Shades of Grey

MURIAS— MARCH 1844

I awoke some time later to the sound of a familiar scream followed by an equally familiar jolting pain. I sat up, recognising the particular type of pain: the psychic linking of Forma’s senses and mine. I shuddered as I imagined what I would see and hear this time, what horrors she was facing on her own…

“You, my dear Maisling, shall prove your worth to me! I have brought you a beast to slaughter.”

Upon mentioning ‘the beast to slaughter’ I heard Forma’s heartbeat quicken. I opened my eyes and saw a large fighting arena, similar to the one that I had entered when I was swallowed by the tree under Natara’s spell, but this arena was made of black stone and only one viewer was present: Verrilius.

Forma reluctantly raised her head and looked across the arena at a large portcullis, behind which sat something very large and very angry. I noticed wisps of air coming from the dark cell with each snort the unseen beast dared to make.

“Behold my prized possession: an Evratan!”

The portcullis then swung open and the beast emerged into the poorly lit arena. Forma’s breath caught in her throat as she beheld its monstrously huge, muscled body covered in scaley feathers. It reared its ugly Dragon snout/bird’s beak (for it held characteristics of both), exhaling both thick smoke and stout flames.

It broke its restraints easily and gave a loud, intimidating roar. Forma stood resolutely and immediately changed into an Evratan of equal strength and size. Through her peripheral vision I noted the impressed look on Verrilius’ face.

Suddenly the link began to falter. One moment I was fully linked to Forma, feeling every wound she sustained and dealing every blow she gave and the very next I was alone in my room in the Asylum.

“No!” I cried as I began to see only faltering bits of the battle. First, I saw the Evratan falling and then Forma bleeding profusely from her side. Next I saw Verrilius, stroking his chin in thought from the stands. The pieces I was permitted to see then grew faster in succession, inadvertently throwing off my own sense of balance until I fell from my bed to the floor, permanently breaking the link.

I sat quietly on the black floor of my starkly white room, thinking on what I had just seen. I held my head in shame. I had sworn to protect her and trained for ten years to do so: how could I be doing such a terrible job of it?

I cried out in a feeble rage and beat the ground in anger, rattling the walls. I stopped suddenly and listened as soft moaning and even softer singing floated through the space under the door.

I approached my door and peered out through the window. I could see several doors on the opposite side of the hallway, many of which were filled with pacing patients, each looking progressively saner than the last. The hidden injustice of this place was enough to make my stomach churn. I ran my fingers through my hair as I paced the length of my room, stopping suddenly when my door clicked open.

A very tall man dressed in a monochromatic trench coat entered, staring blankly at me through a leather gas mask. I locked my muscles in anxious trepidation as he shifted his weight on his very large steel tipped shoes. I shuddered to think why he would need steel-tipped shoes in a placed such as this.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice had come not from the trench coat man but from somewhere out in the hallway. The owner strode into the room soon after speaking and I almost chuckled at the difference in physical appearance between the two men.

This new man was squat and portly, carrying a small pad of paper and a quill pen with which he wrote furiously. Only when I did not respond did he look up at me with vacant bespectacled black eyes.

“How are you feeling?” he repeated loudly. I looked down and noticed a tattoo of black flames engulfing his entire wrist, a particularly large flame extending just over the ulnar and radial arteries.

“Confused,” I replied as I studied it, noticing the ominous marking in the same place on the trench coat man.

“That’s perfectly normal…” the man assured me as he took several notes and jotted down information from the tags around my neck.

“I would assume so, that often happens when you imprison sane people in a mad house,” I snapped.

“…patient believes she is still sane…” he spoke as he wrote. “Pity. That really is far too common. Well, we shall cure you soon enough.”

“What constitutes ‘cured’ in the eyes of the Board?” I asked, feeling stronger with each passing minute. “A mindless, bland person who thinks of nothing but the greatness of Murias?”

The doctor gave me a smile that affirmed my previous statement. I sighed and rolled my eyes: I had entered a country where sickening jingoism was the picture of mental health.

“So, what happens now?”

“You will have your first meeting with Dr. Kingsmith in a few days, after you have had time to adjust to our schedule and routine. Do you understand?”

I glared at him, infuriated by his patronising tone, but I remained still.

“Yes.”