CHAPTER 1953: WHITE HEART - PART 2

"It was a bit strange, to be honest... Merchant doctors they were meant to be. They owned you, and knew that if you wanted to be free again, they’d get to work you to the bone. But that should be it, right? It never made sense to me. It was always shocking. They put shackles on my wrist, in exchange for my life, and they told me my situation... That should have been enough. But people always want more. They didn’t have to use the whip as much as they did, they didn’t have to torment the others."

Nila quietly listened, as Oliver’s frown had grown deeper, as he recounted something that he refused to ever bring up to her. Whenever the topic was mentioned, he would treat it with the highest degree of dismal, and simply wave his hand, and declare that he’d survive it, so there was nothing more to say.

"There were ten of us at first, just from my village," Oliver said. "We swore to get through it together. But... They could have gotten through. I’m sure of that. Those merchants though – they didn’t do what they said. It wasn’t about coin, Nila. In using those men and women like they did, they ruined their own purses. They killed them far earlier than they ought to have been."

"I thought at first, maybe I could do something. At least there were people I knew. I didn’t have mother or father anymore, and I couldn’t protect my little sister, but I thought maybe I could protect these people, and we could focus on surviving together."

The twist of Oliver’s lips increased as he recounted that, and his eyes started to glitter, threatening to spill over into tears. He bit his lip, caught in the memory now.

"The first woman," Oliver said. "I knew her as long as I’d known my own mother. She was lovely, Nila. She’d always make little cakes, and if you were lucky enough to pass by her when they were ready, she’d be quick to offer you one. She wasn’t made for work digging, or clearing lumber. She was a good cook – they should have used her like that. I remember shouting when they were beating her. ’SHE’S A COOK! SHE’S A COOK! DON’T KILL HER!’."

The tears came properly now, as Oliver remembered it. His fingers curling into his palm, jabbing the nails into the skin. "Three of them... Three grown men, just around this poor woman on the floor. They just kept hitting her, and hitting her, with those sticks of theirs. That wasn’t about money, Nila... It wasn’t... And I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t fight against the chains. I let her down."

"You didn’t!" Nila said. "You were only a boy. And you were wounded too, what could you be expected to do?"

"Everything," Oliver said fiercely. "I should have done so much more. I should have been stronger. Who were they, to beat her as they did? I should have been stronger... I should have been able to protect them. I’m always far too weak. Even now, with Asabel..."

"Oliver, you can’t!" Nila said, twisting around, and grabbing him, as fiercely as Oliver was talking. Her own sort of anger now. "Will you attempt to take on everything yourself? You’ll tear yourself apart. Asabel wasn’t your fault!"

"I’m always too weak, Nila. Always," Oliver said. "I’m never where I ought to be. Those years, those seven long years, and what did I do apart from survive? I did nothing!"

Nila hit him. A strike across the cheek. Truly angry now. "I will not have you tell me that was nothing," she said. "You lived. You survived. You were a boy, Tempest. And who was there for you? There was no one. You should have been the one getting looked after, but you had everything taken from you. You’re so strong, you silly man. To be in that situation, and be trying to look out for other people. You lost everything, and still you were like that..."

"I’m not," Oliver croaked, shaking his head, the tears running. "I’m not..."

He’d spoken too much to her, he was sure. He’d revealed a vulnerability in his heart that shocked even himself. He was quite certain he was fine, that he’d reorganized that part of himself, and addressed it. That it wasn’t a big deal. Other people had endured worse, he was quite sure. The world was full of tragedy. He didn’t need to dwell on his own. He had always kept marching quietly forward.

But when he said it aloud, seven years – seven years... That came as a shock to him. It made his eyes widen, as he wondered just how that boy had survived for so long. Seven years of that. Seven years of fitful sleep, for fear of the man that would come to awaken him in the dead of night, and drag him off by his arm, and treat him to a few lashes of the whip, a deal of laughter, just for drunken sport. Seven years of quietly enduring. Seven long, long hard years.

He could not fathom it. It made his breath catch in his throat. It made him tremble with fear.

He slept that night, or attempted to, with such a thing on his mind. The blood rushing out of old scars. Seven years. The scenes from that time. The constant hunger. The exhaustion. The guilt. But above all, that terrible, trembling fear.

He shook as his consciousness faded. His body remembering, even if his mind didn’t wish to. It creaked for the agony of it. It beat with a fastness that brought that fear to approaching terror. He could hear Nila’s breath come a little slower next to him. Sleep had taken her as well. Alone now, alone in the darkness that he had once so feared as a boy, and alone with those terrible thoughts.

The fire had died out, and the woods were filled with violent noises. Every crack of a stick from a bird or passing animal brought the harshest tremble from him, as his body flinched, warning him of the danger that they were once in, instructing him towards alertness. His mind allied with it, and conjured all sorts of demons in the darkness, lurking just on the edge of the clearing. Their quiet laughter filling the air around him. Their strength fed entirely upon the terrors of the past.