The Trinity of Heroes (I Will Protect You Book 1) (9 page)

“Lawrence, this is the last one,” Elsie whispered into his ear.

His only reaction was to lightly squeeze her hand again. He was barely coherent at this point but managed to mumble, “Elsie…”

Elsie watched as Elizabeth came toward them holding the glowing blade once more. Elsie cringed, knowing that Lawrence would need to endure tremendous pain one more time. Elsie closed her eyes as the sword came in contact with Lawrence’s back again.

Ssssssss!

The sound and smell of sizzling skin filled the room. Lawrence barely had the strength to moan out one final “Ungh” before passing out from the pain. Elizabeth dropped the blade and walked toward Elsie.

“Mrs. Sanctus, is Lawrence going to survive?” Elsie asked, looking over his battered and beaten body that was red with dry blood and burns.

“Not if he doesn’t get rest and have a chance to gather his strength, he isn’t,” Elizabeth replied. She reached for another sheet and began to gently and cautiously wrap Lawrence’s body in it. “Hold his arms up, dear,” Elizabeth instructed Elsie. She continued to cover Lawrence’s wounds by binding his chest with the sheet. The two started to lift Lawrence to his limp legs and dragged him over to one of the two beds. They carefully placed him facedown on the bed and covered him gently with the one remaining sheet.

Elizabeth turned to Elsie and asked, “How did you get yourself mixed up with my son, Elsie Pyre?”

“How do you know who I am?” Elsie asked. This was the first time she had ever been to the Sanctus home, and to her knowledge, she had never met Elizabeth Sanctus before.

“My husband was Jerreth Sanctus, one of the greatest Knights in the history of Haile. I remember seeing you when you were a little girl when I was invited to the castle for Jerreth’s ceremonies. You’ve grown up quite a bit since then. Alas, we never had the chance to be properly introduced.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sanctus, I wish I had had the opportunity to meet you earlier, under better circumstances.”

A small frown crossed Elizabeth’s face. She was exhausted and still concerned about her son. “So what happened?” she asked.

“I was watching Lawrence train this morning and…” Elsie stopped.
Can I really tell Lawrence’s mother that I have feelings for him? Should I admit them now, under these circumstances?
The questions attacked her resolve as she thought of a way to explain things to Lawrence’s mother. “I was watching him train and decided that I wanted to learn more about the Knights who protect our city, so I approached Lawrence and asked for a tour of the barracks,” Elsie said, avoiding eye contact with Elizabeth.

“You like him, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked, crossing her arms. She stood between Elsie and her son. Lawrence was sleeping peacefully, but still Elizabeth was like a majestic eagle, prepared to protect her loved ones at a moment’s notice.

“Yes…” It felt like an eternity to Elsie who stood in silence wondering what Elizabeth must be thinking, considering everything that had happened that night. Elizabeth gazed at Elsie, almost as if she was judging the girl, trying to figure out if her intentions were pure.

After what seemed to Elsie like hours of being silently judged, Elizabeth finally stepped aside. “I am going to bed; all of this stress has really taken its toll on me,” she said.

Elizabeth grabbed a spare shirt off of a nearby clothes rack and tossed it to Elsie who was still soaked in blood. “Make sure he is comfortable, if he needs anything and you cannot get it for him, wake me up immediately.” She walked over to her bed and climbed in and faced the wall.

Elsie stood there for a moment, elated that, for the time being, Elizabeth had decided to trust her to watch over her injured son. Elsie didn’t know if it was her screaming over his injured body, or her profuse crying, but somewhere along the way Elizabeth had realized that she had deep feelings for Lawrence. It was either that Elizabeth truly was so sick that she couldn’t physically help Lawrence, or she could sense that Elsie would be a suitable substitute. There was no time to think about that now, however; Elsie was just happy that she had the opportunity to provide Lawrence with the best care she possibly could. She was determined to make sure that Lawrence would feel better, even if that meant staying by his side for days. She quickly and quietly changed out of her blood-soaked blouse, and took care as she put on the new white shirt that Elizabeth had just given her. She went to the bedside where Lawrence lay and knelt down beside him. His breathing had softened slightly. Elsie reached out, took his hand gently in hers, and held it lightly as she rested her head on his arms. She had only stopped crying for a few minutes, but already she felt like she was going to start again. She felt horrible for how she had treated Lawrence earlier that day. And now this. She didn’t know how things could get any worse.

She squeezed Lawrence’s hand slightly, her head turned toward his ear. “Lawrence... Lawrence, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have listened to you. I’m so sorry. My father told me everything…He told me everything about your father, and the bribe from Arcel…Lawrence, I should have listened to you, if I had only believed you, maybe this could have been avoided!” Elsie cried as she choked out her sentences, stopping momentarily to sniffle and wipe her eyes. “Lawrence, I was watching you today, I have been ever since I first saw you from my room. I know I haven’t told you yet, but I really like you, and I like having you around the castle. I feel safer knowing that the next group of Knights has members like you and Benni and Razzius. Knights who take their training very seriously and care about their results.” She sobbed again. “Lawrence, I’m sorry.”

Elsie felt a slight amount of pressure applied to her hand as Lawrence subconsciously squeezed her hand as if to forgive her.

She lay there for a while, until eventually she fell asleep with her head still resting on Lawrence’s exhausted body.

“What do they see in him that they didn’t see in me?
Hiccup
Not like I ever walked out on a mission or disobeyed orders. Not my fault that my fortune wasn’t as good as his.
Hiccup
Little bastard doesn’t know what it means to be a Knight. I’ll have another drink, and quickly!”

-
Wurn Grimm, overheard at the Silver Shield

The first rays of sunshine finally began to lift the veil of darkness from the room. Razzius had gotten used to the putrid odor, but was still not looking forward to cleaning up his father’s mess. He had to be at training soon, but was still hesitant to move, dreading what may happen if he startled his father. Wurn was breathing more regularly now. Razzius leaned in to check on his father, but the faint sunlight beat him to it.

Wurn grumbled aloud as he raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples. He struggled mightily, but managed to sit up. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He stared at himself, at the ground, at the dry vomit on his night tunic and the floorboards. He burped loudly and stumbled about as he stood up. His bloodshot eyes flared with disgust.

“My fucking head, the fuckin’ light!” he bellowed, rubbing his face. His head throbbed constantly, making even the smallest of sounds painful.

Razzius started collecting the liquor bottles that had been strewn across the floor. But the
clank
from just setting them down bothered Wurn. He whirled around and staggered toward Razzius.

“Quit making that infernal racket! What the fuck are you doing in here, anyway?”

“Just tidying up, sir. On my way to training,” Razzius answered quickly, hoping that he could move past his father’s large frame and ease out the door before Wurn angered further. Razzius knew he was walking on a bed of pins and needles, where one wrong step, or in this case, one wrong word, could lead to his father exploding in rage.

“Training? For what? The Knight Guard? Ha! This house is such a mess! I can’t believe that you can be so useless. All I ask is for a little help around here. My own son is a worthless piece of shit!” Wurn’s tirade had just started. Razzius tried to edge around his father a bit, but Wurn was staring at him now.

“What the fuck is all this shit all over my room?” Wurn hollered even though Razzius was within a whisper. “Why was I sleeping on the floor? When did you get home last night? Is breakfast ready? I’m fuckin’ starving!”

“No…no sir, but I was just on my way down to the kitchen to get it started. I’ll make you three eggs and some ham and a glass of fresh cream for breakfast.” Razzius hoped that Wurn’s thoughts would turn to his grumbling stomach.

But the thought of his food not being ready angered Wurn even more. “The fuck,” Wurn was screaming now, “can’t you do anything right? Why isn’t breakfast ready yet? Yer mother never neglected her family when she was alive!”

Razzius could tolerate the hateful words, but the unbearable stench of alcohol still lingered on Wurn’s breath. “Forgive me, sir. I’m going to get it started right away!” Razzius took a step toward his father in a last ditch effort to get him to move. He could feel he was losing control of the situation.

Smack!

Wurn backhanded Razzius in the face, spinning him around. The force dropped Razzius to the ground. The quick, burst of pain through his face caused tears to well in his eyes. Razzius tried to wipe them away quickly, but Wurn noticed their glint. He recognized the tears as a sign of weakness. “The fuck are ya cryin’ fer, ya sissy bastard! Quit yer fuckin’ sobbin’ and get some food started.”

Wurn swiped at Razzius’ face. Razzius ducked but Wurn clipped him hard across the top of his head with his giant palm. Razzius crawled on his knees and scampered out the door. Wurn hurled an empty bottle at him. It shattered against the wall. “Lazy bastard!” he bellowed at Razzius as the young man rushed down the hallway.

Razzius rushed to prepare the meal for his father, a smorgasbord of eggs and ham, bacon, toast and jelly. He focused on his work to calm his racing heart and frayed nerves. He moved speedily, even though he was fully exhausted, to clear the old dishes that were left from the night before. Razzius was deeply hurt. He didn’t expect his father to thank him for his watchful care, but he certainly had assumed that he would not be beaten for it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have helped you at all?

At least, however, now there were some other, more inviting, smells wafting through the house to mask the stink of vomit and alcohol. Wurn groggily stumbled downstairs, a new, freshly tapped bottle in his hand. Razzius looked away in disgust even though he expected nothing less than to see his father with a drink at this early hour.

Razzius had learned his lesson a long time ago about protesting. Once, on a brutally cold day, when he was young and very foolish, he had hid Wurn’s alcohol. The repercussions of those actions were worse than any of the daily abuse he endured. His father had raged uncontrollably, his body shaking profusely from its lack of sustenance. Razzius had never been so terrified. A new, nastier monster had invaded his father. Wurn had torn apart the kitchen like a violent whirlwind, breaking numerous pots and glassware. He busted chairs and overturned tables. When he finally found his stock, stashed neatly under Razzius’ bed, his eyes widened like he had found the lost Treasure of the Seven Dragons. He drank and drank as he clutched his bottles like he was embracing long-lost kin. When he was inebriated enough that he could function properly, he stalked Razzius who hid in his closet. The beating was so severe that Razzius couldn’t walk for a week. His back had been lashed a hundred times, his behind rapped with a metal spatula until it was raw and bleeding. That lonely hill had become immune after witnessing hundreds of Razzius’ cries, but even it had trouble absorbing Razzius’ desperate shrieks that icy morning. Razzius had lain in bed, tears streaming down his face. He pleaded with Sora to save him, but there was no escape. There wasn’t a day that Wurn didn’t drink, and there wasn’t a moment when Razzius didn’t know fear.

Emotionally, however, the toll it took was worse. Razzius feared his father like no other man or beast, partially because he had been conditioned to, but more so because the man was so unpredictable. He could be stoic and reverent one moment, and then explode into a furious rage the next. Razzius was the only other person who lived in the house and he naturally seemed to catch the worst of Wurn’s ire. It affected him psychologically too. Razzius hated his birthday the most of all. Where it was custom to celebrate such a day, Razzius never had, nor had he ever had reason to. In fact, he never mentioned his birthday to Benni or Lawrence, or to anyone else for that matter. He only knew how old he was because his birthday was marked by Wurn spending most of it in a drunken, crying stupor as he pined for his deceased wife at her grave. Hailian holidays were almost as bad. Razzius dreaded those celebratory days, the countdown to them always in the back of his mind. The festivals in town were a noisy reminder to the sorrow that awaited him in the confines of his home, as he knew that Wurn would be at his drunken worst. Razzius spent the holidays holed up in his room, staring out his cracked window at the familiar crest of the lonely hill behind his house.

Fear was an almighty master, stern and imposing. Those years growing up for Razzius were so lonely, and Razzius kept this all to himself. He never told a soul. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, or that he hadn’t thought about it. He had even planned what he was going to say, where he was going to say it, who he was going to say it to. He practiced his speech over and over, the ever-listening hill his austere audience. But he just never found the courage to say it to a person, even when he had had the chance. And he never could comprehend why. Why couldn’t he tell someone? Maybe that person could have helped him. That single question made him start to hate himself. It was a cruel, evil trick. Razzius couldn’t solve the fact that his father drank, or understand the fact that he couldn’t stop it, so he started to blame himself for it. Beating after beating, slap after slap, it wore down his resolve. The ire he had for his father slowly changed to self-disgust. He started to believe the cruel, hate-filled words that his father slurred at him. They were no longer damning insults, but damning truths. Finally, one dark, rainy night a few years ago, he knew what he needed to do.

It was after an unusually brutal beating. Razzius recovered in his room, and waited until his father drank himself into a deep sleep. He didn’t want Wurn to interrupt him. He slowly opened the front door and slinked out of his house. The rain poured down onto his body, soaking his tunic against his skin. He sulked back to his closest friend, the hill. He stood on top of it and unsheathed his dagger from his side. He had sharpened it earlier, its point was bloodthirsty. Tears formed in his eyes as the rain beat against his face.

Stab it, right into your jugular. Do it quickly
!

His heart thumped furiously in his chest. He gathered his wits. He screamed and rushed the dagger toward his exposed neck. But his misery would not be so easily overcome. As if the hill itself grew invisible arms to restrain him, he could not bring the dagger’s point to his own skin. An hour passed. Perhaps two. He lost track of how long he stood on that hill, clutching the dagger until his arms grew weak and weary. He cried and wailed, hating that some unholy force kept him living when all he wanted was death. His defeat was final. His body ached from his constant sobbing. He may have lain on that forsaken hilltop all night if it wasn’t for the sudden hue of candlelight emanating from inside the home. Wurn was awake, and Razzius’ fear awoke with him.

Razzius scrambled to sheath his dagger and trudged back to the house, soaking wet. His father looked at him through glazed eyes. Wurn berated him verbally. Luckily he was too exhausted to make it physical. Yet no physical beating could have been worse. Razzius believed, no he
knew
, every word his father spoke to be true. He was a disgrace, he was an embarrassment. He was such a
failure
that he lacked the ability to take his own life. Razzius returned to his room and crept into bed, his wet clothes still stuck to his skin. The raindrops tapped on the rooftop, their somber melodies a reminder to Razzius of what he couldn’t accomplish. He shivered himself to sleep in the cold of his room, believing that he was doomed to this recurring punishment forever.

Razzius fell into a deep, unrelenting depression. He didn’t eat; he didn’t sleep. He didn’t see Lawrence or Benni; he didn’t go to the market. His body began to attack itself, starvation taking its deadly toll. There was no end to the bottomless abyss of self-loathing and disappointment that Razzius had tumbled into. Razzius had succeeded at nothing. He wasn’t able to bring himself to tell anyone of his plight, he couldn’t stand up to his father, and he couldn’t even summon the courage to take the easy way out. Misery consumed him, engulfed him like a raging fire. He became so weak he could hardly do basic household chores. In the most sinister of effects, Wurn even lost interest in humiliating or beating his son further. Why should he waste time on such a miserable boy? His energy was best used for drinking. It was the faintest respite for Razzius. Time passed. Days maybe. Razzius became bedridden. Silence and the view of that damned hill were the only reminders that he still lived. Wurn had disappeared from his life, forgotten him, discarded him. Razzius had the chance he needed. Soon he would fade away from this suffering.

Yet as he began to drift in and out of consciousness an unfamiliar voice from an unfamiliar face echoed in his mind, clear as day, strong and true. “Razziussss, giving up like thisss accomplishessss nothing. But there issss a way to be free of thissss torture. Join the Knight Guard. The richessss, the adventure, the adulation of the people. It’ssss all there for you to have. But you mussst eat; you mussst sssurvive until you are old enough to join. It’sss only a few more yearssss. You can do it, Razziusss!”

Razzius jolted awake in a thick, sticky sweat. His heart pounded.
Who had spoken to him?
The new thought coursed through his mind.
The Knight Guard
? He had never given it much thought, though he had heard Benni talk about it often. Could it be his way out, his way to the adventure he craved, his way to finally gain his father’s acceptance?

Even with a beaten will and no energy, Razzius now had that one thought to drive him. He felt a motivation to live, something that was forgotten to him for many days. He stumbled on weak, wobbly legs down the stairs, collapsing at the table. Wurn’s scraps from many, many meals lay strewn about. Flies and maggots had found the food first. But Razzius didn’t care. Hope’s willpower was incredibly influential. He feasted ravenously on bread crusts and fruit peels, on steak bones and sour milk. The bounty of succulent food scraps was a tasty, welcome sight to the frail boy who now surged with dreams of grandeur and accomplishments.

Razzius slowly regained his strength. Naturally, as he did he regained his father’s ill will. But Razzius now endured those beatings, those verbal tirades of hateful truths. He felt that he
could
withstand his father. He clung to his singular hope; his singular dream like a young child clutched his favorite toy. He secretly looked forward to his birthdays now, slowly counting down the hours until he turned a year older. He reveled in the fact that he was one year closer to joining the Knight Guard. He was lucky. His birthday fell just a few days before the first day of spring. He didn’t need to spend most of his sixteenth year waiting like Benni had, he could spend it training.