The Mountain Ch. 03

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He gave her something to make her sleep. After the humiliating ordeal of being stretched out on the bed, tugged and pinched and poked, he had lifted her head and forced a glass of juice down her throat. She didn't remember anything else until she woke up, alone, curled in a tight ball on the same bed. For a panicked moment, she wondered if he had violated her while she slept. She inventoried her body, trying to feel if anything was different. But slowly, she convinced herself that this, at least, he had spared her.

He also must have been the one to drape the thin blanket over her naked body. The room was bitterly cold. And the temperature aside, she couldn't stand to lie here naked, alone, knowing that that man was likely to come back. She counted to five and then she leapt off the bed. The blanket pooled on the floor at her feet and she picked it up and draped it around her shoulders. She surveyed the room again to ensure that the warrior was not here, lurking in some unseen corner.

Her clothes were nowhere to be seen.

There were no windows--with a shudder, she remembered that.

There was a large, metal door on the far wall next to a wooden bench. She ran to the door and tried the handle. The knob creaked slightly at her touch, but it didn't budge, even when she grasped it with both hands and twisted and pulled. Flakes of rust came off on her hands, streaking her palms reddish brown. Impatient, she wiped them against the blanket.

Another scan. There were no more entrances or exits that she could see.

What if they had a fire? she thought. Okay, maybe mountains couldn't burn. But the things inside these rooms could. And if smoke filled these corridors, people would surely suffocate. Of course, there must be ventilation. She could breathe, even if she was still wracked with the horrible, heavy feeling that this would somehow cease to be true so deep inside the stone.

Shaking off thoughts of imagined disasters, Lucy focused on the one at hand. She was trapped in the room for now. But it was full of things that might be used as weapons. Perhaps of greater interest, there appeared to be a chest of drawers on the other side of the sleeping area that she reasoned might contain clothes. Determined, she walked towards it, realizing as she got closer that the door to a small, tiled bathroom--also no window--was open just beyond it. She opened a middle drawer of the dresser, reasoning that more personal items would be kept in the smaller drawers at the top. The third drawer she tried yielded a messy pile of worn, button-down shirts in a soft, flannel-like fabric. She picked one up and fingered the material, confident that it was thick enough to help ward off the worst of the chill. She didn't like the idea of wearing his clothes, but she liked the idea of being naked when he returned even less.

Before she could think much more about it, she pulled a shirt over her head, doing up the last of the buttons. It hung past her knees. Despite the disarray of the garments inside the drawers, they appeared to be clean. They carried the smell of soap. And underneath, faint but certain, the same spicy, earthy scent of the warrior.

She tried the other drawers, but there was nothing remotely capable of being fashioned into pants and his socks were so huge they wouldn't stay on her feet. On the mountain today, she and Sheera had been barefoot. It was common on the island. Resources were scarce and the weather was warm ten months out of the year. During the short, brutal winters, no one ventured outside if they could help it. Yet, inside the mountain, it was colder than the worst, snowiest day of the last winter. How did these creatures stand it?

She examined the rest of the room, poking into corners and pressing her palms against the stone walls due to the faint possibility of some kind of hidden tunnel or other escape. She made quick use of the tiny bathroom, using the toilet and splashing water on her face. There was a small nook past the living area with a table and chairs, but no sign of food. The space was sparse, but lived-in. It was messier and softer than she would expect from such a frightening person. Inside the desk, she found files and notebooks scrawled edge to edge in a language she didn't understand. Yet, in a bottom drawer, she also found a small collection of crayon drawings and a pile of letters tied with string. On top of the desk was a formal-looking fountain pen along with a collection of small plastic toys. One, she thought she recognized from a library book.

In the living room, there was something recessed into the wall high over her head. She was considered pushing over one of the chairs to examine it when the doorknob creaked. Startled, she darted back towards the bed like a rabbit disappearing into its hole at the shadow of a hawk. Unwilling to sit on the bed, she wedged herself against the footboard, trying to disappear into the wall.

Meek. Soft. Afraid.

It was only a little bit pretend.

The door opened on creaking hinges and the warrior came into the room. His eyes leveled on the bed and for a moment, his face registered surprise. A moment later, he found her hiding place and came towards her. He crouched at her level, boxing her in and surveyed her. His face showed little emotion, but she had the distinct sense that he was reading her and the wild thought that, somehow, he knew everything she had been doing and thinking since he had left.

"I thought I would be here before you awoke," he said finally. "But I see that I was not." He gave a small smile, taking in the shirt she was wearing. "You are not permitted to wear clothes without my leave," he continued easily. "I will decide what you wear and if you wear it. And being naked makes it more difficult for you to try to escape. But I find I am pleased to see you wearing my shirt." As he spoke, he reached out and fingered the collar, slipping his hand underneath for a brief moment to grasp her shoulder. "You're too thin," he said, standing up and abruptly changing the subject. "Are food supplies so low on the ground?"

She watched as he took off his jacket and tossed it over the chair at his desk. He untied his hair and let it fall loose, scratching idly at his scalp, as if relieved to be free of this aspect of his uniform.

"That was a question," he said, focusing on her again. "You will answer."

She couldn't tell him anything about the island. The warriors had not attacked in over a decade, but still, her people were virtually their prisoners. Not perhaps so profoundly as she was at the moment. But near enough.

"You must know how little food we are provided," she said finally.

"I know, too, that you supplement our generosity," he said, a warning note in his voice. "Tell me something more."

Feeling oddly certain that he would know if she lied, she offered a half-truth. "My family is poor," she said. "We hunt for most of our food and we haven't been lucky lately."

"Lucky," he said. "Hmm."

Lucy thought of Gino, her friend Harley's father, who was in charge of tending and distributing their food stores. He worked hard to try to ensure that everyone had enough. He had to make agonizing decisions--did a child deserve more? Or his ailing grandmother? The warrior's dismissal of his efforts made her angry.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

If he had commanded her to eat, she might have allowed herself to do it. But to admit any weakness seemed impossible. She shrugged lightly, hoping that this would satisfy him.

"Speak," he said, snapping his fingers at her. "And don't lie."

"I suppose I am hungry. I can't really feel anything."

This he accepted.

"Food is on its way, in either case. You will eat."

The question had never been about whether she was to be fed or not. The room was silent for a while. Lucy stayed still in the corner, hoping he would not ask any more questions. The warrior rifled through a drawer in his desk. He raised an eyebrow and shot a look in her direction. Remembering looking through that same drawer earlier, Lucy flinched.

"Did you understand any of it?" he asked, gesturing to one of the notebooks.

Lucy shook her head.

"Good."

A knock sounded. "Go into the bathroom and shut the door," he told her. She sat still for a moment, surprised at the command. "Go," he snapped, and Lucy realized she had forced him to repeat himself. She jumped up and did as he bid her, relieved to be away from him. She stood in the center of the room, waiting, and rubbing her hands over her arms. It was colder in here than in the main room. She heard the faint sound of voices in the other room and then the creak of the door closing. A moment later, he opened the door and gestured for her to follow him. She did, quickly, undecided as of yet if any rebellion was advisable. When she failed to obey him, it was out of fear or surprise. She was not feeling brave.

There was a bowl of soup waiting for her at the table. He watched as she ate. She went slowly, despite the hunger that rose up and raged in her at the sight of food.

"You can eat more later. It isn't safe to eat too much when you've been very hungry."

He watched her eat, and she ignored him. When she was finished, she didn't know what to do. She would have liked to go back to the corner near the bed, to hide as much as was possible and to think. But she sensed that he intended her to wait for his next command, like a doll placed on the shelf.

"Can I ask questions?" she asked.

He steepled his fingers and sat back in his chair to look at her. "What is it you want to know?"

She remembered his fingers, caressing her endlessly, pushing up inside her where no one--

"My friend who was with me picking berries. What happened to her?"

"My second in command took her back down the mountain. Assuming she did not fight him too fiercely, she should be completely unharmed. Although I would not be surprised if he was forced to knock her out to keep her from trying to climb back up. The fence is repaired now, so I suspect she fares well enough."

The fence in that section of the perimeter around the mountain had been damaged for as long as Lucy could remember. Others had gone to pick berries, although never very many and never as high as Lucy and Sheera had ventured. If the fence had been repaired already, she must have been asleep for quite some time.

"No more questions?"

The girl had fallen silent at his answer. He knew where her mind would likely go. He had admitted easily that her friend was safe, released back to her people. She would want to know why her own fate was different. But to ask it might incite him to hurt her friend or herself. It didn't make sense to her. It couldn't--yet. And she was trying to figure it out.

"Did she talk you into your adventure today?" he asked. "Perhaps she was the mastermind? I could find her easily enough. The treaty still allows me to have her."

"You're looking to punish whoever decided we should climb the mountain?" she asked. "It was me. I told her it would be safe. Everyone knows it has been years since we've seen anyone on that side of the mountain."

"You confess?" he asked.

Slowly, she nodded. He admired her for taking the blame for her friend. Her loyalty to the blonde also rankled. Lucy did not seem to know what she was. Did her friend? He would inquire, make use of his spies on the ground. He had already tasked them with providing a report on Lucy--her life and her family. And he had sent word via messenger that her belongings would be accepted at the mountain gate if her family wished her to have them. When Rader had dropped off dinner, he said that a convoy had been sighted traveling back towards the mountain. Another mob forming, or, more conveniently, safety in numbers as someone brought Lucy's things. --

The girl bowed her head towards the table, letting her dark hair fall in front of her face. Her shoulders were tense again. He had noticed immediately that her posture telegraphed everything she was feeling. If she were to decide to speak, she would square her shoulders first. When he had examined her on the bed, her shoulders had been up around her ears, tense and tight. Quickly, it had become a challenge. Even the slightest relaxation of her thin frame was a victory.

Now, she was trying to shut him out again. Closing him off visually and mentally. Despite her fear, being allowed to ask questions had drawn her in. She was inquisitive, intelligent, desperate to understand her situation and regain some ground. But the questions were the opening salvo in a back-and-forth developing between them that she was determined to reject.

Lucy had been thinking about Sheera and their mission. Now that she had been captured, was there any hope of completing the task she had set out to do? If Sheera were to try, would she be so lucky to escape again? And what if her people on the ground came after her? They would be murdered, as the islanders were years ago when they tried to take back the mountain. She needed to escape before it could happen. And if there was some way to bring with her knowledge that would help the islanders to regain some power--

She was shaken from her reverie when the warrior reached out and grabbed her around the waist. In a single motion, she was scooped up out of her chair and deposited unceremoniously onto his lap. She let out a small cry of fright and he laughed, settling her sideways so that she was trapped against his chest, her legs dangling above the cool stone floor. She was keenly aware of her meagre clothing.

"If you won't look at me, you can touch me instead," with that, he lifted her hand, capturing it beneath his own and pressing it possessively to his chest.

"Why should I think of you at all?"

"Try a different question," he said. "And keep in mind that you won't always be allowed free reign to question me."

"I don't know your name," she said.

It wasn't exactly a question. She didn't need to know it to hate him. Briefly, she indulged in fantasies of doing him injury, bringing an army against him and his people that kept her own loved ones virtually enslaved. Did she have questions? Of course. But they weren't easy ones to ask. Why was she being kept here alone with him? Except for the five blank, stoic warriors who had help her captive at his command, he was the only one of them she'd seen. From the stories she'd heard about the mountain people, she had expected to be violated--raped, tortured, murdered. So far, he had humiliated her and sought to dominate her, but she was otherwise unharmed. Why? Was this way of interacting normal in their strange culture? Or, more likely, was there some reason that he was waiting to allow the other shoe to drop?

"That wasn't exactly a question," he said, echoing her thoughts. His voice was deep, musical. She could feel the vibrations from her position against his chest. "And I've already lost your attention again. Would it surprise you that I know your name? Lucy Marie Cantor. Twenty three years old. A lifelong resident of the island. But, of course, you've had little choice in that. Your parents are Richard and Emilia Cantor. You have no siblings."

"What is your name?" she asked. She understood what he was doing. If she would not ask him questions, play his game, he might tell her things she didn't want to know. Now, she knew that he had the power to access information about her family and probably the other islanders, too. He probably knew where they lived. Probably, he could capture her family easily enough. Or worse.

"My name is Warder," he said.

It was so close to what she had called him in her mind. Warrior.

"My name pleases you?" he asked.

"What?"

"You smiled."

"Oh." Quickly, she smoothed her features.

"Why?"

"I guess because--because I had been calling you 'warrior' to myself. It's what you look like."

Secretly, he was pleased. To have insight into what she had been thinking about him and by the name she called him. But he did not betray his feelings as she did, with a smile. "You have not seen war, but you know what a warrior looks like?"

This, of everything, gained him her full attention. She raised her head and looked him in the eye, despite their proximity. He could feel her breath on his neck.

"I have seen war," she said. "We are at war all the time on the island. Trying to survive. Trying not to provoke you while we limp along with what little we have been allowed to keep. You're right that I haven't seen a warrior like you--I've only read about them. But every islander I know is a warrior. Or a soldier, if you like, enlisted into a harsh existence for no reason I can understand."

He hadn't yet seen this fire. It didn't exactly surprise him. He had sensed something in her. Been drawn to her, instantly, and if he had been instantly tempted to take a weakling for his mate, he would have surprised himself. A shame, perhaps, that this display of temper and bravery accompanied a healthy disrespect for his people. But good that it was there, as he had expected.

He smiled, then, and her eyes widened in anger before she turned her head.

"You're not entirely wrong," he said. He reached out and grasped her chin, turning her, gently, but forcefully, to face him again. "But your perspective has thus far been limited. And--" he added, waiting for her eyes to meet his own, "--you're correct. I do look like a warrior. And I am. A very good one."

He let her go and she lowered her head, ashamed that she was unwilling to face him, to stare him down. His large hand went to her back and he pressed his thumb into the space between her shoulder blades, sending a shiver down her back. Slowly, he began to massage her shoulders. His hands were huge, powerful. He spoke of being a warrior while touching her in a way that seemed impossibly gentle. The juxtaposition was confusing and frightening. She turned out of his grasp and to her surprise, he allowed her to slip to the floor.

"Get into the bed," he said.

She turned on him. "No."

In an instant, he was on her. He dragged her to the bed and pushed her down onto her back. Then, he slapped her, hard enough that she felt red rise instantly on her cheek. She stayed still, stunned into silence, her face pressed against the blanket.

"I've told you that I will not repeat myself. You are learning to expect it of me."

"You hit me," she said, raising a hand to touch her stinging cheek.

No one ever had before. Her parents were strict, but corporal punishment was not something they ascribed to.

"Get under the covers," he said. "Or I'll do it again and I won't be so easy on you."

Easy, she thought. Easy? He was crazy.

Summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, Lucy crawled under the blanket, scooting instinctively towards the wall and curling up on her side. After a brief pause, the bed dipped as the warrior--Warder--climbed in with her. He didn't lift the blanket. Instead, he laid on top of it, effectively trapping her. She held her breath, expecting him to reach for her, to torture her as he had last night, or worse. Instead, slowly, his breathing evened out and she realized that he was asleep. He took up most of the bed and the other end of the blanket was tucked in between the bed and the wall. With her hands as they were, it would take some maneuvering to shift it. And any movement would risk waking him. So, she lay still, listening to him breathe. Eventually, she realized that she wasn't shivering anymore. Her cocoon-like blanket prison was warm and so was Warder, radiating heat next to her as he slept. It seemed like hours before she drifted off into a troubled sleep.