Charles the Writer

Sharp?

A voice called to him through the darkness. Someone familiar. A flitting strand of consciousness mustered a faint twitch of recognition, grudgingly lifting itself from the sanctuary of unbeing.

Sharp… Sharp!

His mind refused to budge further. It kept itself tucked away, clinging to blackness. His captors were likely playing a cruel game, teasing his resumption into the physical world, beckoning his return to the realm of suffering yet to end.

…a world where tongue had been sliced away and his eyes sewn shut. He was branded with searing hot pokers more times than he could count. His flesh had been expertly maimed in daily rituals. Certain parts of his being were spared by design and taunted by his captors. We’re saving your eyes to pay witness to your friend’s capture and execution. Then we’ll gouge those out as well. There was the regular occurrence of being forcibly aroused and straddled by a succubizing Sorceress, who seared his appendage with the most defiling sensations, pulsing their agonizing reminders long after the deed was done. Pain was as constant as the air he breathed… the very marrow in his bones ached. The entirety of his senses were assaulted in escalatingly creative, unspeakable ways. The ability to cry out had been stolen from him. Awful, guttural sounds took the place of screams.

…

The mental grasp of time has almost completely abandoned him. A small, barred cell window, barely larger than a brick, was the only constant which brought him any semblance of peace in life. He recounted two past instances of snow settling on its unadorned sill, separated by substantial lengths of time. I’ve been here two years, give or take? Charles surmised in a half-conscious haze. He made certain never to be caught observing the window by his captors, lest risking his relocation to another cell and further cementing his isolation. Though he longed for the release of death, his faint hope of seeing Nena again, even as a prisoner beside him, kept his flame of survival flickering.

Sharp! Please, Sharp! Again, that frantic voice. Charles wished, with every shattered piece of his existence, that it would simply go away.

It’s me, it’s Nena! Please look at me, Sharp. Please let me know you’re there. I’m here to get you out!

Bulbous tears began to spill through the narrow openings of Charles’ eyelids.

_____

The queen’s armies spread like kindled paper westward, towards the lands of Narh. Towns and Villages along the way were occupied and assimilated, or simply burned to the ground. The Shimmering Kingdom was guided by hubris, calling upon a late messiah’s prophecy to justify their unrelenting conquest. They called themselves the Bringers of Truth. Those that despised them colloquially called them Brutes (an auditory composite of ‘Bringer’ and ‘Truth’), or Shims.

Eventually, perhaps inevitably, there was discord within the queen’s ranks. Charles Le’Marque revealed himself as a disparaged, high-ranking general who recognized and condemned the Shimmering Kingdom’s brutalities. There were upheavals, uprisings and betrayals, slowing the expansion to a near standstill.

A fierce, strategically important battle ensued at the Soone beachead, near the hamlet of Praet. Many commoners died during the fiery battle, cut down by incoming artillery. Le’Marque’s opportunistic and determined forces finally gained the upper hand, and much of the advancing regiment was forced into retreat. Charles took the opportunity to survey the scorched remnants of Praet, gathering his thoughts amidst the smoldering carnage. He noticed a small girl in the distance and made his approach.

“What’s your name, little one?” Charles asked as he kneeled beside the girl. A horrendous chunk of wood fell to the charred ground, sending cinders airborne beside them.

“Nena,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. To Charles she seemed immune to shock, as if the internal mechanisms to process grief were absent; she was simply too young to understand the fact that her parents were likely dead.

“Hey there, Nena. I’m Charles. Stay close, okay? I’ll get you out of here.”

“…Sharples?” Nena asked, curiosity plastered on her face. Charles smiled.

“Close enough. Just call me Sharp, all right?”

Nena responded with a series of hasty nods. “Will you help me find my brother, Sharp?”

Charles took a moment to answer, but an unshakable look of agreement never wavered. “Yeah. We’ll find him. Let’s get somewhere safe first.”

Nena grew up quickly, becoming an unbridled Master of the Blade, earning her reputation outside the prestigious military academies. She was well-spoken and lovely and captured the attention of countless suitors. Nena and Sharp had countless adventures together, side by side, unshakable confidants against the Shimmering’s Kingdom’s conquest. There was deep love between them without breaching intimacy, but the day arrived when Charles’ wife died of an illness… from there he seemed to spiral, despite Nena remaining steadfast at his side. Hard times followed, mishaps, mistakes and discouraging defeats. It almost seemed liked his capture by the Shimmering Guard was a direct consequence of his grief.

____

Charles heard the sound of fumbling jailer’s keys followed by a long, lingering creak. His cell door had opened. Someone immediately took to loosening his chains with dedicated effort, prompting a series of satisfying clank-clung-clangs! to tumble around his rotted seat in the middle of the cell. Once he was freed, Charles took his cue to stand to his feet, and subsequently collapsed onto his knees with a loud thud. His strength simply wasn’t there, even for walking. He desperately want to cry his apology, to beg his pardon. What was left of his tongue flapped uselessly against the roof of his mouth.

Nena acted quickly, seemingly prepared for this eventuality. “Here,” Nena said while passing something into his palms. “Eat this. And hurry.”

Charles accepted a bundle of what felt like butcher’s paper in his hands. He opened it quickly but cautiously and a fleshy mound revealed itself against his fingertips. A glimpse of airy, glowing cyan made its way through the thin slits of eyelids. Without hesitation, he seized and shoved it into his mouth. It crudely crawled down his throat with a methodical series of swallows. It tasted simultaneously sweet and meaty.

Very soon afterwards, Charles felt a surge of strength course throughout his limbs. The incessant shadows of pain receded themselves from his being. An inadvertent grunt of pleasure escaped his lips.

“Come on,” Nena encouraged, helping Charles climb to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

The escape that followed was like a dream. Moments rolled by like ocean waves. Where are my captors? Charles considered on numerous occasions as he was guided by Nena’s hand through what seemed like a series of corridors. Occasionally he heard nearby commotion; what seemed like isolated battles, the clangs of iron and desperation. He assumed that his torturers were predisposed, fighting for their lives. Perhaps some of them were already dead. He smiled at the thought.

Eventually the sounds of commotion seemed far behind them, and Charles could sense Nena relax somewhat. They were in a clearing somewhere, the bright half-moon hanging overhead, and a camp had been prepared for their arrival.

After Nena collected herself with a few breaths, she turned to face Charles and fully take him in. A soft gasp left her lips.

“Gods above, Sharp.” Nena reached and cupped his cheek with a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “What did those animals do to you?”

Charles forced a trembly smile. A strange feeling of embarrassment crawled along his skin. He must have looked like absolute hell. Yet his tall, rugged features refused to wither, and a pair of emerald-speckled chocolate eyes had yanked his eyelids slightly open. A pinkish birthmark across his abdomen showed through his tattered prisoner clothing. There was a deep, familiar scar that crawled across his left cheek, accompanied by more recent superficial abrasions. Charles had lost a fair amount of weight, but his imposing stature remained, a miracle by the grace of Those Above. A thin beard blessed his face, like coarse carpet; he could never muster a Sorcerer’s tapering mane if given eternity to do so.

Nena blinked, a slight tear collecting at the corner of her left eye, before she wrung the emotions from her mind like a sponge.

“We’re heading through the forest. It’ll take a week or so, but there’s someone waiting for us in Caryen.”

Charles stared thoughtfully at Nena. The forests of Ellam were largely uncharted, but the icy wastelands of Caryen promised another tribulation entirely. Nevertheless, Charles kept his concerns tucked away. Nena had a plan, and he trusted her implicitly.