The Demon Boy

Day Four - Afternoon

     "I presume we shall have no need of... 'training', as Myr put it," the foreigner says once they're out of earshot. His grip loosens considerably when they arrive downstairs. The hold is still there, but it's one good yank from being broken. The boy hates the contact. He wrenches himself free the moment he has the opportunity to do so, that is, immediately.

     "No shit." He scowls at the foreigner and rubs at the sore spot on his arm where the man held him. It's sore. Wouldn't surprise him if there's another bruise.

     The foreigner watches the boy. The worried furrows in his brows are back. "I apologize for treating you roughly, but-"

     "If you're gonna apologize for somefin', then don't do it in the first place!" The boy got the advice from an older boy in the workhouse. The saying stuck and has served him well since, but it's not meant to help as he says it now. It's meant to mock, to hurt.

     The foreigner sighs. "As I was saying, it is in your best interest to not provoke Myr at all costs."

     "As I was sayin', no shit."

     "Language. And, I assure you, Myr is no laughing matter."

     "Do I look like I'm havin' a giggle?" The way the foreigner's talking, you'd think he's the one who got strangled by Myr. "I think I got a handle on what Myr can do."

     "Whatever it is you believe Myr to be capable of, you are sorely mistaken." The foreigner's voice dips from a tired drone into a growl. The intensity matches yesterday's storm. It makes the hairs on the boy's head stands on end. "Regardless of what lows you think Myr won't stoop to, you underestimate him by ten score and ten score again if he be in a foul temper." The foreigner growls deeper and deeper. The words hover just within audibility. The boy feels them more than he hears them. "Do not underestimate Myr. There stands my advice to you. Follow it, and you may yet avoid the worst of fates."

     The fear from the boy's first impression of the foreigner rekindles. Fear triumphs over anger. The indignant bravado from seconds ago disappears. The boy is reminded that the foreigner is not a friend.

     The boy nods jerkily. He backs off. "Got it."

     The foreigner scrutinizes the boy, searching him for something. What it is, the boy doesn't know. He shudders at the feeling of the man's gaze passing through him.

     "Good," says the foreigner and whatever heathen spell he cast breaks. The boy can move, can think, can breathe again. "Now, onto the other matters at hand. You will run errands to Glenholm town starting tomorrow."

     The way the foreigner says it brooks no argument and the boy is too shaken to try. Thus, the boy nods.

     "You may spend as much time in town as you see fit; however, you must return to the manor by nightfall, with errands having been completed in full."

     The boy nods again.

     "In return for your services, you will receive sustenance and your choice in boarding from what is available."

     Another nod.

     "Given the unlikely event that there is no task available for you, you are permitted to spend the day as you wish, with the caveat that you return by nightfall."

     Nod.

     "Violation of any of the preceding terms may result in revocation of boons amongst other punishments."

     The boy flinches at the word 'punishments' (bad memories, his scars are hurting). He nods.

     "Do I make myself clear?"

     The boy nods and nods. "Crystal, sir." His breath catches on the last syllable because he's suddenly at the workhouse. He feels the fresh welts on his back too vividly for them to be the years old marks he knows they are.

     Whatever the foremen said, whatever orders they barked, it always ended with 'Do I make myself clear?'. And the boys lined in neat rows would answer 'Crystal, sir'. No matter the order, they'd say it without fail. That's the only reply they had. That's the only reply allowed.

     The boy's gaze freezes at his feet. He doesn't dare breath, doesn't dare anything, no matter how small, lest it offend the foreman. It's a futile task. Foremen are too easily slighted.

     A man's hand slides into his periphery. Reflex kicks in. His head shrinks between his shoulders, but the blow he's anticipating never lands.

     "Do we have an understanding?" Rumbles a voice like thunder. It's not a voice from the workhouse.

     The boy glances up and sees the foreigner. The sight of the strange man snaps him out of the hell he remembers. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes long and slow, but it won't erase what's in his head. He knows this. He does it anyways because he is not going to do this. He is not going to let the workhouse drag him back while someone's watching. He opens his eyes to stare hard at the foreigner's open hand. The sight of the strange man grounds him in Glenholm.

     "Do we have an accord?" The foreigner's waiting on him. The look in his eyes is too thoughtful to not have seen at least part of what's happening in the boy's head.

     The boy grasps the foreigner's hand, both to distract the man and end the encounter before his moment of weakness is noted. They shake hands. The boy grips the foreigner uncomfortably tight as both revenge for earlier and to keep himself rooted in the here and now. He releases as the foreigner pulls away. He doesn't want to look needy.

     "Very good." The foreigner's praise goes through one ear and out the other. The boy's already retreating to his room. "Tonight's dinner will consist of roast pheasant. You shall be dining alone as Myr provides for himself."

     That's the last the boy hears from the foreigner as he rounds the corner into the familiar side hall, out of sight. He wants to run, yet he forces his steps into a deceptively languid pace, lest the foreigner catch on. The walls are closing in on him like they did on the night of his arrival. The corridors are so big, yet so small. The cracked plaster and the smell of being forgotten is too reminiscent of the workhouse. Why didn't he see it sooner? It's everywhere. It's everything he thinks of and the workhouse pulls him back through its doors.

     The boy's not in Glenholm anymore. His body is, but he's back in the boy's dormitory, far from the present. It's the end of another workday. He's retiring to the room he shares with five other boys younger and older than him. None of them have names they remember. He's bent with exhaustion. His back is hurt and bleeding. The welts left from the foreman's belting yesterday reopened during today's tasks. He walks it off in vain.

     He enters his room, the one with three beds, not the one he had in the workhouse. Like the sight of the foreigner, the discrepancy helps him return to Glenholm. He gets a toehold on reality, but he's still got a foot and a half stuck in the past. It'll take time to get himself out of his head. He has until dinner.

     He lands heavily on the bed. His bed. The one of three in his room that he has to himself, without  sharing. His bed in Glenholm.

     He repeats the mantra over and over, head between his knees, until he calms. His breathing is more controlled now. He's better (he hopes). He's fine (he lies).

     He sits up, and raises his head tentatively, staring hard at the walls of his room until his eyes dry. Not once does he spy a trace of where bad memories bleed into his waking days. Good. With luck, it'll stay that way.

     He forces himself to wind down, relax, breathe deep and slow as he wonders where that came from all of a sudden. The last time it happened was over a year ago. He studies the cracked walls for answers. He flops onto his back and give up, thinking instead of the foreigner and Myr. They're good diversions to his living nightmares. Puzzling out what's going on between them is better alternative to having a fit.