Underestimate Me

The swords woman shoved Rowen back into his muddy place before securing his wrists too tightly behind the pole. He could feel the skin around the wound in his shoulder glow with heat. In weather like this the infection would set in sooner rather than later. After she double checked the bounds she rushed away, leaving him to the first woman that passed him by. He knew this lady. The wife of a farmer but the daughter of a teacher. She graced him one evening with her presence at his supper table, but he dared not lay a finger on this lady; she knew his reputation too well back then. He feared she knew nothing at all of him now, but was startled by her warm smile.

“You showed me kindness once,” she whispered in the darkness before relighting the dampened torch. Seeing her pale face more clearly, he recalled this creature as more than a dining companion. Her features did not live long in his memory. All he could conjure was Josselyn’s face the night she found herself betrothed to a wicked man. He swore to his dearest friend that she would be safe from that man's tyranny, promised he would not let Hadrian condemn her to a life of pain. His words seemed like nothing more than silly gallantry under these circumstances.

“You are called Evelyn?” He stated, the rasp in his voice evident above all else. The woman knew he did not want to speak because of his tight set jaw and transfixed glare. However, she did not want to sit in solitude when she knew this man had information about the village and her family.

“I shall be your guard until the morn, but please tell me if you recall my father. A man by the name of Darby?” Her eyes pleaded with him though he kept his eyes locked forward on the worthless ground that separated him from that cruel woman he once knew to be kind and gentle.

“Your father is well, I believe,” Rowen answered coldly, “however, your mother died last year when some of the crops failed. He has not remarried, as far as my information tells me.”

He stopped talking once he saw another woman with flaming hair scurrying toward him. She had a basin in her hand with a rag and another bowl of something he could not see from his position. Whatever it was must be for Evelyn, but it wasn’t.

“My name,” the woman said, though Rowen recognized her features a little, “is Laila. I will tend your wound.”

Laila sent Evelyn one of those communicative glances he saw Josselyn use with the swordswoman before the pair set to unbuckling his armor. They stripped him down until he wore nothing but his favorite green shirt, breeches, and boots. Rowen felt completely naked without the iron clad armor that he became accustomed to after he took his father’s advice about becoming a serious swordsman. To laugh at that thought now was quite necessary due to the fact that he was bested by a woman during battle; how could he ever be serious about sword play with that lurking in his memory?

Evelyn held back the collar of his shirt, which he was grateful they did not pull off as well, while Laila poured a bit of water onto the rag. She dabbed the water onto his aching shoulder, cleansing the muck from it, before picking up the bowl which held some type of poultice that he did not recognize by sight nor smell. It was an awful brown color and smelled about the same way it appeared.

He turned his head to the left, once Laila asked about other wounds. She cleansed his ear, but did not bother with the brown sludge. Rowen wanted both these women to know he did not want Josselyn dead, but he did not know how to breech the subject. Instead he thought back, unwillingly, to the day his father came to him.

Merek just finished cleaning the blood from the gashes the whip left on Rowen’s flesh. This was the first time Merek saw his brother punished for anything. Rowen pulled a clean shirt over his head as his father entered the chambers. Merek stood in respect while Rowen neglected the sign of goodwill. Elrik had no right to do this to him.

“My dearest son,” Elrik started, Merek interrupted with a scoff before he sat by his brother again.

“Do not patronize me, Father,” Rowen growled, contempt rose in his veins. He needed to find what he left behind, and he needed to do it now.

“I have news of the most horrid sort.” Elrik plastered false concern and sincerity into his tone. Rowen learned how to recognized the difference between the realness and falsehoods his father presented. “Josselyn, your dear friend, was taken prisoner days ago. I am afraid I have to tell you that she escaped her bounds and ran into the dark woods. Her remains were found this very morning by the den of those nasty wolves we have tried to rid the forest of.”

“Father,” Merek started, but Elrik’s glare shattered his voice.

“What is it that you speak of,” Rowen’s voice filled with the rasp that came to him whenever his emotions got the best of him. “Tell me outright!”

“Josselyn is dead.” Elrik did not stay to comfort his eldest, and favorite, son. Instead he insisted that he had work to complete. All the promises Rowen made meant nothing that instance, and it was the first time Merek saw his brother break beneath words their father presented.

“She is alive,” he whispered to himself.

Laila, catching only the last word of his phrase, smiled and nodded. “Yes, you are alive, until our leader wishes otherwise.”

Shivers ran down Rowen’s spine. He was held captive once, beaten, and betrayed by his own family. No torture existed like the one his memories caused at present.