Three Women, Three Stories

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Theodosia stood as the division between the little ones and the older children, finding her position in the line was fittingly ambiguous and hopefully would keep her safe. She would, she reasoned, be the last choice for someone looking for a child to take home and raise and put to work, as she was too old to be brought into a family's ways. Likewise, there were plenty of older girls to pick before men looking for other uses got to her. She was content with that.

When the big man with the dead dogs on his shoulders looked up and down the line, though, she became worried. He didn't seem happy with the older girls and was coming dangerously close to looking at her. Theodosia didn't want him looking at her. She wished she could disappear.

What she wanted didn't seem to matter, though; he saw her anyway, and once he saw her he was done looking. He dropped the dogs on the ground, where two boys picked them up immediately, running back to the camp before the corpses could go stiff, and gestured to the slaver to cut the rope at her ankle. With an unceremonious shove, she fell in a heap at the strange man's feet.

He crouched down to regard her for a moment, then smiled and took a strip of leather from around his neck. There was an arrowhead tied to it, though it would be a long time before she learned that it had come from one of her people, that it had struck the man in the thigh and he had pulled it out with a smile.

"She makes a better prize than the arrow, I think."Â?

That odd statement made, he scooped her up off the ground and carried her off to his horse.

Theodosia had been so frightened that she hadn't even struggled.

She had seen his teeth.

---

Theodosia wrapped her furs closely around her as the carriage pushed onward, finding herself very nearly too warm except where small patches of pale skin were exposed, which were freezing in contrast. Wilhem’s faithful servant, Nestor, had objected to bringing her along, a fact for which she was not a little resentful, but fortunately Wilhem had ignored him, saying that his ‘little barbarian’ had the right to see. Even so, she was to stay behind, at camp, while the battle commenced. Theodosia had not been happy about this pronouncement, but Wilhem had promised her a spectacle if she behaved, and so she sat quietly in the carriage as it made its way North.

To Adrianople.

When the carriage stopped at last, Wilhem touched her lightly on the face, and Theodosia was good and did not cringe. It was always this way with him; calling her ‘little princess’, ‘little angel’, ‘little barbarian’ with gentle touches when he wanted compliance. Calling her ‘little whore’ and pulling hard on her hair when he wanted something else. She was, after a year of this prison, used to it.

She had no idea she would be caged for a thousand more years; already she could not even see the bars.

When Wilhem left, she wiggled out of the furs and rubbed her hand roughly against her cheek, glaring at Nestor. Nestor simply glared back, daring her to start screaming again.

Theodosia was still trying her hardest to be good, and so she simply narrowed her eyes even further, even with the voices rising to a crescendo in her mind.

Hit him! Gouge his eyes out! Scream! Don’t just sit there, stupid girl!

She was gritting her teeth by the time Nestor turned away, and as soon as he did the voices changed.

Wicked, wicked girl! Repent, repent, repent!

Making a soft whining noise, she fell to her knees, muttering to herself, digging her nails into her cheeks as she prayed, rocking back and forth.

She did not see Nestor’s cold regard.

It seemed that her prayers had been heard, or else Wilhem had simply made good on his promise. Even that whoreson could be an instrument of God, after all. After calming down from her earlier fit, Nestor had silently wrapped her up in her furs and led her to the edge of camp.

She smiled as the flames leapt high into the night sky. Nestor watched with a set jaw, the fire reflected in his dark eyes, but she paid him only passing notice, too entranced by the sight in front of her.

She was asleep when Wilhem returned, pushing aside the flap of the tent and shaking her awake. She jumped up and scrambled back, crawling like a crab, but he held a bloody finger to his lips and she clamped her mouth shut before a scream could escape. Still, she was panting hard, like an animal, as Wilhem approached her.

‘Shh, my little barbarian. It is time to go.’

Uncertain of what he meant, she stayed still, letting him close the distance between them. She wasn’t sure if he was reaching up to hit her or to take her hand and drag her to where she needed to be, and was surprised when he simply pressed his bloody hand to the side of her face, letting his thumb sweep over her lips.

‘I kept my promise. What do you say?’

Theodosia hated it when he asked her questions. She never knew the right answer and it was usually all a trap anyway, a stupid test she would always fail. This time, though, she sensed that he was not expectant, that there was no hidden hatred and contempt behind the question, and that meant she could say what she liked.

And with the sticky blood on her cheek, with Wilhem looking into her eyes, for a moment, she thought he was the most wonderful thing in the world.

She turned her head, like an infant rooting for a breast, and sucked the blood off his thumb.

“Thank you.”

---

She almost didn’t recognize Nestor when he showed up at the house with the pear tree out front. It had been so long! Ten years this time, ten years since Wilhem had dropped her at the Evenhet safe house. Good years, every one of them, but filled with anticipation for –his- return.

There were –babies- here. All the babies she would never have, all for her to take care of until they had to leave. She didn’t understand why they had to leave; sometimes, though, she would wake up and find her door locked from the outside, and then she knew it was time for a baby to go somewhere else.

She got upset when they had to leave.

But while they were here! She could hold babies, and feed them, and change them, and sing them little songs. They were all such good babies, every one of them, because when she held a baby she felt lots of good feelings, and over the years she had learned to push those good feelings so that the babies felt good too.

Nestor did not understand when she told him that she had to say goodbye to the babies. He was always, in her opinion, a little slow. It wasn’t his fault, there was just a lot he didn’t understand. When she tried to explain again, he just grabbed her arm and told her she was going to the basilica. She knew that was the Evenhet headquarters in Venice even though she’d never been there.

She also knew that she had better be good, because Nestor coming meant that Wiheim was coming too. He was probably waiting for her at the basilica. And in spite of being very sad at leaving the babies, she was excited to see her Clan’s home. Plus, she heard the voices the best in churches, and sometimes when she pushed she could make the priests see visions from God, and then they believed everything she said.

They arrived in a carriage and went inside, and Nestor talked –forever-. She noticed that he lied a lot. Nestor was too stupid to tell good lies, so he told bad lies instead and they believed him anyway. He told them that Wilhem had left Evenhet, and they bobbed their heads, up and down, up and down, like they already knew. He told them Wilhem had no use for her. Up and down went their heads. He told them that he wanted out. Out out out, stupid Nestor, out from what?

He took her to a room in the basement and made to leave, then, and she looked at him in confusion.

‘When is Wilhem coming?’

Nestor turned and stared at her for a long time. Theodosia stared back. Then his hand suddenly snaked out and yanked hard on the leather strap around her neck, breaking it away. She wailed in protest but Nestor clapped his hand over her mouth and moved so close that their noses almost touched.

“You pray he never comes, girl.”

She bit at Nestor’s hand, shoved at him, screamed. Nestor hissed and pulled his hand away, though otherwise he stood still as stone. The voices were so –loud- here, it was suddenly unbearable, and she flung herself at Wilhem’s servant, tore at his clothes, pounded on his chest with her fists, hoping that would silence them.

They only grew louder, demanding penance, resolution, answers, questions. Frustrated, she threw herself on the floor, pulling at her hair, clapping her hands over her ears, screaming nonsense that turned to words that faded to weak sobs.

“I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”

The world went dark for a time, and she might have fallen asleep, face down on the floor, though she wasn’t sure. When she woke up, the voices were silent, and Nestor was gone. He had taken her talisman with him, and in that moment of clarity she realized that he needed proof that he had killed her, as Wilhem had ordered.

She never saw Nestor or Wilhem again.