Page 42 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ZEVANDER
Past …
Z evander let out a hiss, as Theron dabbed a healing tonic into his wound. “If I didn’t know better, I’d imagine you enjoy tormenting others as much as the General,” he grumbled, watching the fluid bubble over the freshly sewn gash across his abdomen, where he’d been struck too hard by a whip.
“And you must be entirely masochistic, the way you continue to suffer her punishments.” Annoyance colored his tone, his brows pulled tight. “You’ve not taken the elixir I gave you.”
Zevander didn’t bother to answer. The mere fact that he’d asked the question only stirred the suspicions he’d had about Theron’s intentions.
“You don’t trust me,” Theron said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Why in the gods would I trust the man who practically begged me to fall to my knees for her?”
“I told you what it does.”
“And I’m to believe you? I hardly know you. What do you gain from this? Without wounds to stitch, you’re useless to her.”
Lips pressed together, he lowered his gaze. “I’m attempting to keep you from suffering. It’s very simple. Submit to her, and you’ll avoid unnecessary punishment. Obedience is rewarded in this place. Defiance is a death sentence.”
Zevander let out a bitter laugh that stoked the flaming wound. “I’m content to suffer, if it means maintaining a shred of dignity and pride. I refuse to let her mold me into her perfect little slave.”
“Dignity and pride?” Theron waved his hand over Zevander’s scars. “You’ve not even seen the state of your back. A hearty rack of lamb has fewer cuts to the flesh.”
“Do you think the state of my flesh matters to me? I’ll gladly be whipped to a bloody pulp before I willingly let her?—”
“Is it not better to submit than to be broken?”
It was a wonder Zevander hadn’t cracked his teeth, as hard as he gnashed them. “I’d find greater peace in being crushed to dust, burned to ashes, than attempting to convince myself that I belong to her. To this fucking place.”
“Has no one ever taught you that survival sometimes requires you to lay down your weapons.” Theron held out his arms, where long, white scars marred his flesh. “You think I haven’t attempted to fight? These are the last scars she ever put on my body. Mostly healed.”
“That isn’t survival. It’s surrender. And at what expense? Better to die fighting, than live shackled.”
He winced as if the comment had wounded him, as if Zevander had struck a nerve. “The chains are temporary, if you can find a way to be useful.”
“Then, teach me to mend wounds, like you do.” When Theron quickly glanced away, Zevander chuckled. “You can’t bear the thought of being replaced and returned to your own chains, can you?”
“The elixir…take it on your own this eve, when the general is away. See for yourself what it does. At the very least, you’ll sleep soundly.
” He pushed to his feet and stared down at him.
“I’ve grown weary of convincing you. Your wounds become more severe the longer you defy her.
One day, my friend, they will become your tragedy. ”
T he moon sat high in the sky, as Zevander stared out one of the archways, the cool evening breeze a welcomed transition from the suffocating heat from earlier.
Below him stretched miles of Solassion territory, completely inaccessible, as the balcony sat perched over a steep cliff thousands of meters above solid ground.
Not unlike the cave where he’d slept in the mines, only far less treacherous.
He’d already studied every possible means of escape, but General Loyce, ever so thorough, had created a very effective cage.
A book of Solassion gods lay in his lap, one of the very limited variety of texts he was allowed access to, and Zevander had decided it was best to keep his mind sharp, his thoughts tethered to something, to avoid spiraling into the maddening horrors to which he’d been subjected, but as he stared down at the ampoule in his palm, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of escape it might offer.
He pushed it around with this thumb, the tiny ridges of all the glyphs he’d learned reminding him that there was something more outside of this place. Fortunately, the scars from his glyphs were only noticeable by touch, or he’d have probably been strung up for using magic.
He glanced toward Theron, who lay with his back to him, seeming to sleep. Zevander’s fresh wounds inflicted by Loyce had kept him up most of the night—a constant reminder that even if his mind slipped away during those abuses, his body suffered and Caligorya was temporary. Dangerous.
Perhaps the ampoule would be a safer means of escape.
He snapped away the cap, releasing the scent of roots and leaves, and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint—a burnt scent that hit the back of his throat.
He poured the fluid into his most recent wound.
The newly sewn gash sizzled, and Zevander let out a quiet hiss as the icy liquid seeped into his flesh, his battered and aching ribs screaming in pain when he shifted his body.
In seconds, it numbed the wound.
Seconds more, and a tingling sensation spread like branching crystals of ice across his abdomen, up to his chest.
He rested his head against the wall, smiling as every ache and pain melted into a cold, dull bliss. His heart slowed, and a heavy silence invaded his mind, snuffing out the flurry of thoughts from before.