Episode 92: Headless, Heartless, Handless (Tarragon)

Tarragon walked out onto the field, aware of every set of eyes on him. There were no choices in this situation; no easy way out, no alternative option.

He found the two sharpened swords on the edge of the makeshift arena. He had sharpened them himself, to ensure that whatever he put Annatto through today would be as painless as possible. It was a moment he dreaded more than having to kill the mothers of his children, though the brutal reality of that job was enough to make him struggle to hold his stomach together.

The stars that adorned his leg reminded him of why he was stuck here, and he traced each one in the hour leading up to this moment. The nights leading up to this day.

He handed one of the swords, one that was just enough longer to give his son an edge in the upcoming battle, to his son. His pale skin and bright red hair, his body covered in beige freckles, all served as reminders that he was part of him – pale – but not enough to please Ionia – red haired.

Annatto was his oldest child, and there was a pride in seeing him stand there that made Tarragon frustrated. In a happier environment, he would be training Annatto with a wooden sword and love.

Today, he had love and only the hope that his son was intelligent enough to see it.

On the side of the ring, next to Ionia and her guards, Camilla sat. Her hands were spread across her thighs.

She shouldn’t see this. It was a punishment. Not a punishment, a warning. It was designed to drive a wedge between them; she was already pregnant. He suspected Ionia wanted to see how Camilla would react as well. Tonight she would be anticipating an escape attempt.

He circled Annatto again, after examining all twelve years of his growth. Annatto stood with his shoulders back and the sword hung loose against the ground.

“You are afraid of what you don’t know,” Tarragon told Annatto. “Here, you will learn to let go of those fears.”

Tarragon drew his sword and spread his legs into a defensive position.

“Just kill me,” Annatto said.

“Raise your sword. Feet apart like this,” Tarragon said.

“No,” Annatto said. His voice hardened into an impenetrable layer of stubborn. He let the sword fall to the ground from his fingertips. Dust enveloped the sword and flew through the air, up toward Annatto’s hand.

If it managed to grab his hand, to reach out in some form of humanity, it would tether him no more than Ionia’s claws.

“Why?” Tarragon asked. “Ionia wants you trained with swords.”

He could see Annatto grinding his teeth.

“Annatto,” Tarragon said, in a voice he knew resembled one a parent would use – but he was no more a parent to Annatto than Camilla.

What he wanted was a moment alone with Annatto, to explain the way life worked and his hopes and dreams and why he had settled for brutality over anything he could imagine.

What he had was an audience with Camilla, Tara, Ionia, and her guards. At any moment, Ionia could execute any of three people he cared for in the room or one of his children.

He wanted to rub his leg; he could feel the pain of the last woman’s body burning as it seared the black border around the star tattoo, her last breaths escaping into steam.

He had this space though, to use his words in a way that Annatto could learn to communicate with.

“This is a space to unleash all of your feelings and fears in,” Tarragon told his son.

He lowered his sword.

Ionia may want a battle of swords, but she should have known to expect a battle of wills to precede it.

“I don’t need to train with swords because I won’t fight for you,” Annatto stated.

“Why?” Tarragon asked.

He was curious more why he was willing to openly defy Ionia, knowing he wasn’t needed by her. Perhaps he didn’t realize it yet. She didn’t need any of them except to be skilled with a sword.

“You’re about to kill me and you have to ask why?”

Annatto sat on the ground and crossed his legs, “Just do it.”

“Do you think I want to kill you?” Tarragon asked.

Annatto looked over at Ionia, and Tarragon followed his gaze and watched her expression.

“I think you’re weak,” Annatto spit.

Tara crossed her legs, amused.

Camilla seemed lost, concerned anxious. He wished to comfort her, but suspected this would only end in distance.

Ionia sat upright in her chair. She was waiting for his response.

He had to get them free.

Escaping and protecting his children seemed impossible.

They were lives that weren’t meant to exist. He didn’t know them. His son sat before him in immediate and clear danger.

Tarragon pushed Annatto over, so he was on his back, and kneeled near his head.

“Shock kills opponents in about an hour,” he informed Annatto.

If he wanted to survive Ionia, an escape, he would need to kill Annatto first. Annatto would heal on his own, in time.

Ionia wouldn’t suspect he would escape with a woman that hated him and a beheaded body.

He stabbed Annatto in the abdomen. “They can survive this sort of wound for around ten minutes, while air leaks into the chest.”

He could feel his son’s pain; his own body desired to gasp for air it didn’t need.

Annatto had forced him to need to prove his strength to Ionia. He held back any reaction, every inkling to comfort.

He began making small cuts along Annatto’s body, while the first wound healed. “Wounds in these areas can heal or take longer to succumb to.”

He moved to Annatto’s arm, and sliced his skin across his bicep. “Loss of limb depends on how fast the blood is flowing, and how clean the cut is. A clean cut is survivable.”

Annatto was motionless, and Tarragon felt mechanical on his own.

Tarragon lowered himself to Annatto’s side and wrapped his hand around the top of Annatto’s neck.

“You now have four to five minutes if debris or blood enter your airway. Obstruction… it depends on which areas you compress. You could be unconscious in seconds, dead in minutes…” He let his hand rest on Annatto’s neck, Annatto squirming beneath his hold.

Find Drey and Cyrene, he mouthed.

He pulled his hand away.

He couldn’t prevent his son’s death today, but perhaps Annatto’s mother, the first woman he had loved and bonded to, could explain his behavior, if not his uncle might have some idea. he had seen the house full of books – many on philosophy.

He hated his family – the generations above him. He was desperate, seeing blood drip from Annatto’s body.

Perhaps Drey could even get word to someone, somehow. Neither Orris nor Olida had felt any pain since they had been taken a week prior. Part of him was willing to hear their side out, if it meant safety for his family.

He picked his sword back up and thrust it into Annatto’s chest.

Blood spewed from his lips in a series of coughs.

“One to three minutes,” he informed Annatto.

He walked around Annatto’s body, and raised his sword.

He met Ionia’s eyes as he did, because he wanted to remember her face. To etch into his soul the extent of how vile she was.

More than the obvious lessons, this was a lesson to prove they could win the war. Only a twisted soul, a desperate soul, could kill their own child.

“Even a Salamander dies from this,” he told his son.

He wanted to tell him he was foolish for provoking this behavior, instead he offered wisdom to go forward with, “Always know what you’re fighting for, or fighting against.”

The sword fell; Annatto’s head fell.

He felt the pain and collapsed to the ground.

Part of him wanted to fight it, and he could have, but he wanted Ionia to think if she harmed his children in battle he would falter.

It was weak.

She wanted him to feel the pain; it was nothing more than feeding her satisfaction.

He coughed and breathed deeply, then raised his head.

He managed to shrug, once he had found his feet. “He wouldn’t fight. Next time.’

He glanced at Camilla, while Ionia’s mouth turned into a grin. She refused to meet his eyes.

It was for the best. She deserved more than he was.

Tara’s vision was also fixed elsewhere, though she had seen slaying already. Underneath everything, he thought Tara might be decent.

“Should we burn the body?” Ionia asked.

“He’s Salamander,” Tarragon reminded her. “I haven’t learned enough from his unique skill set yet.”

Ionia laughed, “Get him inside. And next time, make him fight.”

Tarragon steadied his hand before he reached out for Annatto’s head. he lifted it by the dirty red hair and placed it on Annatto’s chest. He lifted the body, one arm under the knees and another near the shoulders.

“He’ll fight,” Tarragon assured her. “The first death is the hardest.”

As they walked toward the doors, blood continued to spill. a guard used water to ensure the trail was covered.

He held in his arms something more tangible than the stars and his pain- his dead son. He had lost one son permanently. Two children were safe.

He had to make a decision before Annatto woke.

Despite the strength and calm he tried to show, his water magic and heritage at its best, it destroyed him bit by bit.

Ionia would destroy Annatto too; alive wasn’t worth it in this life.

He would sacrifice his other children: Basil, Marjoram, and baby Anisa…

He would sacrifice them for Annatto and Camilla and Tara and the children to come.

He would come out ahead. Camilla carried five sets of children – a powerful number.

Tara – he wasn’t sure.

He would have at least eleven living children, plus the twins, in exchange for three more dead.

Or worse.

His son was far more real than the others, far more important at the moment.

He set a plan in place; Ionia expected Camilla to try and escape tonight, but tomorrow or the next day, while Annatto was still dead and healing, would surprise her.

Tara opened Annatto’s bedroom door, and slipped into the room beside him. He lowered Annatto to his tattered blanket and aligned his head with his neck. He wasn’t sure how it worked; he had never been on the living side of this.

He filled a spare bedpan with fresh water and ripped a piece of his pants, setting it inside the pot.

He stood, to face Tara.

She stood, her arms crossed. “You could have gone easier on him.”

“I could have,” he agreed.

She shook her head. “Don’t. whatever it is, don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tarragon argued.

“When I get that look bad things happen. I’m not dying for you.”

She was a selfish little being. He admired her tenacity under such circumstances.

She had no idea they were being listened to – every word heard from some spying device.

“I just want to see him healed by our next move, Ionia … she can punish me if that isn’t sufficient reason to speak with Randyn.”

He would have to go to Randyn and ask him to revive Annatto immediately, to heal his body, and accept whatever punishment came of that. His reason may lighten the sentence, but if it was permitted his plan would be lost. It was a large bluff.

“Uh-huh,” Tara replied. She didn’t have to believe him she just had to shut up.

After a moment, she dropped her arms and let him pass, then went to Annatto’s side, and used the fresh water Tarragon had left to wash away the blood and debris.

It was his job in his heart, but she was his.

It would have to do.

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