Not appeased in the slightest with my unopened peace offering, she twitches her tail and stomps her hooves on the dirt packed floor. Rolling my eyes, I unlace the bag and present her with the one item that’ll exonerate my perceived betrayal. A juicy red apple.
Always quick to forgive once food’s involved, she bumps her head to my chest and nuzzles my neck. I laugh when she ignores the single apple in my palm to dive into the bag that contains half a dozen of the fruit along with sugar cubes. Apples clunk together as she burrows for her prize until she suddenly rears back, her ears pinned in alarm. She expels a whinnied breath while shaking her head and almost tramples me to death when she turns her back on me, effectively spurning my bribe.
Peering into the sack, I expect to find a spider or something equally repulsive to her, but I only see apples and sugar cubes.
“Don't you want a treat?” I ask, ducking my head in an effort to attract her gaze. Layla flicks her head and snorts, dismissing me once again.
That's odd.
Frowning, I set the satchel in the corner of the stall farthest away from her and rotate the fruit at eye level. It's ripe, perfectly formed, lacks any pits or blemishes, and is otherwise typical in its appearance. Inhaling through my nostrils, I search for the distinctive taint of poison, but find nothing. Unable to identify anything out of the ordinary, but suspecting Layla’s instincts may have perceived something I can’t, I shrug internally and take a small bite. Swishing the crumbled fruit within my mouth, I try to find the cause of her rejection, but the only flavors I detect are the sweet tartness native to the fruit. Preparing to swallow, I hesitate before doing so and that's when I taste it.
There it is.
Faint but present, I spit out the foul fruit. Digging for a sugar cube, I inhale an investigatory sniff, but meet with equally empty results. It’s only when I lick it that I'm able to detect it, and when I do, I’m instantly accosted. Now familiar with the foul essence, the once faint flavor is overpowering in its toxicity and I notice little else.
Grabbing a brush, I murmur apologies and consoling words to Layla in an attempt to ease her agitation, sweeping the soft brush through her short hairs. Her ears rest outwards and she nickers her appreciation as I calm her with the brush’s soothing strokes. Careful to apply minimal pressure, I gently coast the soft bristles across the numerous silver scars slashed across her sides. The contact doesn't hurt her anymore, but the skin is tight and often aches when overworked. It's unlikely grooming will irritate the old wounds, but I prefer to be cautious nonetheless.
The door to the stables creaks open and a beam of light streaks through, darkening once more when it clatters shut. Layla's ears prick up at the sound and I spread my senses outwards, searching for the source of her discomfort. A cool wave of steadfast calm washes over me and I pat her side reassuringly as light footsteps tread in our direction. Layla's nostrils flare, scenting for the interloper, and once discovering for herself what I've already confirmed, her anxiety settles and she leans in to me, a silent request to resume my ministrations.
The sound of straw crunching beneath boots precedes Tristan's smooth voice. “I thought I'd find you here.”
“That wouldn't have been difficult to surmise.” Setting the brush down on a wood stool, I turn to face him.
Arms draped over the door to the stall, the mark on Tristan's cheek pulls taut as he smirks. “Not difficult at all, given the events of today.”
I internally cringe and drop my eyes, straw whispering beneath my boots as I move towards the corner of the stall where I placed the pail. Dipping my hand in the sheet of glassy water, I retrieve a cloth of sheepskin and ring out the excess liquid. Not necessarily embarrassed, but aware my earlier antics may have made our visit more problematic than necessary, I wipe Layla’s face while avoiding Tristan's gaze.
“How’s she doing?” he asks, jerking his head towards Layla.
“She hates it here,” I reply, grateful for the change of topic. Layla bumps her head with mine and I chuckle, stroking her neck. “She feels trapped and alone. It reminds her of her time before we came along.” My eyes dart to her gouged side, recalling the condition we found her in. I wrap my arms around her neck and comb my fingers through her mane, consoling her as much as myself.
Mutilated, broken, and drained of blood, Layla was only a few stilted breaths away from death when we found her unconscious form dumped in the middle of the woods. Imprisoned for weeks – possibly months – her captors dissected and tortured her unto the brink of death. Once her abusers determined her body was no longer of any use to them, they discarded her as if she was nothing more than trash, instead of a living, breathing creature whose only crime was expecting kindness where there was none. It still sickens me the way those religious zealots felt justified in tormenting an animal widely known to possess the purest of souls, stripping her of her very essence, all in a perverted quest for power that was never intended for them.
Fortunately, she was able to recover, though it was long, painful, and arduous. But with time and patience, Layla’s wounds sealed, her bones mended, her blood replenished, and her mind slowly but surely healed. She’s still loving and gentle as expected of her species, but she’s also fierce and strong. A warrior in her own right. It saddens me to see how such an anguished darkness intruded upon a soul it never should have inhabited, but it also gives me a guilty relief knowing she now has the knowledge necessary to protect herself from the atrocities that are sure to come.
Layla’s wounds may have healed, but her scars will always remain. Most days she has little difficulty coping with her trauma, but when she has to be cooped up like she is now and is unable to do as she pleases, the memories resurface along with all those dark emotions. Yet, as difficult as these times are, she always finds a way to persevere, but it seems her time in Cascadonia is more trying than usual. More distressing. It’s as if she senses something wrong with this place. Something unnatural and wicked in this Kingdom of Jewels.
“That's to be expected,” Tristan says. “She’s not accustomed to being stabled for so long.”
I shake my head. “It’s more than that, it’s this place. It’s cold and sinister. I feel it, too.”
Frowning at me, he pops a foot on the door, rattling it as he folds his arms over his chest. “What do you mean?”
“I don't know how to explain it.” Frustrated, I toss the cloth into the pail, sloshing water over the sides and onto the hay strewn floor. “It's nothing specific. It’s just…” The treats I brought with me catch my eye and I grab the bitten apple, tossing it to Tristan, who catches it one handed. “It's like this apple. I offered it to Layla and she refused to eat it.” Rummaging through the sack, I pull out a sugar cube. “This sugar cube? She took one sniff and turned away. Normally, she’d eat a whole wagon of them and beg for more, but she won't touch it. Won't even come near it.”
Tristan eyes the apple warily. “Are they poisoned?”
“No, I tasted both myself, but … Just try it. You'll see.”
Tristan takes a bite out of the apple, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “What's wrong with it?” Grabbing the sugar cube from me, he pops it into his mouth and considers it just the same.
“It's sweet and crisp, exactly as it should be, but…” I hesitate, unable to voice my thoughts. “It's like there's a taint to it. A foul bitterness shrouded beneath its natural flavor. It's faint, barely noticeable, but when you do, it's all you can taste.” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, my mouth watering as I try to dislodge the insidious flavor. “Its venom still lingers on my tongue, drowning me in its filth and pervading my blood, blackening my veins with its vileness. It feels as if I'll never be rid of its toxins.”
Attempting to peer through the wizened wood of the stable wall, I envision the rich kingdom that lays beyond with their beautiful people and jewels. “It’s like this place. It screams wealth, prosperity, and beauty, but there's a poison leaching into their realm; a cancerous malevolence burrowed beneath the soil, injecting its filth into the very hearts of their people. It slowly corrupts and defiles their souls until they’re nothing but a twisted, warped echo of themselves.”
Imagining that oozing blackness thickening my blood and permeating my soul, I wrap my arms around myself, attempting to stave off the invasion. “Can’t they see it? If I can, then they must as well. Yet they do nothing.” A feeling of defeat surges within me, crushing me beneath its Fate Blessed feet and I hug myself tighter. “How can they be so unwilling to acknowledge the filth within their own land? The rot within their own brethren?” I unwrap my arms and reach for the fresh blanket I brought for Layla, placing it across her back. “Maybe I'm overcomplicating this. Maybe it's simpler than that,” I whisper. “Maybe they just don't care.”
“Or maybe they aren't aware,” Tristan argues gently. Opening the gate for me, he eyes me gravely as I pass through. “The person that you are, the way you were raised and your past ordeals, you're equipped to see what others cannot. Most people have never experienced evil – not evil in its purest form, anyway. They lack the necessary skills to recognize the signs of true darkness.” His grave expression contorts, raw anguish lining his face and hoarsening his voice. “Unlike you and me.”
My body becomes rigid, breath expelling in a rush when memories once secured in the deepest part of my mind resurface in a flash.
It's over. Don't think about it. You're safe. You're safe.
I swallow thickly and force my muscles to relax, locking the stable door along with the vault to the memories best left forgotten.
Noticing his trembling fingers when he opens the squeaking stable door, I link my arm through his and rub his arm, urging him to lock away his own nightmares.
I hum to myself as we stroll down the street, watching as the Gods Light lanterns spark to life with the waning sun, listening to the owner of the spice shop closing up for the night, hearing the baker shoo away a bunch of rowdy youths at her doorstep, and trying, yet failing, to ignore the countless stares and fervent whispers.
“You put on quite the spectacle earlier,” Tristan notes.
I guess it was naive to think he would simply ignore the incident. Although I doubt anyone could, with all the glares and awed faces tracking our every step.
“It seems being discreet may no longer be an option,” he adds with my continued silence. “It may make a difficult situation even more so.”
“I suspect you may be right.” Peering up at him, I feel a pinch of guilt when I see the lines hardening his face, his tightened lips, and his narrowed gaze as he stares straight ahead. For someone who's most comfortable concealed within shadows, this isn’t the ideal situation for him. Not for me either, but at least I’ve grown accustomed to it.
“You disapprove,” I say; a statement, not a question. “You think I should have submitted.”
