Addy's luck [992]
I've written songs for a long time but never attempted to write a story like this. Man, dialogue sure is though. I'll probably write other scenarios before moving on to something bigger but I would love to hear if you think there is even somethingt here. Any feedback is appreciated. Dont worry, my skin is even thicker than my skull :)
Addy's luck.
Do not look at your wrists, avoid tension at all costs, and above all, don't let the rope get wet.
These three rules are what kept me from thinking about the never-ending chafing most of the time. I had, however, yet to devise a plan to stop the thoughts of blisters on battered feet.
These are made for trips and maybe walks, I think, looking down, not for any of this—this marching for days on end like some king's man.
Forgetting myself, I quickly look back ahead, making sure not to let her out of my sight, and swiftly match the pace again.
Under a pitch-black sky, we walk along a ravine on something that could barely be called a path, just visible by the lantern's soft glow. Walls of sharp black stone surround us and grow tall and then taller, each step taking us deeper into the heart of the world. Our light seemed to wane against these depths, until looking up would no longer tell me if the stone had ended where the night began.
Further along, the path broadened, and vines the size of tree branches started to appear—crawling across the jagged floor like spidery legs, sprouting from the most unlikely places, and seemingly all too happy to be yet another source of friction.
Inevitably, it isn't too long before I stumble on one of the damn bastards and quite unnecessarily relearn rule two, as the rope cuts into the tender red skin around my wrist. Trying not to cry out, I take one big breath and call to her in my smoothest tone possible, "Ghaela."
A moment passes; then I hear a sigh, and she responds, "Apoles," in a manner somehow even smoother.
That annoys me, but it isn't what sets my teeth on edge.
"Do NOT call me by that name!" I say, much louder than intended. "As I've told you many times, my name is Addy. Just Addy." I unsuccessfully try to keep the scorn out of my voice as I say the last part.
"Got it," Ghaela says, seemingly unbothered by my sharp delivery. "How about this: I'll just call you... my prisoner. Might be the shortest road to understanding, eh?"
So we're amused, are we? I think, thoroughly infuriated, knowing she's wearing her favourite grin just by watching the muscles on the side of her face pull tight.
"Well, this prisoner," I say, letting the last word drip from my mouth like poison, "is quite done with this ridiculous pace and these rotten vines. Did your employer not give orders to keep whomever you're meant to be catching intact? Or do they like their prisoners shaven down to the core by the time they even arrive at the bloody place?"
Ghaela lets out a heavy breath and stops walking. Barely audible, I catch her murmur to herself, "Understanding is never easy, eh?"
She turns to me and gives me the well-rehearsed grin. "Pri-so-ner," she says, speaking as though I am slow, "if you really want to know... I believe the exact words my employer used were: 'Bring me the vile bitch in one piece and at any cost.'"
Then, frustratingly, Ghaela just stands there as if this were any kind of explanation at all. After a beat, she already begins to turn away, but I quickly thrust my bound wrists toward her, dried blood plainly visible.
"So, what do you think damaged goods are, hmm?" I say, speaking as if she's the slow one now. "Blood is a piece of me, didn't you know?"
Ghaela rolls her eyes then, but it is my turn to sigh. "Look... I don't know who you think you've captured, but this little odyssey has surely given you plenty of evidence that I am no one of particular might. There isn't a chance of me besting anyone, let alone a gorilla like you, so I don't see why this 'vile bitch' can't get a single break and simply... sit for a while."
Surprisingly, Ghaela now gives me a genuine smile. "Gorilla, eh? Always like hearing new ones," she chuckles. "For what it's worth, I agree with you, wouldn't mind it myself."
About to burst with relief, I say, "So then let..."
But before I can finish, her amusement disappears and she tells me in a stern voice, "At any cost, remember?" She points at each in turn. "These vines, this rope, and even those poor feet are not what should worry you—and they certainly don't worry me."
Perplexed by her words, we just stare at each other for a moment. This is the first time she has shown me anything other than that easy-going demeanour of hers, and I'm surprised by how much I dislike it. The anger I'd been holding leaves my body like water pouring from a broken cup.
With a nervous chuckle, I awkwardly ask, "And what then should I be worried about, exactly?"—a feeling of dread steadily building inside me.
"It's often that what is behind us, eh?" she says it with an almost neutral expression—but, for just a split second, was there fear there?
I slowly turn my head and stare into the black abyss of stone and shadow, wondering if anything in that darkness, right now, is staring back. The shivers down my spine are cut short by the sharp, familiar sting of the rope as Ghaela picks up her soldier's march once more. Fear keeps any retort stuck in my throat, and I miserably fall in behind my captor.
The renewed silence, broken only by the sound of our steps, feels somehow even more smothering than before. I quickly look away when I catch the added pain from staring at my wrist and, for just a second, glance up at the dark sky hanging ominously above.
Has my luck run off? I solemnly ask myself.
But remarkably, as if those dark clouds were listening, they answered with raindrops.