The Raven Girl

Chapter 24

There had been a desolate silence among them, drifting through the vacant air as a predator of the sea would through icy waters, with senses and strength heightened by the stench of fear and blood. All that could be heard through such a silence as this was the chattering of Asta's teeth and the pounding of her heart, willing her lungs to work faster than they had ever before, allowing no time for enough air to ever be taken in. That, though, was a trivial matter, and one her frantic mind would not concern with.

It was in this silence that Asta realised Rickard had not moved. Was he reluctant to begin? Surely, he could not have been, for his reply had been so very cold, so very condemning, and, looking to his steady gaze, she realised this was indeed the case. Nothing seemed to be stopping him, physically or otherwise, yet he did not move. Why was he so set on torturing her poor, exhausted mind? Was it not enough that she was about to be brought back into a world she was so sure she had left?

"Please, Rickard!" She cried, her voice hoarse from the strain that had been put upon it. "I beg you: tell me what it is you are to do. Let me know that, at least."

He did not say anything, striking fear into the very depths of her heart which circulated her body like blood. Instead, he continued to stare at the weak flame of the candle as if with an insatiable desire to blow it out, smoke flooding into the air around them, dancing away.

"Please! It is all I ask..." she tried again, knowing she would likely fail. "I cannot bear surprises." Her pleading was all but ignored; his eyes were solely focussed on the light.

She grasped at her words, searching for something that would tear him away from his reverie, but there was nothing. There was always nothing.

"If you will not tell me, then at least do something. At least say something."

When again no answer came, Asta knew she could no longer keep herself together, could not simply sit tight and wait for when he would return to reality, taking her by surprise with cruel intent. She felt the sharp inhale that came before a storm of tears, and, collapsing into herself, she buried her head between the rough fabric that covered her bruised knees, water seeping through the wool and onto her skin.

"You're crying." came Rickard's short and late reply, shaken from his thoughts by the sound of her choking on her own tears. Perhaps it had been quiet, for she had barely any air left in her lungs to produce such a sound- that and she was quiet anyway- yet he had heard it all the same, and it was this that had woken him from his trance, not her words. Eyeing up the candle, he gave it one last glance, in an almost mistrusting manner, and turned his full attention to the girl.

"Now you talk," she whispered, the words stuck in her throat, "and you tell me what I already know. Does it give you joy, driving me into such a state as this? A state that some would look upon as insanity?" 

"You know it does not, yet you seem to overlook this, so I see no point in rephrasing what I have already made clear." He started, angrily, but caught himself in seeing Asta tremble. Sighing, he sought to rectify this, lowering his voice. "I am only doing as my brother asks, else he may question my love for him and he has grown so very... paranoid, as of late. Why do you cry?"

"Need I tell you? I have returned here, to a place of nightmares." She dared to cast her head over to the hellish contraption that lay dead in the corner, the throne of death on which prisoners were crowned, unwilling to bear the weight of its power. She instantly regretted it, images charging at her as if an army on a battlefield, fully replenished to take on the one soldier that stood, broken arm still hanging limp in a bloody bandage.

The dim light of the candle was enough it see its faint outline, one that crippled her in terror. In seeing her dizzying gaze drift over the chair, Rickard moved the candle, shrouding it in a cover of darkness, but she could still imagine its presence just as clearly without the light, for once she had been made aware of it there was no way to forget. Shutting her eyes, she put a hand to her forehead which, to her alarm, was burning up, as if each memory had resided in a fiery pit, returning still on flame. These memories would be the end of her. How could they not when there was no method with which to control them?

"Do not think of it." he said, a brief concern audible in his voice, guilt spreading across his face. He was a battle hardened man- there was no question of that- but the gods still liked to taunt him now and then, laughing as his conscience ate away at his heart. "Not even for a second. You needn't be reminded of that time, for I can assure you it will stay hidden in shadows forevermore. I have been told to find an answer, but by which means he did not specify. For your sake, just tell me whatever it is I must know."

"No." There was no way in hell or earth he could change her answer, for she knew in both her head and her heart that it was right, and she did not care for this method of weaselling the information from her anymore than the next. No matter how he talked, be it cruel or kind, he would not win. She was sure of that, even if it meant facing the chair and past events all in one horrific night.

Annoyance flashed in his eyes and he shook his head, running a hand through his hair as if in despair at her determination.

"Why, Asta, do you cling to this answer when it will all be for nought? I have given you countless opportunities to escape this fate, ones that my brother would have gladly kept from you, but you still persist. Do you want pain?"

"What I want doesn't matter to anybody."

"Not even to yourself?"

She shook her head. It didn't anymore, for what she wanted was freedom and peace, yet it seemed such simple ideals were impossible in a society like this, corruption running free like the streams that ran down from the mountaintops, full and plentiful: the only thing that was truly free. What mattered to her was irrelevant, unachievable. Sure, she could give in now, trust Rickard's promise, but it would mean waiting for the inevitable hatred of both her family and the Dragenes- a deadly enemy to have.

"Then it is the rack for you."

She swallowed, palms sweaty, and breathed deeply. The rack: the device that induced stretching and dislocation on the victim's limbs until they confessed. How very fitting. This was something that didn't end until one of two outcomes was achieved. Either the prisoner renounced the knowledge they had held so diligently, accepting that all the pain they had put themselves through was for nothing, or the limbs were torn from their sockets- an excruciating reward for holding their tongue.

It was not a test of endurance, but merely one of stupidity.