An Ocean of Lies (AFOS II)

Chapter 20: Jo

Alaric jumped at him, fiercely. None would've imagined two seconds ago those gnarling lips had been kissing her own tenderly, especially not that guy. He looked like he was in his forties, not scrawny by any means but next to Alaric's magical enhancements he looked like a sad, redhaired, ragdoll. His beard was bushy, his hair long, tied up in a bun, but by the time Alaric was done with him, it looked like Wyn's on a bad day. Tangled and wild, like fire. Red haired people were scarce, at least to the south: having Ontur's hair color was heretic. Henna was encouraged. But in the middle of an island, hairstyles didn't matter much, clearly.

The man spat blood on the floor, his arms firmly pinned to the ground by Alaric. He didn't thrash or curse, or anything really, he just smiled, licking blood off his teeth. "People don't have manners anymore, do they? Kiddo, you're crushing my ribs up there, would you mind?" he was short of breath, for obvious reasons.

"Who are you? And why did you kidnap us?" Jo demanded. She put a foot on his shoulder, for show. It didn't do much, the guy was all muscle and Alaric was doing all the job, but she could feel a little in control, at least.

"You were trespassing on my land, weren't you, kid?" Alaric shoved him harder onto the ground, the man grunted. "Easy there. I need my arms, all that firewood doesn't chop itself, and it'll be a long winter," he spat blood. "Look, if anyone should be mad, it should be me: who sent you? How did you get here?"

"We just washed ashore, we're headed north," Jo said, "but it's none of your business. We were on our way out, but we lost our boat."

"Lies, kiddo. Lies," he coughed, spitting blood again. Alaric had done some damage to his insides, no doubt. "I have your map, and so it happens my island is marked in bright red, or did it slip your mind? You didn't get this far on a damn boat by not knowing how to read magical currents, which leads me to think you might not actually be as dumb as you look. Him, more than you, by the way," he whispered. Jo kicked him. "Well deserved, this time," he laughed coarsely.

"It's a stolen map, we didn't mark anything on it," she squinted.

"So, thieves huh? Hmm. You're not very good at it, then You leave tracks all over the place, come back to the kidnapper's house, make yourselves comfortable; were you going to make some dinner too? Creator's know I'm starving, after all that messing around with magic trinkets to put you down," he yawned.

"You're not a mage, then?" Jo asked. Alaric pressed him harder.

"Hey: You're in no position to ask any questions, it's my house, after all," he coughed, smiling.

Jo kneeled, she was so close she could smell his blood, his sweat, "really, now? This cleaver by your throat says otherwise, old man," she pressed it, lightly to his skin. Alaric raised his eyebrows, he didn't look like he disapproved, exactly.

"You're very demanding, for a couple of thieves," he lifted his chin, grinning defiantly, "and I'm not old, I'm vintage: there's a difference," he grimaced. He was in pain.

"We're not thieves. The way I see it, you're the thief, you took our shoes and our backpacks, our map. Rightfully stolen, alright? It's a long story. Look. My boyfriend here will let you go, unscathed, if you give us our stuff back and let us go. We won't bother you anymore, we don't even know who you are, and honestly? I don't give a crap," she straightened her blouse with her free hand.

"You don't know who I am?" he gasped. "Truly, now? I find that hard to believe," he raised an eyebrow.

"You're a madman living alone in an enchanted island, that's who you are," Alaric said, pinning him harder. "And you have our things, I suppose you can take this as a final warning to, maybe, give it back before I crush your throat with my foot, you know, that tube that lets you breathe is sitting right there," he brushed his throat with the tip of his toes.