The night air was frigid with the rising scents of winter and the reek of blood and vomit. Ezhilan Marai stared down at his son, blinking in that unwavering drunken stupor of his. Ethiraan scowled, picking at the hem of his tunic. His father slapped his hands away, prodding the curve of his spine until, almost methodically, Ethiraan straightened up, squaring his frail shoulders. “This is my son, as promised.”
“He is terribly skinny— even more so than me. Do you feed the boy at all, Ezhilan?” Before them, the russet eyes of a drabby woman tore down Ethiraan’s body, inspecting the boy’s every crevice until his very soul was bared for her to see. She was impossibly macilent, her silver hair clinging to her begrimed skin. From the folds of her azure satin gown, her bones protruded, her back hunched over a cane used more for vanity than out of necessity. “Whatever, I care not. I am in need of more boys to sell either way. Hand him over and you will be paid a quarter of the price he is bought for.”
Nausea curled in his gut as Ethiraan fought back his wavering fear. He should never have agreed to come with his father. “Only a quarter? I came to you because we have history that predates even my wife, Tythia. I know of your desperation and I have brought you a gift,” The man gestured baldly to his son. “I want half.”
The woman chortled, “You are one cold man, Ezhilan. But you know what, I’ll agree to those ridiculous terms. But only because we have history, as you said.” She quirked her brow, smirking.
Shuddering to himself, the thirteen-year-old canted his head to one side, begging, praying with any saint that would listen to guide him back home. But home was over the horizon, home was in the hands of his sister who would be waiting by the front door when dawn awoke the lands. She would sway on the balls of her feet, waiting, as always, for him to take her to market and buy her the bits of cheap chocolate sold by the bay. And they would stand in the gelid morning mists as Ethiraan braided her hair back from her face. However, Carran was an hour’s ride away on horseback. Wherever they were, he knew that his father had not only brought him outside the confines of the city, Duvrion, but also the country.
The soil had gone from a bleak, ashen grey to rich, vivacious red. The woodlands were teeming with a myriad of trees. In the eyes of a boy, the shadows betwixt the barks slithered like an oily serpent. In the eyes of a boy, the contraption of wood and stone before him had not been a mere warehouse but rather a prison. The assemblage of people in the courtyard, each one shackled to the next person, swayed back and forth as they waited in line for reasons Ethiraan could not yet fathom. The pallid shafts of setting moonlight gilded their restraints almost hauntingly. The mansion was tucked in a lonesome clearing, concealed by the darkness of the nameless forest. And as for the woman before him, his father had told Ethiraan she was but a meek peddler. But there was a serrated whip in her hand. And behind her, the backs of those disrobed individuals had been flayed. Ethiraan frowned, tears brimming in his dark eyes. “Father, where are we?” He beseeched, voice straining over the cacophony of guttural moaning and the clash of whips against tearing skin in the distance.
“This is Tythia Moryin, son,” His father looked down at him, brown eyes ridden with a sadness Ethiraan didn’t quite understand.
“Ethi, everything will be okay,” Ezhilan promised, shoving his son forwards and into the arms of the grinning lady. Her pallid skin was leathery as her fingers clamped around his shoulder.
“I will take care of you, boy,” She crowed, cackling in a manner that might’ve been warm had it not been for the circumstance. Turning on his heel, he shoved the woman back, heart lurching as his spine went rigid. The woman fell onto her back and Ethiraan worried that she might’ve splinted her bones in the process. But he did not contemplate, he did not have room to think as he bolted into the treeline– the shouts of his father and that godforsaken woman ringing behind him.
A coldness he had never known before seized his body in rugged talons. The stygian shadows of the forest welcomed him in an embrace. But his slippers tore beneath him, his clothes ripping as they caught on jagged stray branches. And by the time he could no longer see the clearing behind him, his lungs burned and bile lurched up his throat. Heaving, he doubled over, body aching. He had to get back home. He needed to get back home. Home. He had left his family there. He had left Vaakiya there. But it didn’t matter how long he kept running, it never mattered at all what he wanted. Not once had his desires been of any vitality. So when his mortality slowed him down, when his feet grew leaden and the sweat drenching his clothes felt like molten fire, he fell– shrinking into the ground, yearning for the earth to simply part and swallow him whole. And in those moments, Ethiraan wished someone would hold him with at least a semblance of kindness. He wanted the roots of those trees to wrap around his bones until he became one with the woodlands. Until he simply disappeared.
As his eyes drifted shut, the angered barks of his father clanged through him like nails scraping over stone. And then, there were hands on his skin, lifting him up and up until he was thrown over someone’s shoulder.
This was his curse. This was the punishment for his trust. His damnation for being so desperate for love. Because when his father had dragged him out of bed with a smile on his face, when he had left home with the man, it had been a flickering trust that burned in his eyes. He had trusted Ezhilan despite knowing of his nature. And this is the price he would pay. And the only proof of his sin had been the red of blood that stained both his hands from holding out his beating heart and begging for love he knew he deserved. But still, the muscle only fractured like glass.
