Episode 17: Terra Tara (Tarragon)

His body ached, the searing pain of each cut burned with movement. His sword beat upon his opponents. His heart beat steadily in his chest, a reminder that he fought with an advantage.

He looked the man in his eyes, sweat stained his face and clothes. He pulled his sword back and thrust it deep into the opening created when he tried to block a move Tarragon had repeated a dozen times for the sole purpose of this moment.

The man’s sword clattered to the ground, wobbling until it settled. The man stood, eyes unsurprised by their fate. Every slave sent to the ring died. Perhaps not the first time they faced him, but eventually.

Without remorse, but a deep rooted fight for survival, he pulled the sword out and let the body crumble to the ground.

“Why did that take you so long?” the woman who threatened his being spoke.

Ionia, sister of Titania the late queen of the Lower Dell. Visionary of the well-bred, or inbred if you weren’t already blind by your genetics, Alandrial line.

He stood before her, sweat coated and in an immeasurable amount of pain.  Less than dying, but longer lived than the mercy of a last breath.

“He was skilled,” Tarragon said.

“You should be faster next time. You’ll fight him again tomorrow. Remember, your brothers are likely to be skilled,” she stated. Her white hair stood as motionless as her body.

He was nothing more than a tool to her. He only had to behave and survive long enough to ascend. As king, he would kill his lost family and elixir to the dragon line. Power to destroy Ionia came closer every day.

Tarragon wiped another round of sweat from his forehead.

“Just my brothers?” he asked.

“And your father,” she sneered. “He’s likely to be your biggest problem.”

Inbreeding and idiocracy. How she survived astounded Tarragon some days. He had more sisters than brothers and she still wouldn’t acknowledge that perhaps one or two, or all of them if he were in charge, had trained. The entire kingdom’s religion was woman based. To disregard their strength…

“I’ll take care of him,” he stated. At least he knew better. He felt a wave of amusement but kept his jaw firm and unemotional.

“I saw one the other day, one of the girls,” he goaded.

“Did you talk to her?”

“No,” he replied. She was a good candidate for the elixir. She had some color to her. He didn’t believe in purity when he was smarter and more talented than every model of purity he had been exposed to.

It may have been tactical. He wouldn’t underestimate the potential that his father, the king, possessed high intelligence.

Even if he had fled the Lower Dell, abandoned him, like a coward. He only returned to grovel at his mom’s feet and take over the role of king, after his own brother died for the job.

“Did people seem to like her?” Ionia inquired. Eager. As though she could taste war already and wanted seconds.

He examined a cut on his arm as the skin restitched itself.

“They adore all of them,” he mused. He spun his blade point on the cement floor as he remembered her, the way she demanded attention and wove through the crowds with confidence.

“How do you expect us to win when they have the populace?” he asked. He had asked before, but he wanted more strategy than musings.

“They lied to the populace. They told them it was a war for them, but every single member of that family is high-born.”

“And yet they still have support,” he stated. A pointless conversation. What did it matter – they were popular. Loved.

He exhaled, “I’ll go break more equipment tonight.”

He had made it a habit to undo their good deeds when possible.

“They have support because they lie. Don’t forget that. They’re very good at seeming to be more than they are.” She stood up a began ascending the staircase. “I have a present for you.”

“I love presents,” he said. He meant it sarcastically, but he tried to imply genuine interest. Her last present had been a trip to the realm of the dead.

“You still want a girl you can keep?”

What he wanted was her to stop killing his wives.

“Yes,” he stated. It was useless to think she’d stop her method. He was still powerless.

“Burn the body,” she said to a guard. She opened the door and light burst into the room. It was followed by light and heat behind them as flesh permeated the air.

Her memory left something to be desired.

“Who am I fighting tomorrow, then?” he reminded her.

“Someone else. I think you’ve learned what you can from him. This next person was trained by their head of security before he led the rebellion.”

He admired her ability to never show emotion. She never missed a beat even when cornered.

The Dragons might lie, but that didn’t make Ionia honest.

“I look forward to the challenge,” he said. He grumbled it in his head, but any misstep could cost his gift her life.

They walked down the hall, terracotta tiles of reds and browns and cream diamond centers lined their path.

“I want you to start training Annatto,” she informed him.

He would finally have access to his oldest son. His first training would mark his first death and served to destroy any possibility of trust. Ionia was in control, Ionia’s orders came first, children were tools.

He would have to be cautious with his actions.

“Okay,” he replied.

She seemed unsatisfied with his control over his emotions that day. It wasn’t his fault he had inherited his mother’s water magic in addition to the volatile fire that fueled Ionia’s line.

“Next week you’ll marry Veil,” she added. She looked him over.

“Okay,” he stated again

Another marriage. To her daughter. It was expected eventually. It might mean the war is only a few years out.

They rounded the corner to the kitchen.

He wished he could end things now, but she controlled his kids. A star for each lined his right calf; six living and the blackened reminder of Kanna’s death. He could feel their lives – the intensity of any pain they experienced – through the tattoos. They had been a present too.

They turned into the kitchen.

“Get up,” Ionia barked.

A girl with honey blonde hair and tanned skin; not dark but enough color to surprise Tarragon, stood.

“Yes?” She asked, her hand on her hip.

Her sass might get her killed, but he liked it. She wasn’t a drone like his wives.

“This is Tarragon. You’ll do whatever he says. Tarragon, this is Tara,” Ionia introduced them.

“Hey,” she said. He imagined she needed something to chew on while she stood there, defiant and unbroken.

He suspected she had no idea what she was getting into by coming there.

“Thank you for her, Ionia. Where will she stay? Veil will be in my room? Or will that change this time?”

With a smug smile, she informed Tarragon, above Tara, that she would be sleeping and living in the cellar. Unless supervised. Veil would be in his room.

“Of course,” he replied.

He would only have her for a few days before nine grueling months of elixir forced distance.

It was very Ionia to give him a girl she wouldn’t kill before he was bound to another. If he so much as kissed Tara after his wedding to Veil, Tara would die.

He felt a tremor in the earth, an earth-fairy. Ionia’s choice caught him more off guard than he expected.

“No one said I would be locked up,” Tara belted out, demanding.

“I paid for you and I’m not letting you run off,” Ionia declared. She turned to Tarragon, “You can’t marry her, but I don’t have any problem with her having children. She went to school at the palace, so be careful.”

“I will,” Tarragon stated. Another tremor could be felt. It must have been tiny because Ionia didn’t respond.

“This way,” he directed Tara.

“Is she serious?” Tara asked, looking back toward the kitchen.

“She is,” Tarragon replied. “I can only keep you safe if you behave. Beginning with those tremors.”

“No, this is wrong,” Tara stated. Her voice pitched up and down, her fire sent waves of heat out every direction. He pulled them into himself and turned, pushing her against a wall, his arms and body pinning her.

“You have two possible futures. Alive or dead. Whatever you were promised – forget it. You’re my property for as long as she deems you so.”

He meant to be softer, but she could be a spy. This could all be a game meant to discover his feelings. If he had feelings.

He let her go.

“This way,” he directed. He led her up the stairs and to his room, where he planned to spend the remainder of his day.

Her eyes widened as they entered the room, but she sat on the edge of his bed and patted beside her.

He watched her absorb every detail of the room; or use her environment to buy time. Her mouth was held tight in a straight line.

“She won’t hesitate to kill you, but unless you give me a compelling reason to end your life, I will teach you how to survive.”

It wasn’t much to offer, she would die in the end, regardless of Ionia’s implication.

Tara’s shoulders fell from their peeks of tensions.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

He didn’t. But he couldn’t let Ionia know he was disgusted with the gift. He approached her, like every wife before, and kissed her. He pulled her to standing and kissed down her neck and across her collarbone. He found her lips again and reminded himself that someday he would have revenge against Ionia, or he would stop coming back to life. There was no middle ground. He kissed her like he meant it – like he wanted her. Like she was his.

And, once the anger left him, he touched her like he worshipped her.

It was not a surprise when she tried to kill him. He held her – fire to fire – until energy and pain melted into shared sorrow and submission.

She would be broken; broken like he was. Broken like his son would be.

She would behave.

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