Our doubts are often traitors...
~William Shakespeare
When I awaken, I panic briefly. Everything is black, featureless, lightless, shadowless black. I’ve gone blind! But just as I draw in breath to scream, I blink again, and let that breath out slowly. I tilt my head downward. Sure enough, I can see the vague outline of my foot, my leg. Relief. I’m not blind.
I try to stretch, then groan in pain. Agony floods through me. I’m sitting on a cold, damp floor, my wrists chained to the wall at shoulder height, with just enough slack to allow me to touch my face. My feet are bare, and almost numb. I realize then why I am so cold. My clothes! I wear only a thin, sleeveless undershirt, and my trousers are cut off at the knee. In addition to the cold, my head aches furiously, and my knees and hands throb from scrapes. I can feel bruises all over, and I can’t stifle a slight groan of pain.
At the sound, a shapeless lump of shadow suddenly arises, and straightens, and the glow of two eyes, the colors shifting at a dizzying speed, pierce the blackness. A brief sound is heard, and light floods the room from a sputtering lantern. Despite its dimness, it hurts my eyes, and I close them tightly. When I open them again, a face bends over me. I scream.
The face twists into a sardonic grin. “That won’t do you a bit of good, dear,” the voice says, sibilant and icy. The face looks human, and male, but it’s too cold and emotionless, and something about it just doesn’t feel right. The eyes change color, like mine, but so rapidly that you cannot tell what this person is thinking or feeling. If he has feelings at all. I rather doubt it. He is robed in black...no...he is robed in shadows. The dark fabric follows his every movement, the mere rustle of those movements sounding menacing. I swallow nervously.
“Who -- what -- are you?” I whisper, petrified. “Why am I here? What do you want with me?” I begin to shiver, and not only from the low temperature.
The man cocks a brow, mockingly. “So many questions. Why don’t you just trust us, dear? We won’t hurt you. You are one of us.”
I swallow again and force myself to meet the dizzying gaze of those ever-changing eyes. “Why should I trust those who kill the person closest to me? Who seek to do me bodily harm? Who put me in chains and lock me in foul places like this?”
He shakes his head, seemingly saddened by my answers. “My dear child--”
“Don’t call me that!” I scream.
His eyes trap mine, and suddenly, I cannot move, can barely breathe. “My child, as I was going to say, it was all for your own good. You have been lost from us for so long, my dear. We are simply trying to save you.”
My childish anger and stubbornness frees me from the spell of his words and eyes. “Liar!” I snarl. “You lie!”
“Oh?” he questions, settling himself down on the floor before me. “Prove me a liar, then. Prove it.”
I start to speak, then stop. After a pause, I blurt out the only answer I can think of. “Cobe and Ethlenden told me I’m not a demon! And that’s what you are! I am not a demon!”
He shakes his head with pity. “You rely on the opinions of a thief and a sheltered Elflord who knows no more of demons than he does of war? You are marked, my dear. Have you ever looked in a mirror? Your eyes betray you. You are one of us, my child. We are simply bringing you home.”
“No!” I scream. “No! I won’t! I’m not a demon, and I won’t do what you want!” But a doubt slowly seeps into my mind.
“You think we wish to use you? What do you think the Elfling wanted of you? The street thieves? The Guardians? If anyone would want to use you, why would it be your own kind?”
“Because you’re not my own kind,” I snap, but doubt creeps into my tone, and he hears it.
“Are you so sure?” He shakes his head again. “Come now, my child. See the truth as it is given to you at last. Have you ever felt as though you belonged in those mortal realms? Have you? Of course not. Why? Because you are not one of them, no matter how hard you try to become one of them. You are a demon, dear.”
I flinch at the word. “No,” I whisper in horror, but my denial is weak, and so is my belief. And he knows it.
“It’s a word, child. Two meaningless syllables, put together to label something. The meaning that is attached is simply personal opinion. Why be so afraid of it?” I close my eyes tightly and shake my head, trying to force myself to deny his words. “There are other names, if they would comfort you any. Shadowshifters to the southerners. Ta’kineth to the Elves. Dranari’thei to the Wanderers. Words. All mere words. Words cannot change what one is. And you are a demon, Rois. Demon.” He hisses out the last word with a cruel glee, then sits back to see the effect of his words.
I’m trembling like a leaf in the wind, shaking my head and whispering in shock, “No...no...”
He smiles again, a smug, self-satisfied look, and rises to leave, taking the lantern with him. “Think upon my words, child. You know they are true.” He closes the door behind him, and the room is once more plunged into darkness.
Alone once more in the darkness, I shiver, my soul even colder than my body. He’s lying, I tell myself over and over. But the seed of doubt he has planted in my mind whispers, Are you so sure? I am not sure anymore about anything. He seemed so sure of himself, so convincing. So concerned. But he must be lying! I cry out. He must be! But the nagging doubt whispers in reply, How can you know? How can you be sure? And because I cannot be sure, I am simply very, very scared.
Night falls. The only way I can tell is that it gradually grows colder, and colder, until I shiver so hard I can barely breathe, until the chill trickles into my very bones, and will not leave. I shiver until I’m so tired I can shiver no longer, and then I fall asleep.
I awaken in (what I assume is) the morning. The chill slowly recedes, and I draw my legs up in a desperate attempt for more warmth, inwardly wishing for at least my cloak. Soon, I change that wish to simply having my hands free. So damn cold, I tell myself. If it wasn’t so cold, I wouldn’t be so scared. For some reason, however, I doubt my own words. Just as I’m slowly starting to doubt everything. Has my entire life just been a lie? I can tolerate the thought that I’m a freak. I can’t tolerate the thought that I’m a demon.
Everyone knows demons are creatures that are beyond evil. They live to kill, and although they themselves aren’t particularly hard to kill, they travel in groups, and are fiendishly clever. Fiendishly so. Yes, they are also called fiends, as well as the other names the man (demon, I correct myself) listed off. No matter what they are called, however, they are still horrible monsters that thrive upon death and terror. No, I cannot be one of them! Please, don’t let it be true...please...
He reenters at what I’d estimate to be an hour or two after noon, judging by the way the faint warmth is slowly slipping from the stones. The lantern’s pale light, makes the shadows dance, but the flickering flame only serves to remind me of the bone-aching chill.
He settles himself on the floor, a few feet away from me, and sets down the lantern, shielding his eyes from it, as though even that pale light hurts. After a few minutes, he turns his ever-changing eyes upon me, their unblinking gaze rather unnerving.
“How are you today, child?” he queries. Damn, I just want to kill him for that false concern in his voice, although he seems very sincere.
“Cold,” I snap. “Cold, hungry, thirsty, hurting, and I want the hell out of here.”
He arches a brow. “Temper, temper,” he chides. “As I told you yesterday, it is for your own good. Pain is good for the soul.”
“Like hell it is,” I snarl. “It’ll be pretty damn good for you and my soul when I die, won’t it?”
He chuckles softly. “My dear girl, we would never let one of our own die. Not after working so hard to get her back.” He reaches out and pats my cheek. With a hiss of fury, I slam my foot against his chest. He slides back a few feet and looks at me, a startled expression clear on his face before his usual calm mask settles down once again.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, straining at my chains. “Ever.”
He shakes his head. “Ah, poor child, when will you see the truth?”
“I’m not your child, and I don’t need your lies!” I reply, settling back against the wall. “Just leave me alone if you won’t let me go. I’d rather rot in here than become like you.”
He gives me a stern look. “Your childish bravado will not change matters. Learn to accept the truth, my dear.”
“I’m not ‘your’ anything!” I shout. “Leave me alone!”
His face contorts briefly with rage, but the expression is gone so fast I wonder if it was really there. “You must accept this, girl,” he insists.
“I won’t,” I answer. “Not now, not ever.”
He rises to his feet, towering over me, his expression pitying. “Look at me, girl. Tell me honestly that you don’t see a reflection of yourself when you see me. Can you say that, without lying? Can you?”
I bite my lip nervously and look around. I cannot force out the words. I cannot deny him. He laughs sharply.
“You see? You know, deep inside, that it is the truth. Best admit it now, while there is still hope.” He turns on his heel and leaves the cell, slamming the door behind him. But he forgets the lantern.
I sit, gazing at it, as the minutes slip by. The flame dwindles slowly, and finally dies, leaving me in darkness again. Like my hope, comes the bleak thought. Like me. I shall wither away and die here, and no one will mourn me. No one will care. Except them. Demons. I shudder. What a sad way to die. With no one but demons to care that you are gone.