Chapter 2 - Orphans
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2
Orphans
The tension was something everyone could feel. It seemed to hang in the air of the dark hut, pressing in on everyone and stiffening their lungs. The smell of blood was intensifying in the noontime heat. And the crying was intolerable.
Four soldiers glanced rather awkwardly at the fifth. Their uniforms were lighter than those of the foot soldiers that always hung around the castle, and made of fewer metal plates and more light chains. They weren’t often seen this far on the outskirts, but no one had been there to see them. Except her, of course - the wretched Fae woman with her squalling children attached to her like parasites. The woman’s body lay still on the floor, and her head gently rocked a few paces away from it. The red-headed little scamp in the corner was crying loudly, and the newborn sputtered from the floor, still clasped in its mother’s stiffening arms. Its tiny face was ugly and red, and every now and then it worked up the courage for a wail. However, it would quickly quiet itself, as though the sound it made had frightened it back into submission.
The younger soldiers were made quite uncomfortable by the situation, and they looked to their leader for direction. Josiah was bigger than all of them, and highly favored in the Prince’s court. He could practically get away with murder. At least, they hoped he could, in this case. The woman was dead. She was a Fae woman, yes - a penniless, dirty, embarrassingly-clothed smudge on good society - but even the death of such a lowly person was the death of a person. And they would find out about this. Oh, yes. The infant would make sure of that.
Josiah removed his helmet. Sweaty chunks of hair clung to his temples. He set it on the rough wooden table and then leaned down and picked up the baby. This action was met by new wordless screams of displeasure from the boy in the corner, and he dared a few steps forward, his arms outstretched as if to lay claim to his sister. Wings that shimmered like colorless blown glass trembled behind his shoulders. Josiah wondered if the boy was old enough for flight.
“Quiet, child,” he admonished. “Or I’ll silence your throat forever.” The boy shrank back, and his cries were lessened to detached, convulsive sobs. There was a defiant look in his green eyes, though - a look that had not been there before. He watched the lead soldier intently as the man lifted the tiny baby in front of his face. Her head lolled to the side and she struggled to upright it, with no success. He turned her around and looked at her naked little back. There they were: Still wet from birth, the child’s wings were of white feathers that seemed to glisten in the dusty light from the single window. Feathers. They didn’t seem quite as soft as those of the Angelis, and their fibers seemed connected by a shining, iridescent film. But they were definitely feathers.
“I didn’t know that…it…could be born like that,” ventured the soldier closest to his left. “I though that the Fae couldn’t…I mean, they’re not like us…” The young Angelis seemed like he was having trouble expressing his thoughts on the matter.
“They’re not,” said Josiah coldly. “And they can’t. Fae cannot carry our children. This is lies! Trickery and lies!” He lowered the infant enough to look over its shoulder at the now quiet young boy. They were certainly siblings. The tiny girl had a mess of red hair (save for one small tuft of white, near the front) and her eyes were the same pale green. Even the skin seemed to glimmer dustily like that of the Fae. She was certainly no Angelis child. “I will put a stop to this.” Josiah set the child on the table as though she was a cut of meat, and pulled a dagger from a sheath at his hip. “We will not suffer this deception again!”
At this point, the Fae boy dashed forward and grabbed the dagger tightly by the blade. He tried to wrestle it from the soldier’s hand, but the boy’s bloody hands just slipped from the blade again and again. The behavior of this child was morbid. “Stupid boy, you’ll slice your fingers to shreds!” Josiah aimed a kick at the boy’s chest, and the gangly little thing went flying backward onto the small bed. “How are you to feed your sister if you have no hands? Doubtless you have no father to provide for you.”
The boy clenched the grubby bed sheets, his eyes watering in pain, but thoughtful. Ideas seemed to be whirring around inside his head.
“No, child, I won’t kill her. She has done no wrong.” Josiah sauntered over to a barrel of laundry and picked up a bit of something in a pink tartan pattern. He cleaned his sword on it, and spoke in a gentle, kindly voice. “It was your mother’s sin. We must rectify it, and that is all.”
The other four soldiers seemed to relax. They did not want to kill children. They had not been sure on Josiah’s position, however, and his soothing manner seemed to do more to comfort them than the newly orphaned children.
The baby squirmed on the table. She seemed to be pulling her wings in tight to her shoulders, and then relaxing them again. The little boy was now watching her closely, still sitting on the bed. It seemed he wanted to make sure that her safety was ensured.
“No, we will not kill her,” Josiah continued. He dropped the bloody tartan on the floor and took two slow steps back to the block wooden table. “We will remove these false wings, see? So that your mother’s trick will fool no more into believing that one of the People could conceive with a Fae.” Although his manner was still gentle, the final word seemed to drip with disdain, as though he was speaking of an unwanted cockroach in a bowl of sugar.
The four lowly soldiers exchanged glances with one another. If it was a trick, it was a good one. The Fae were known for their tendencies to weave questionable magic, but could false wings move like that? And what of the midwife? When she had come to them at the edge of the city, she said that the child was born with the wings of the Angelis. Could the dead woman’s magic have been powerful enough to sculpt the living thing inside her? Certainly not. And the soldiers, though they did not say it, knew it was a lie. And one of them thought that, perhaps, Josiah was well aware of this.
Josiah held the dagger back in one hand and used the other to turn the child gently onto its stomach. It whimpered. Josiah yelped in shock and stared down at the thing.
The wings were gone. All that remained of them was a red, tattoo-like mark on the baby’s back; a mark that could, with some imagination, represent two arching wings. There were no feathers, and there was nothing to show that wings had once protruded. It looked like a human - a human baby with a series of dark pink scars around its shoulders.
“What-“ Josiah sputtered. “Wha-how-“
A bright sound shattered the moment of confusion. It was much like a trumpet blast, but much fuller and louder. The red-headed boy looked up as he heard the sound in confusion, and the baby started to cry again. The Angelis soldiers, however, had quite a different reaction. They tensed, and then quickly started making their way out of the hut. Josiah turned and looked at the boy, and then at the infant on the table, then left, slamming the door. The boy’s green eyes followed the men as they ran up the road, and then he slowly stood up off the bed. He stepped over the body on the floor on his way to the table, then carefully, standing on tiptoes, picked up his sister with small, bloody hands.
He held her close to his chest and cried.