5. Yvonne

5

YVONNE

“Tell me,” he says, grinding his nonexistent teeth. “Tell me your name now.”

He takes a small step away from the bed, watching me with keen eyes as I swing my legs to hang over the side of the bed. My limbs feel like anchors are tied to them.

His tone is adamant and increasingly impatient. A part of me wants to continue defying him in the hope that he will grow exhausted and send me to meet my maker. It feels far more dignified than whatever he is going to mangle my soul with.

“Do it,” he says, hissing again.

I comply, sliding to the edge of the bed and no longer trying to conceal my apprehension. My body turns rigid as he approaches again.

He stands near but does not touch me. My body returns to its state of twitching unease. His tone is lilted with curiosity and a diminishing agitation.

“Tell me your name, dear one, and I shall tell you my own.”

My lips remain tense, firm in defiance. He comes to me brusquely, reaching out to pinch my chin with a stiff frustration. He lifts my head to meet his eyes once more, his thin lips pulled back in a muted sneer.

“You are wasting time,” he remarks.

My resolve begins to fragment as his grip on my chin tightens, and I am compelled to share my truth, even if it is the last words I utter within the confines of this wretched cave.

I swallow dryly, and my lips open. My name pours out of me, tasting of bitter, hollow angst.

“My name is Yvonne,” I whisper into the cavern.

He seems pleased with me, releasing his grip from my chin. He takes a step away again, and I have a chance to breathe.

He stands tall, puffing out his chest like a frolicking bird of paradise ready for mating season, and raises his head toward the sky with a sense of pride. He speaks like a captain victorious on a battlefield, oozing in triumph and profound fulfillment.

“My name is Oarus, lone dweller of the cavern of the Pref Seas.”

I swallow hard, gathering saliva that was vanquished during my descent into the sea.

“Oarus,” is all I can muster.

He returns his gaze to me, and he reverts his stance to that of an inquisitive observer. The shine of his eyes intimidates me as if attempting to burn through the veil of my disobedience. He remains where he is, an influx of darkness swathing his legs in a shadowy petticoat.

“And what is it that Yvonne prefers to consume? What does she require for rest?”

There’s a brief flutter in my chest, a momentary appreciation that claws its way above all the other feelings fighting to claim the spot of attention in my mind. I can’t quite believe it, but it seems like he’s trying to be nice to me, or at the very least considerate. The slave in me is completely unused to this.

Yet still, I cannot conceal my confusion. His tone has shifted to an airy, nearly whimsical frivolity. I am hesitant to reply, afraid of sending him back into the state of cold detachment.

“You mean, to eat?” I say, forcing my eyebrows from their knitted state. “And what do you mean to rest?"

He stares at me. “Yes, to eat. What does Yvonne the human eat? I hunt in the seas nearby. I have learned how to cook in the ways of humans. And to rest, to sleep, to dream."

He is annoyed by my seeming incompetency, but it is far easier to cope with that than some callous intrusion of my body. I try to keep him distracted with answers that skirt the edge of honesty.

“I… I will eat anything. Bread, seeds, fish.”

My muscles tense when the word seeps out of me, but Oarus appears unfazed. He approaches again, and my body instinctively shudders. He places a hand on the bed next to me, patting it like a master does a dog.

Or a human pet.

“Yes, rest, like on this bed. Do you like it? Or does Yvonne require more? Come now, make your requests.”

I am bewildered by his insistence to hear about what pleases me. Am I not his prisoner here? If he simply wants me as his toy, then why does it matter if the bed I sleep on is comfortable or made of barbed wire?

But I must appease him, no matter what true motivation it is masking. If I have any chance of fleeing and possibly surviving, it’s the only way.

“This bed is fine,” I whisper. “I can eat whatever you want.”

He lets out a guttural grunt, startling me back into my cowering position on the bed. It is unlike anything I’ve ever heard a man or beast express, a wicked fusion of a shriek and a howl.

He steps away with no effort to console me and continues his relentless interrogation of my needs.

“I will cook you the bigrul I captured this morning. Stay here and think about my inquiries."

Oarus then vanishes into the dark, a wink of light from the reflective scales following him into the black. I sit there, alone in the cavern for the first time since awakening. The torchlight crackles and mocks my obscene reality.

I have no idea how long or how convoluted the caverns are. I have heard of them before through the folklore of the dark elves. They have been described as labyrinthine and mystical. I am in no condition to embark on any escape. I am in his world now, and he is the ruler.

Just the way it has been for me for decades.

I remain still as a statue until he returns, my body in a protective, catatonic state. I catch a whiff of the bigrul medley he brings, seasoned with something zesty and exotic. My stomach begins to cannibalize itself in anticipation.

“Here, you can eat this and tell me how you feel.”

Oarus hands me the bowl, which is cracked and withered, and I take it from him aggressively. There is no time to consider the delicacy of my movements because the primal, starving part of me takes over. I slurp up the delicious protein and relish in the unique and foreign herbs. My awareness withdraws while my bodily needs kick in, caping me in a brief and tranquil delirium.

I feel stupefied as the bowl empties, then slowly, I return back to my appalling conundrum. Oarus is sitting away from me at the writing desk, holding his own bowl of the bigrul soup, slurping with a long and bony appendage of a tongue.

He shows no offense in my wild indulgence. My belly is satiated, albeit briefly, but it parts the cloud of my thoughts exceedingly.

“Where do you come from, Yvonne?” Oarus asks me after finishing his soup.

I hold the bowl in my lap, still buzzing from the food high. I am still unsure why he is intent on probing me for personal information and preferences.

“I don’t remember,” I said, not meeting his stare. “It has been so long, the name escapes me.”

Except it hasn’t at all.Violet Fields, a small village far from any dark elf inhabitants, lives and thrives in its own idyllic paradise of my mind. It is where I go when the pain is too harsh, when grief threatens to turn me inside out.

I have no desire to share with this creature that special and intimate place in my soul where only love can reside.

But Oarus’ curiosity is not yet placated.

“Your family then. Where are they? Where did they come from?"

I feel tempted to sigh, but I wouldn’t want that to disrupt the flow of our interaction. So I spill a bit more truth, my resolve continuing to fray out of sheer depletion.

“They are all dead. The dark elves came for us a long time ago. They took the women and killed the men. I don’t know if any of them are alive anymore…”

I silence myself before sharing with him the despair of clinging to hope. But that is far too personal.

Oarus sits in silence, the torchlight over his head bathing him in an ethereal brilliance. I gaze up from my lap and see that his eyes are still on me, committed to understanding his catch’s predicament.

Then he speaks, his voice softer than anything he had expressed thus far.

“And you want to be with them?”

I blink at him, his glare unshakable. “With my family?”

“Yes, in death,” he replies. “You jumped into the sea so you could see them again."

I hadn’t considered it, but he is likely right. My mind is far too worn out to make such connections.

“I suppose. I did not think of it this way, but perhaps.”

“You were with the dark elves?”

He knows more than I suspected. I nod wordlessly.

“And they were unkind?”

I nod again. How much does this creature know? Does he watch us, amused by our brutality and longing for carnage?

Oarus sits solemnly, mulling around my words in his strange fish mind. His expression remains unperturbed, which keeps me in a cautious state. Never again will I be lulled into a false sense of safety. It is all a part of the barbarity of every creature on Protheka.

I begin to shake, the draconian memories returning. Oarus rises from his chair and takes my bowl. He disappears into the dark and then returns with a blanket. It appears to be made of multiple sown-together nets.

“Take this. Heed the chill. Tonight you will slumber.”

He lays it over my shoulders. I am beyond baffled by this enigmatic being, both my enslaver and the decider of my fate.