ARELLIA

Enka once told me a story of her late husband– of his quick temper and stubbornness. She told me that she grew up in love with a man so infuriating that when he accidentally burned himself, he refused to see a physician. And when the wound festered and he fell fatally ill, she sold her body to a merchant's son in return for burn salve and medicinal herbs.

When I asked her why she did such a terrible thing, she only smiled and said that she was in love and that trading her body for his life was something she would do again without a moment's hesitation if it meant that he would live. When he grew well and discovered what had been done on his behalf, he killed the merchant's son with his own iron poker. Enka was only a girl of fifteen. She was forced to watch as her husband was executed the next day.

I think of her story as I stare at the scars and callouses on Dillon's hands as he holds the reins. I think of how men are so quick to anger, yet there are some like my father who was quiet and patient. I always believed I took after him in personality and my mother in appearance. But after losing my temper and killing a man, I am now not so certain. I can still see the blood on my hands and smell it all over. It is sticky, making me itch. I want to claw at my skin until the blood and dirt come off. But, I hesitate.

Instead, I fiddle with the sleeves of Dillon's dress shirt as it ripples over my skin from the morning breeze. We left the outcrop in silence the hour before dawn and now we are heading towards a small village in the East. I was awake all night with worry that those lights I spotted would pursue us. But, no one came. I thought that a quiet night would reassure me but somehow it only rattled my nerves more.

I hug my torso tightly, resisting the urge to grab my wound again. Instead, I breathe in the scent of the morning, it is mixed with the musk of the mare, sweat and blood. Behind me, Dillon sits stiffly. He took off his dress shirt without hesitation last night when he saw what I had done.

"Give me your tunic." He said to me before he threw his shirt on my lap and turned away. I undressed hastily in the darkness as I stared at a deep, gnarly scar on his back. In the dim light, the scar looked grotesque. It was as deep as a valley and snaked across his entire back.

The image of that scar remains with me now as we ride through rocky terrain. How many battles had he fought and survived? How much pain has he endured? Even now as he is sitting behind me— his breathing ragged, his skin pale and clammy— he does not complain or weep. While I have wailed for much less. I am a weakling, and I hate myself for it.

I freed Dillon from that cell purely for my own benefit. Now, I am dependent on him to survive while he is struggling to even stand. He puts on a brave face, but I can see how much he is struggling. I am cruel to force him into this situation. What does he think of me? I must seem like a spoiled princess running away from home without a thought of consequences.

I feel like a monster. Growing up alongside my vicious brother, I did not believe that I was capable of violence. I flinched at the sight of blood and cried when Vasilis hit me. But, Dillon has watched me kill a man. Never once did he throw a judgemental glance in my direction. That is because I am just as wicked as he is now. We are both killers.

A tear threatens to break free. I bite my lip and claw at my palms and hands to try and scrape off the blood that has dried and crusted against my skin. It is futile. My hands will never be clean again. My eyes blur and a sting spreads across my palms as I realise all I am doing is hurting myself. I barely feel the pain. Blood beads over the back of my hand as I let out a pitiful sob.

"We're almost there." Dillon disrupts my thoughts. He takes my hand and wipes away the fresh blood with his thumb. I snatch my hand from his, embarrassed. Dillon says nothing and we continue forward on this dirt path. I am thankful for his silence.

On small, rocky hills in the distance sits a few quaint houses made of rammed earth and stone. The shrubbery out here is round and spiky, growing sporadically over the land. It is almost midday. The sun is glaring, making beads of sweat form on my skin.

"Once we are near the village, find a safe place to hide. I will go and trade what we have for food and water." Dillon says. I nod stiffly. We have travelled well today, albeit slowly. There have been no signs of pursuit, apart from the lights on the hillside I spotted yesterday. But, they could've been anyone. Farmers or travellers. I will my nerves to calm as the houses come into view.

There are three small houses, the rest are situated farther away toward the hills. The structures are shabby –the walls have an orange-red tinge to them, blending in with the desert– with small wooden windows. To the left, by the dirt path, a collared goat grazes lazily. In large wired cages behind the house, dozens of chickens roam and nibble at the earth.

Though there are no people in sight, I can tell that this house is occupied. My heart races. Dillon pulls the reins and the mare halts. "It would be best for you to hide while I approach, I don't think anyone saw you. I won't be long." He nods to the few bushes and trees to my left. I turn to look at him for some sort of reassurance but his face is blank and impassive.

I grit my teeth. Clumsily, I jump from the horse and jog over to my hiding place. I pant when I reach the shade, sweat running down my back. I crouch beside a bush and wipe my sweaty hands on my trousers.

What if Dillon abandons me? If he rides off, what will happen to me? If the residents refuse him, we will die out here. Would Dillon resort to violence? I shake my head to rid of these thoughts. The residents of this place will no doubt inform Vasilis that I am here if we are discovered. I have made it this far but I fear I will go no further.

As these thoughts fill my mind, panic starts to rise. I turn and peek through the gap in the brush– the spiky leaves and twigs scratch my skin. I watch as Dillon rides up slowly to the wooden gate. He winces when he jumps from the horse, landing stiffly on his feet.

He ties the reins to a small tree beside the gate and limps lightly to the front door. It is made from wood, painted dark green. Dillon knocks on the door thrice. My heart hammers in my chest and I swallow nervously. The goat bleats loudly from the side of the road. I jolt from the sudden noise and breathe deeply. I must stay calm. There is a chance that the residents may turn him down or be suspicious. Dillon's light skin, blonde hair and blue eyes certainly are uncommon in these parts, in addition to that, his clothes are ripped, mismatched and covered in blood.

The door opens. Panic rises anew and instinctively, I clutch at the wound on my arm and squeeze until pain replaces fear. A plump, dark-skinned man answers the door. I cannot see his expression or hear what they are saying. The man turns away from Dillon to speak to another. Then, a large black and white spotted hound jumps through the door. Its tail wags excitedly and Dillon leans forward to pat the dog.

The man smiles and leads Dillon into the house. He hobbles awkwardly and ducks– the door is too short for his frame– and enters the house. I let loose a breath and watch as the door shuts behind them.

If Dillon manages to get supplies and medicine, perhaps we can cross the Valley. A small hope ignites in the back of my mind. If we are able to cross the Valley and leave Illya, I will be free from my brother and his army. Vasilis may wage a war in name only, to save his image as a doting brother, but he cares not for my wellbeing.

The sound of crunching twigs echoes to my right. I snap from my daydream. Before I turn my head, a rough hand covers my mouth and pulls me down into the dirt. I scream but the sound is muffled. I smell dirt and the musk of sweat. I cannot see as everything moves too fast, my vision blurs. Another hand covers my eyes. I thrash and kick and punch but they hold me down. Rocks and sand dig into my skin. It is painful.

My eyes sting from tears. I must scream so Dillon will hear me so I try to open my mouth, but the hands against my lips tighten, jagged nails dig into my cheek. My assailants don't speak. The only sounds in my ears are my sobs and shuffling of clothes.

When I scream again, my throat burns. Someone punches my gut and I jolt and curl up into a ball. But, the hands pull my limps apart and push me into the dirt. I gag, feeling bile rise in my throat. I hear quiet laughter beside me.

Then, I hear a rough, deep voice. "If she screams again, kill her."