Kalin's Story
The weather took a turn for the chilly as the winter season approached. Although it never got truly cold on the Isle of the Sun, the wind took on a bitter chill. Serissa stood in the gardens, an easel set up before her.
Few people knew it, but painting was the Lady's passion. It was something she rarely had a chance to work at, as her father disapproved, but he was out visiting Lord Taylin.
Colors swirled before her, off her brush and on to the canvas. She was doing her best to capture the last flowers of summer that bloomed before her, as the sun shone on her back and gave her hair a golden glow.
"Lovely painting, my pet," a low voice said behind her, as a shadow fell across her back. She spun to see Soran Candis standing behind her.
"Oh—you startled me," she said apologetically.
"Forgive me, sweeting," he said. "Your father is out."
"H-he is," she agreed, finding herself nervous in her betrothed's presence.
"I believe he is discussing our wedding preparations. Rumor says we're to be married on Sarra—six months from now."
"I... I heard that too, my Lord," she agreed.
"Please, lovely," he said, catching one of her hands in his. "Call me Soran. We are going to be wed. I want you to feel... Comfortable with me."
"I do, my—Soran," she promised.
"You don't want to marry me, do you?" he asked, gripping her hand tighter.
"I—what?"
He smiled grimly. "It's nice of you to pretend when your father is around, but it's only pretend. I know as well as you—it isn't me you want."
"I don't understand what you mean."
Soran gripped her hand tighter.
"The slave boy, Serissa—your father doesn't see because he doesn't want to. But I see."
"Please, Soran—you're hurting my hand," she told him, her voice quavering. She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he was much stronger than she was.
"Give me a kiss, Serissa."
"What?"
"A kiss. And I'll leave you to your paints and your flowers." He caught her other hand, which still clutched a paintbrush, and pulled her in close to him. "Please."
"This isn't—it isn't appropriate, my Lord. Soran. Please let me go!"
He leant down and kissed her gently, ignoring her shaking. Before releasing her hands, he whispered in her ear, "You don't love me, Serissa. But I do love you—I do."
He dropped her arms, spun, and walked from the gardens, leaving Serissa shaking.
[OPENING CREDITS]
Episode 6: The Garden of Memories
"Wow, Riss—you painted that?" Kalin asked. They were standing in a den, where Serissa had leant her painting against a wall.
"Gee, sound a little more shocked," she said, feigning offence.
"I just didn't know you paint," he replied. "That's beautiful. You should paint more often."
"Thanks," she said, looking at her work critically. The garden she'd painted was as beautiful as Kalin claimed, although she could see all of the flaws he hadn't noticed. The colors Serissa had used were very rich, showing the deep reds and yellows that made up the late fall flowers. "Father doesn't like my paintings, much, though, so I don't paint when he's home."
"That's a shame," Kalin said. "You're really good. Those flowers... They look so real... The yellow ones remind me of..." He stopped and found himself lost in thought, squinting at the yellow flowers.
Then, all of a sudden and without warning, the world seemed to slip away. All Kalin could see was a bush of yellow flowers, similar although not quite identical to the ones Serissa had painted. He could see himself, years younger, running to the bush and picking the largest bloom, then running back to a woman he realized was his mother.
"For you, Mama," his five-year-old voice said, holding it up to her and giggling with happy excitement. The woman laughed as she took the offered flower, tucked it behind one ear, and gathered Kalin in her arms.
"How did you know my favorite flower, my little love?" she asked him. But he wouldn't tell, just laughed and hugged his mother. She stood and picked him up, half-cradling him. She kissed his cheek. "My little love... I'm so proud of you."
He laughed some more, and she laughed too, and for a moment, Kalin was caught up in the happiness of the memory. But, all too quickly, it faded. "No!" he yelled to the scene that played in his mind. "Don't leave me!"
But then he was back in the real world, and Serissa was watching him, concerned. "Kalin... Love, what's wrong?"
He shook his head sadly, looking away from the painting. "Nothing," he sighed, putting an arm around Serissa. "Just... Nothing."
"Liar," she accused. "I can tell when you're upset, love."
He smiled and hugged her closer. "The flowers... The yellow ones. They remind me of flowers from my home... From before. I just... I just remembered my mother for a minute, so clearly it hurts."
"I'd think remembering would be a good thing," she said.
"It is, just... Bittersweet. I didn't even realize I missed my mother until I could hear her voice again..." he sighed and buried his face in her hair and neck, then kissed her delicate neck her gently. "It's a lovely painting," he whispered in her ear.
She smiled and sighed happily as he kissed her neck again and nibbled her ear gently, then turned her head and caught his lips with her own. And, as always when they were together, the world seemed to disappear and nothing else was important—not God or Goddess; not fathers or fiancés; not bittersweet memories. The world was nothing for those few stolen minutes, nothing but Kalin and Serissa and a boundless love.
A bell began ringing and brought the couple back to the outside world. The bell which meant the newly hired cooks had finished dinner and it was being served, and Serissa had to leave. "Hellas," she whispered. "I don't want to go..."
"I don't want you to, love, but..."
She nodded, kissed him one last time, and left. He noted the door hadn't been shut all the way and reprimanded himself silently. If anyone had walked by... Well, thank Goddess no one did.
Kalin heard Serissa stutter something to someone in the hall, and then Taylin stepped in the door Serissa had exited. Kalin winced just from the look on his face, which said clearly that the hallway hadn't been as empty as Kalin thought. Damn. Ohhhh, damn.
Taylin closed the door behind them, and stood between it and Kalin, blocking any possible escape route. "Well, boy?" he said after a minute.
"W-well what?" Kalin asked, trying to ignore the gnawing fear and dread settling over him.
"I'm waiting for an explanation."
"F-for what?"
"Slaves don't kiss Ladies, boy." Taylin's voice was deadly calm, as if he was so angry he couldn't even yell. His left fist was balled up so tightly his knuckles were white, while his right hand gripped the hilt of his sword. "Particularly not Ladies who are betrothed."
There was a long silence.
"Well, boy?"
"It wasn't her idea to be betrothed. She doesn't want him," Kalin said finally, against his better judgement.
"So I suppose she wants you?" Taylin sneered.
"Yes, she does," Kalin snapped back matter-of-factly.
"And what do you get out of this?"
"What do I—" Kalin broke off, and his half-fearful gaze narrowed into a glare. "Fuck you, Warrior. I get nothing out of this for myself. I'll probably get the shit beaten out of me because of it. But I love Serissa, and she loves me, so you can got to Hell for all I care."
Kalin didn't realize what happened for a minute after the fact, but neither did Taylin—he was acting on outraged instinct. One moment, he was standing in front of the door, listening to Kalin; the next, he was across the room, had drawn his sword and was using the hilt as a knuckle-guard and slamming a punch in to Kalin's nose.
There was an awful crunch, and blood poured from Kalin's face. He cupped his nose with his hands and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too painful for him to touch—broken. "Goddess damn," he cursed. The crimson liquid seemed to be everywhere, all over his shirt, hands, and face, as well as the floor and (he cursed himself when he saw it) some had splattered over Serissa's garden.
Taylin showed no signs of remorse, as he sheathed his blade and crossed his arms. "Don't you ever speak to a free man like that, especially not a Warrior!" he snarled. "And don't ever speak of a Lady like that!"
"Like what?" Kalin demanded, too mad to remember his promise to Serissa; far too mad to care what Taylin did to him. The anger that fueled his rebelliousness was gathering within him.
In response, Taylin raised his arm, fist balled and ready to strike Kalin again. "Don't. Question. Me," he spat.
Kalin could think of a hundred responses, but bit them all back and waited to see what Taylin's next move would be. "Now listen carefully, boy, because what I'm going to say can either help you—and her—or get you killed. And if care for her at all," which I doubt hung in the air without being said—"you'll do exactly as I say."
"Or else?" Kalin hissed.
"Or else I tell her father and her fiancé what happened here. Make no mistake, boy, they will kill you if they find out, and they won't be overly-kind to her."
There was a long moment, then Kalin nodded. He'd felt Elthis' and Soran's rage before and didn't think Serissa would be able to handle it, and if she could or not didn't matter to him—he'd never put her through it.
"I have some questions for you, boy. You will answer me honestly. You don't have a choice; I'll know if you lie, and I'll go straight to Elthis. The bet isn't so important to us it would save your life—and if you die, I win."
Again, Kalin nodded. "Take a seat, boy," he said, gesturing to an armchair. "And take this—" he reached in to a pocket and produced a handkerchief— "and stop the bleeding." He tossed the scrap to Kalin, who caught it, balled it, and pressed it against his face, biting back a yelp of pain.
"First question: who are you, boy?"
Kalin gave him a dark, confused look. "Well?"
"I... I'm not sure I understand you. And you said never to question you," Kalin replied.
Taylin growled in the back of his throat. "I meant what I said. Who are you?"
"I'm... My name is Kalin."
Taylin started to correct him, to yell that slaves have no names, but stopped. "Kalin what?" he asked instead. His answer was a shrug. "If I remembered, I'd tell you."
"How can you forget your own name?" Taylin demanded.
Kalin half-smirked through the blood. "Funny how I'd remember better if people weren't constantly telling me I don't have a name of my own."
Taylin resisted the urge to hit him again. "Don't talk back to me, boy."
"Kalin."
Taylin decided to ignore that. "Very well. If you can't recall a family name, tell me about... Your mother."
"My... Why?"
"Don't ever question me or I'll break your Goddamn neck!"
Kalin stared, surprised—he'd known Taylin was angry after catching him and Serissa kissing, but this seemed different. A deeper, much deeper, rage. Go ahead; break my neck. You already broke my nose, was what Kalin thought, but he didn't want to die. He doubted Taylin would really kill him, but decided not to press his luck. After all, the Warrior had broken his nose with one blow.
"My mother..." Kalin almost wished he hadn't just had such a clear vision of her; he loved his mother and didn't want the Warrior to have any connection to her in his mind. "She was... Tall. The tallest woman in the world, I always thought, but I was very little last time I saw her.
"Very little. I was seven years old. Seven. And the slavers came and killed my family, and brought me here... I was only seven."
For just a moment, Taylin's eyes flickered with sympathy. Then he blinked, and it was gone. "I didn't ask when you were captured. I asked about your mother. Her name?"
That was something Kalin really didn't know. He thought about it for a long moment, so long Taylin was suspicious he was working out a lie. "I... I just don't remember," Kalin admitted finally. "I only remember calling her Mama. I was..."
"Very little. You said that. I don't care."
Kalin shrugged. "Yeah; I'm just a slave who worships the wrong deity. No one gives a damn if everyone I loved was slaughtered in front of me when I was a child."
He expected to get hit for that, but instead, Taylin just demanded his mother's description.
"She was a Knight. Her hair was short, to her shoulders, and mostly black. But there were white streaks. She had a scar on her face, too." And yellow flowers in her hair. "Her eyes were deep blue, like the sea. She was... She was beautiful."
"You're sure you don't remember her name?"
Kalin shook his head no.
"Your father? What about him?"
"I barely remember him. I think he was a priest... I remember he died, when the slavers—"
"Both of your parents died, then?"
Kalin shrugged. "I... I guess so. I remember my father did, but Mama... Well, she was a Knight. And she'd never have let them take me if she was alive, I know that much. So she must have died. But I don't remember it. I didn't see it." Thank Goddess.
Thank God, Taylin agreed silently to Kalin's silent thought. Seven is too young. His voice is hurt, scarred, scared. He's a damn brave man—but a scared little boy, too. Not scared of me, or Elthis, or anyone. But scared of... Of...
"What are you scared of?" Taylin asked.
"Nothing," Kalin replied instantly. "Nothing you can do can hurt me."
Taylin grinned, although it wasn't a pleasant smile. "I wouldn't count on that, boy."
"Kalin."
"Slaves don't have names."
"And they don't fall in love with Ladies, which brings us back to where we started." He pushed his mother and his life from before out of his mind, and let the brave anger flood him instead. "Have I answered everything, or did you want to hear my mother's life story?"
"Yes."
Kalin rolled his eyes. "If I remembered, I'd be happy to oblige. But I don't. All I remember is her face, her voice, and that she got manic glee out of killing Warriors." The last bit was made up, but probably true; most Knights seemed to enjoy killing Warriors.
Taylin turned his back and strode towards the door. "Clean up in here, boy. Try to salvage Serissa's painting... She really is quite talented."
He opened the door, but paused for a long beat. "If I ever get hear that you and Serissa have done more than kiss, I will kill you."
Then he left, leaving Kalin to his thoughts.
[EYECATCH]
"Kalin... Your nose. It's crooked." He'd been waiting in her room after dinner, half-dozing in the chair that sat in front of her vanity.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, causing flakes of dried blood to fall off. "And you need a bath," Serissa added.
"Sorry I'm less than pleasing, Lady."
"Why so bitter suddenly?"
He sighed. "Well, for one because my nose is broken and it hurts like hell. And second, because Taylin knows." She sank down to sit on her bed, silently, her eyes looking haunted. "Oh... Hellas..."
"Nah, cheer up. He said... Well, he said he won't tell your father yet, so long as I behave myself. Which I already was."
"Behaving so well he broke your nose," she muttered, then, "It's not that, love... Soran knows too. He said as much in the gardens this afternoon... He's never seen us, but he said he knows."
"Oh, hell." Kalin closed his eyes and balled his fists. "I doubt we'll get away with just my nose crooked then."
"I... I'm sorry," she said, sounding near tears. "About... Taylin, and your nose, and Soran Candis and my father, and..."
He stood and put an arm around her. "Please, love, it's isn't your fault," he said. "Don't cry."
She smiled at him, and brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. Her eyes had been damp, but she knew what crying did to Kalin, and she refused to upset him any more than he already was. So she smiled and put her arms around him, and they hugged.
Footsteps in the hallway interrupted an otherwise tender moment. The couple heard them at the same instant and broke apart, barely in time for the knock on her door. "Who... Who's there?" Serissa called.
"Me, sweet one," came the reply. Kalin shuddered; it was Soran Candis, and when the two of them met, it was never a happy scene.
"Um... Just a second," Riss yelled through the door, then hissed to Kalin, "You can hide in the closet!"
"No." He sighed and squared up his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of him, Riss. I'll walk out when he walks in—like a man, not an animal."
"Please..." she whispered, then shook her head. "No, you're right. Try not to get killed."
He nodded, walked to the door and opened it. "You," Soran hissed.
"Sir," Kalin responded, forcing himself to be polite.
"Get out of here, slave," the Warrior ordered. Kalin didn't argue, as much as he wanted to, and left the room.
He hesitated after Soran shut the door behind him, then heard the Warrior yell, "Stop listening at the Goddamn door or I'll beat you bloody, understand?"
Rather than answer, Kalin left.
Inside the room, Soran was demanding, "What was he doing here?"
"Nothing," Serissa answered warily.
"Nothing?" he sounded half-outraged. "Kissing—touching you?"
"No!" She shrank away from him in fear, but he caught her wrist and gripped it tightly.
"I don't want to see him around you any more, Serissa. Do you understand me?"
"Y-yes, my Lord—Soran!"
"You'd better. You're mine, Serissa—mine. And I won't let some slave have you, d'you understand?"
"I—yes!"
"I don't think you do, Serissa." He sounded almost sad. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to show you."
Taylin sat the small church that was part of Elthis' keep. He was cross-legged, and taking deep breaths; half-meditating.
He could remember.
Taylin Sanasset didn't want to remember the missing two years of his life; he had never wanted to. Everything they had done to him—he'd assumed—had been terrible, some sort of torture so painful to his mind that he had forced himself to forget about it. Although occasionally curious, he never really wanted to remember something that must have been so traumatic.
It was better left forgotten, he knew that.
But no. That slave - that damned rebellious slave - wouldn't let him. He had to have the same face, same spirit, same voice as...
He didn't remember torture; he didn't remember answering all of the questions they asked because he was afraid of the pain. No; instead, he remembered her.
He remembered Slenna Malistar.
He remembered her silvery laugh, the laugh that always made him smile, too.
He remembered the way the sun caught her dark hair, her smile, her sapphire blue eyes.
He remembered the way she was deadly with a blade or a bow, and no Knight dared argue with her.
He remembered falling in love with her.
He remembered her falling in love with him.
But he also remembered that she loved her son most of all.
Kalin sat in one of the empty rooms, down the hall from Serissa, listening to hear footfalls in the hallway. He thought he heard the sound of an argument, but was too far away to catch what his love and her fiancé were yelling.
Eventually, he heard someone walking away from Serissa's room, glanced in to the hall, and saw Soran Candis striding away. He waited for the Warrior to be well gone, before taking off to Riss' room.
He went white with rage when he saw her.
Serissa was lying on her bed, half undressed. She was bruised and bloodied, and sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow. Kalin knew—he wasn't sure how, but he knew—what had happened. What Soran Candis had done to her.
"I'm going to kill him." It wasn't a threat, and it wasn't particularly angry sounding. It was a statement of fact.
He wanted to be wrong. Ocando knew, Taylin Sanasset desperately wanted to be wrong about the slave boy, about Slenna, about everything he was remembering with sudden clarity. The more bits and pieces he remembered, the more things came flooding back to him.
He was afraid that soon, it would all come back.
But mostly he was afraid he was right about Slenna and the slave. He stood. Enough remembering for one night; he had to find out. He had to ask.
No. He couldn't ask.
He had to know.
He didn't want to know.
Taylin walked out of the church, trying to convince himself not to go find the slave boy.
It wasn't fair. Kalin turned and walked from Serissa's room, gently closing the door after him. She'd begged him not to go; begged him to just let things lie. She claimed she'd be fine, that she didn't care, that it didn't matter. They were going to be married anyway, so what did it matter when the first lay together?
It didn't matter when. It mattered how.
Kalin loved her, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Soran Candis walk away from this.
He walked vacantly towards the kitchen. He'd wanted a sword, but there was no way he'd have been able to get his hands on one. But the kitchen knives were kept sharp enough, and at this hour of the night, there would be no cooks around to argue with him.
It wasn't fair.
He'd lost everything he'd ever loved. His family was dead; his freedom stolen. He hadn't dared love anyone since—and now he finally found someone he did love, someone who loved him back, and not only was there no chance to be happy with her (there never had been, really), not only was she betrothed to someone she hated, but he'd taken advantage of it, of her.
Why was he living, if not for her?
She was the only thing he cared about.
It wasn't fair.
When Taylin saw the slave, vacant-eyed, striding purposefully, he knew something was wrong. The boy's face, his body language—it was all wrong. It reeked of rage, but not the holy anger the boy usually had.
This was different. It was terrifying. Taylin followed him, telling himself firmly he was not going to question the boy about Slenna, he was just going to figure out what was wrong. How the slave had suddenly gone crazy.
The boy walked in to the kitchens, and Taylin could see what he was fixed on: a butcher's knife.
Whatever was wrong, it had to be stopped.
"You—boy." The slave didn't respond, just ran a testing finger over the blade's edge. "Put the knife down, boy."
The slave didn't, but he did turn around to face the Warrior.
"That's an order."
To the Warrior's great surprise, the slave said nothing. He didn't put down the knife, but he didn't argue. The look in his eyes, though... Taylin shuddered mentally.
"What are you planning to do with it, then?"
"Nothing." The response was sullen, more than angry. A child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, claiming he was up to nothing at all.
"Nothing? You look ready to kill someone." I've seen that look before. "What happened?" The Knights. They wanted me dead—Slenna wouldn't let them. Their eyes were like his, murderous but thwarted.
Again, the boy said nothing.
"Put the knife down. There will be no murders tonight, boy."
"Kalin."
"Put the knife down. There will be no murders tonight, and no executions tomorrow."
"Kalin." He said it again, eyes narrowed, clutching the kitchen knife.
"Put the knife down."
"My name is Kalin!" the boy yelled, and the anger burst—he was rushing across the room, knife out—
He brought the knife up, and she screamed. Blood run down her face like red tears, but it didn't slow her reflexes. Slenna was yelling for help now, as she grabbed his wrist with both of her hands. She brought a knee up and then scraped her foot down his leg, landing on his instep.
He winced with pain; weeks of captivity had made him weak. He should have been able to defeat this slender woman easily, but instead, she was controlling the fight. Despite the bloody gash up her face that must have been killing her, she was controlling the fight.
He doubled over and she kicked him full in the face with one delicate foot, wrenched his arm around until he was forced to drop the knife, and released one of her hands. It went for her sword, and the next thing he knew, it was resting against his throat.
"What did you do that for?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Either send me back to my own Island or kill me, bitch. I'll not live like a caged animal."
"Yes, you will," she sighed. "You'll live however I tell you to live—but you'll live. Does that mean nothing to you, Warrior?"
—Taylin sidestepped the boy's inexpert rush easily, tripped him, and the knife was dropped as the slave tried to catch himself. The slave landed on his stomach, but he rolled over to see Taylin looking down at him, puzzled.
"What did you do that for, boy?"
"My name is Kalin..." the slave whispered. He didn't try to run; he didn't even sit up. He just lay on his back, his eyes glistening with tears.
Sundancer, he's crying. Somehow, I don't think I was the one he wanted to kill.
"Do you know the punishment for what you just did?" Taylin asked.
The boy nodded. Death; usually a long, sustained, painful death.
"Then I have one last question. Answer me and everything that's just happened is forgotten—as long as there are no murders tonight. Do you understand that?" Another nod. "Very well. I need... want... to know. The scar you said was on your mother's face. What did it look like?"
Wordlessly, the slave drew a line up his left cheek with one finger. It went from his jawbone to just below his eye.
Taylin nodded. "Go get some sleep. You look awful," he said, then added, "I'm sorry about your nose, Kalin."
Recognizing his name was the least Taylin could do for Slenna's beloved son. He offered Kalin his hand again, and this time, the slave took it and scrambled to his feet. Taylin retrieved the knife from the floor, crossed the room, and put it away.
"Warrior..." Kalin said uncertainly. "Why would you... Why would you pardon me like this?"
Because your mother saved my life. Because I loved her; because she loved me but she loved you more. Because you're all I have left of her; because in my ideal world, you'd be my son, mine and hers. "Because you deserve a break," was all he said.