The Last of the Twenty: Broken Pawns

Chapter 27

Ethan glanced at the gathered faces sitting and standing around the room, gauging their reactions. The pity he saw on Nadia's face sent pangs of guilt through his system, momentarily dulling the pain of his past. There she sat, tears of pity for him running down her face, all the while unaware that her own losses equaled his own. He knew he couldn't keep the secret much longer, that she needed to know what happened no matter the pain it caused. For better or worse it would solidify the reality of her danger, but she was strong willed and Ethan had no way of knowing what her reaction would be. Would she break down, therefore becoming easier to hide as she worked through her grief? Or would she seek revenge and answers, somehow escaping his protection and placing herself in greater danger. They were questions he couldn't answer, and for now she was far too important to take the risk of losing. The secret would have to remain in the dark, at least for now.

Wes and Dillon sat in silence, waiting for him to continue. They shared Daniel's look of indifference, the cruel truths of life were nothing new to them, and as painful as such losses could be, death was nothing more than a fact of life. Still, Ethan took no offense, the thought of a werewolf showing pity for a vampire was almost laughable, even if his suffering had occurred while he was still human.

Delilah sat close, refusing to release her grip on his hand, a small yet powerful act that Ethan was grateful for. She had always known his life had been hard in the beginning, even if the extent of that hardship had been kept from her. He had always been afraid to tell her his story, to reveal his weaknesses to her. The role of protector and hero was a hard role to risk, and although he was her husband and should allow himself moments of vulnerability with her, he was also still her maker and an ancient and powerful vampire. The pride that came with that existence was a hard thing to let go of, akin to admitting he wasn't a god.

He nodded at her, clenching his jaw. He needed to get the rest of the story out before the will to do so faded. He gripped her hand and squeezed back, a silent thank you between lovers.

"I don't remember much while I waited in the boat, their comings and goings as things were loaded up were just a blur of activity. I was still in shock after all that had happened, I refused to eat and they had to force water down my throat. I only wanted to die. It wasn't until the boat was pushed off and the journey began that I started to come back into reality. There were other slaves with me, but I was always kept separate and alone, part of my torment. I can remember looking up at the dragon's head, hoping those iron jaws would suddenly come to life and swallow me whole, end the suffering and loneliness. It was like that for the first few days of the voyage, I was always alone, always ignored. It was the night of the fourth day that the real nightmare began. It was the first time he came to me to feed..."

....

Kendrick woke up shivering in the cold, struck by to yet another bout of nausea as the ship rose and sank against the waves. He was tied to an iron ring attached firmly to the planks of the boat just behind the carved dragon's head. The spot was just outside the worn tent that covered most of the deck, exposed to the cold spray of the ocean each time the craft dipped and rose with the waves. For days the tent had remained closed to him, the only with anyone came with the once a day appearance of a raider who would force bread and water into his mouth, twisting painfully on his chains until he gave in and swallowed. Other than that he was always alone, left to soak in the cold and misery of his guilt.

They had been at sea for four long days, by then Kendrick's throat was raw and body weak. No raider had come that day to force him to eat and drink, and things had become unusually quiet in the tent. Normally the sounds of laughter and rough speech, or even the occasional fight, were Kendrick's only companions, his last link to whatever form of humanity his captors belonged in. Today the silence had been eerie, like an ominous threat hanging in the air like an axe. As the sun set below the waves and the first of the stars blinked into existence, Kendrick heard the soft sounds of leather on canvas as the tightly closed flaps of the tent were finally opened. He braced himself, prepared to do whatever he could to show he was willing to eat and drink on order to avoid the pain of the chains digging into his wrists.