The Wytch's Solitude

Chapter 3

                   Maston was locked in his room again. It was an task to accomplish. Without a gift, he held almost no chance of escape even if he were stubborn enough to try. With a block of wood barring the other side of the door, he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. He looked about his tiny room and let out a sigh. He was in for another several days without much of anything to do.

                   He lay in his bed, staring up at the thatch roof. Due to his youth he pondered for a while how the roof kept rain from coming in. Was it coated in some sort of substance? Was it magick? Maybe it just never rained on his house. No, that couldn't be it, he could hear it pitter-patting whenever it came down. He had noticed that a lot, actually. This was long from the first time he had been locked up. His father, Clay, had no qualms about stowing him away for long periods of time. Maston only blamed himself for that.

                   Like many times before, he held his hands in front of his eyes. They were just like any other other child's, if maybe a little smaller than some of the other boys'. He often wondered if it was just an illusion that only he saw. Everyone else seemed to see a monster, someone atrocious, someone not quite human. It made his heart ache thinking about it, so he adverted his gaze from his own body. He looked toward the window.

                   Moonlight shone into the room in thin, dim beams, but other light flashed in from the torchlight that lit up the whole of Gliccal at night. The light flickered about the room and ruined any sort of night vision that might be formed, forcing its way past the thin metal bars that prevented Maston's escape. This is what Lissa must feel all the time. It was a thought that he had on more days than not. He'd only been let out the day before and had already lost his freedom in less than a full sun's worth of time.

                   She must think I'm a monster too. She must...

                   Maston sank a little further into his straw mattress, which crinkled and poked at him. He wore the exact same outfit that he always wore, brown tunic and leather trousers. They were both getting too small now and constricted his movement, but they were all he had. His father never bought him anything, and that was his fault too. He toyed with a loose string on his tunic.

         I barge into her home whenever I please, and I get to leave whenever I want as well. It must be like a splash of cold water to her face every time I show up. It must be why she always lashes out at me. She would probably choose anyone else if she could.

                   He exhaled a slow breath and closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled, and he did his best to ignore it. He felt vaguely jealous of Lissa. She was so tough and he felt like a crybaby, and this was only one night of going to bed without supper. Further, he had breakfast earlier that day. Worse, he felt like this every time he got locked up, and he sometimes considered not going to visit his only friend at all.

                   With a silenced moan, he flopped over on his pillow. I am a monster.

                   When he inhaled, he could taste a combination of the mildewed downs of his decrepit pillow and the stale, dry straw underneath him. It was familiar, in a bad way, and it made the young Maston fell a tear. Tears from years past stained that pillow; they, along with frequent bed-wettings when he was younger created that odor. It filled him with anger, which only made him cry harder. Once, he had tried to rip the cotton stitching of the pillow with his hands, but he was too weak. Always too weak.

                   He must have fallen asleep, because he awoke in a start. His brown tunic was darkened and sticking to his skin from sweat. A nightmare? He couldn't remember at all, but the heat of his body made him feel ill. He stripped down to his waist and discarded the cloth to the floor in a heap.

                   It was morning now, and well into it. Everything was lit up in his room, except his heart. That was only a single day, and his punishments worsened with each mistake. He had a long road ahead of hm. He knew the mistakes were all faults of his own, but he didn't feel he should be treated as severely when they weren't entirely in his control. He glanced about in the morning light at the dull room.

                   It was likely the only one like it in the entire village. It looked like any other place he'd ever been, but it was void of magickal life. He was reasonably sure there wasn't a spot in the village that lacked some kind of enchantment other than this one. Every spell he touched withered and died in a moment, which left him exposed to the weather at all times in the year. He had no magickal luxuries even though they cost so little. Maybe it had just been hot, not a nightmare at all. His dreams were like being awake, and there was never anything abnormal about the bad ones. Even when he was wake, he'd sometimes pinch himself just to make sure.

                   There was a jingle. This caught Maston's ears and drew his attention. Gliccal was a fairly quiet  place and, unlike the capital Ythmar, no one in the village carried enough metal to cause a noise like that unless they were trying. He slowly paced to the barred window and squeezed his nose in between, pressing his face against old iron. He peered out, but couldn't see anything.

                   Someone, somewhere, said something. It was unintelligible to his ears. He could tell that it wasn't exactly good news by the bland way it was announced, but it was important enough that the denizens gathered to hear. There were collective gasps and sighs. A lady started crying and eventually people started to make their way around to his side of the house.

                   Gliccal wasn't known for the subtly of its people. It was strange to see Heuston Greller, the portly miller, walk past with his wife under one arm. Their eyes were downcast and neither bothered to peep up at Maston as they walked past. He always drew stares of distrust, but to get nothing made him feel even more alone. The aberration left him lost with his thoughts. He continued to stare for hours until the pale yellows of morning had turned into the bright orange of afternoon. His cheeks were numbed before he glanced to his undoubtedly locked door, peeling his face from the cool metal.

                   Stoically, the door hadn't moved all day. Normally he would have been brought some kind of meager meal. Maybe he had pushed his father too far this time. Maston fought the urge to double over and crossed back to his bed. He rested on its rough surface and curled up. He stared into his knees and tried to block out his feelings. He wanted to cry out for nourishment or attention, but knew it would only prolong the endeavor, at best. His father reviled in his son's torment.

         He drew in several deep breaths as he rested. Eventually his eyes lapsed shut, and when he awoke, he had past evening altogether and was left with darkness. The empty entry way where his food was normally set made him feel even worse. Inwardly, he swore that he would not visit Lissa again and took his promise back a moment later, thinking of Foreman. It was an obligation that neither of them had asked for.

                   Filling with anger and despair, he watched the world pass by outside. Valor was waning outside, while Justice sat motionless much further away and hadn't quite reached its fill of radiant light. He had often wondered why they were named like that, but hunger kept him focused. They were just the subjects of his gaze. They didn't occupy his mind tonight.

                   The smell of roasted meat, pig perhaps, wafted in through his window. It wasn't cooked well; you could smell the charred flesh in the air, but it agitated Maston's gut, which would not silence itself. The combination of his bed, that flesh, and urine and feces in the chamberpot across the room made him want to vomit. He needed a shower and could smell himself too, but it helped to keep his stomach from churning too badly. Breathing himself and trying to block out the other smells, he continued to watch until the closer moon was out of sight and dawn was approaching.

                   Heavy lids darted wide open once again as he heard the sound of a wagon approaching. His father was a merchant and often brought raw goods back into the village with him. Hope filled the pit inside his chest as he jumped to his feet and dashed to the window. His cheeks hit the bars a bit hard, but the pain in his stomach silenced the effect and his greedy gray eyes peered through the bars. The wagon was coming close, but it wasn't entering the village. It was on the path of going to the northern gates. His heart dropped in disappointment, but what he felt then compared to what he felt next was like a grain of sand in a cathedral.

                   His father was on that cart, along with several other men. They were dressed in cheap leather outfits, hardened with some sort of oil or grease. He was leaving, which meant that he had been present the entire time Maston was captive. His fathers gaze, normally like steel, looked weak, but it grew as sharp as a daggers edge as he passed by and noticed his son's stare.

                   Clay Fortheval felt no compassion as the cart groaned, rolling along in deep ruts that had been carved over years. His son was a creature like no other and, while he had only disliked his son before, he hated him now. The lottery that had decided who would be joining the front lines of the war near the border of Althang Forest had been just, but Clay couldn't help be see it as rigged. He had been chosen because of his sons misdeeds, for not being able to control what couldn't be tamed.

                   Clay was leaving, and that monster was going to stay locked up if he had any say in the matter. If the boy starved, so be it. Such was the balance of justice. One life for another. He challenged his son to scream out with a red-hot glare.

                   Maston tried to choke out words, wanted desperately to yell  that he needed to be let out, to let someone know he was there, but the words never reached his tongue. They were lost on the road of doubt, despair, and defeat. There was murder in his father's eyes. Faint from hunger and emotion, he fell to his feet. He stared at the wall, breathing in the scent of human waste. He wanted to cry, to feel something, but he felt broken. The tears never came. For two more nights he stared at the wall, seeking salvation from the Gods, but no sign came. By the third day he had abandoned hope and was resigned to his fate, too afraid to draw the attention of others in case his father returned.

                             The door creaked and Maston's hunger starved ears didn't even notice. He didn't know how long it had been since he had eaten. He had sustained himself poorly by drinking his own urine, and he reeked of it. He was in shambles. His eyes lied open, but his mind was shut.

                   Youth, long lost, reached the Elder's legs. They shuffled the man over to the boy as fast as someone half his age. He tried calling out to get the boy's attention, but earned no response. When his bony fingers touched at the boy's neck to find out if there was still a pulse, Maston recoiled. “By Vartha, you're alive. I worried you had ran away when your father left. What in the Heavens were you doing in here?”

                   Pastel Geiss had genuine worry in his voice, and his words carried Maston to muted tears. The old man left to Maston's dismay, but returned with the massive Foreman only a short time later. Foreman looked reluctant, but under an even stare given by the Elder, he bent down and lifted the boy into his arms. Exceptionally light from starvation, it still took Foreman considerable effort to get the boy back to the Elder's abode. Every second was agony. Saving the wretched Foretheval child made him sick and the magick that was severed while Foreman was in contact with the boy made his muscles feel atrophied.

                   Maston was set down on the Elder's own bed. It felt so different in Maston's weary mind than his own, and he found the comfort taking up all of his waning attention. While the Elder and Foreman argued, white noise in the background, Maston soaked up the sensation of the fresh down comforter that had been draped on his body, his chest still naked from the hot days previous. He had a fever and the cool sheets of cotton below his skin felt cool. He would toss to keep feeling it as the chill left, but his body wouldn't let him.

                   His mouth was opened and some frigid liquid was poured into his throat. The bitter edge to it shocked him, but it washed away the stale urine and plaque flavor that he had been tasting for days, and his parchment-dry throat soaked it up like scorched earth. He had been able to move before, but in the gentle caress of the bed he thought it was ironic that he couldn't move to find out what was going on. The humor of the situation escaped him.