing, fretting that she'd never seen a rabbit in any form but living or part of a stew. Someone always did the middle bit when she wasn't looking.

He smiled. It was a leap to explain away his want for her. He felt like he needed her. She wasn't strong or hearty, and life in survival would be hard for her, he knew that well. She was excitable and could be impatient. She wasn't used to miles of walking each day, through all weather and over any kind of ground. But she made him happy. That was well needed, especially in his life. He couldn't just leave her behind. Not without an earnest effort. If it was too hard to take her casually, and impossible to take her by force, he'd submit and carry on with his needs. That's what he thought. He told himself such a thing over and over as he approached the outer wall of town, now guarded by two armored men.