2. Captivity

Told from Issa's POV, on how she was caught and sold. She meets Tryxtan and they start off on something that resembles a friendship...

ISSA

I’ve been in this overwhelming new place for too many days to count now. My hair is free of tangles and my face has been painted like the people who live here. My teeth have been aligned (painfully) and cleaned. My body has been polished and rid of hair. I gleam. 

I feel like a caged animal, pacing the floor of my bedroom over and over all through the night. I should be grateful that I’m not stuck in that strange place of cold metal and observational windows, being prodded and poked by men in white coats. I should be grateful for this man Markus “rescuing” me and offering to make me his wife. I should be, but I’m not. 

It was merely a trade, as I have been poked and prodded by made-up women, plucked like a game bird so that I can be beautiful. The things I am expected to do for this Markus, things I didn’t imagine could exist, frighten and disgust me. 

Back home with my parents, my parents who managed to escape the white-coats, I was only ever told about sex in a general way. 

It was for procreation first, for love second. There was only one way you did it, as far as I knew, and it was to be with whoever you chose as a mate. 

My people have long since abandoned traditions like weddings and courting; we don’t have the luxury. The scientists (yes, I know what they’re called) think that we’re feral, think that we’re slow-witted. Just because we don’t need to be connected to our world by wires, we are primitive. 

My first night at the Half-Shell, I fought and kicked and bit, swearing at the women who touched my body in places I never touched myself. I curled into a ball in my room and cried, ugly and raw, until I was spent. 

By the third night, I knew I had to play along if I ever wanted to get out. All the bright lights and unfamiliar sounds, the flashy clothes, it’s too much. It’s all too much. I just wanted to get back to the woods, to my hut. I still do. 

Markus took me to his bed for the first time gently, carrying me like a baby through the door, but he did not perform the act when I burst into tears at his touch. At least he offered that small kindness. 

I know, though, that if I’m going to marry him it will happen eventually. Soon. He is handsome, but he’s almost old enough to be my father. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil and angry tears prick my eyes. I am sixteen years old. A child. 

Back home, I was free to do anything. I could wander the woods to hunt, swim in the clean lake, climb the steel skeletons of fallen buildings. I had friends. I had older brothers, Soren and Kieran. I knew the place I am now, Cityland, existed. I had heard stories from people who came to us from over the mountains, stories about buildings shining white, a city that towered over everything else. They depend on their technology here, I doubt they would last a day in my village without it. 

I admit that I struggle to adapt to their ways, though whether it’s for lack of trying or lack of ability, I can’t say. 

My chest aches when I think of home, so I try not to. 

Markus likes to dress me up in costumes, like ancient goddesses or fairy queens, as though I am some life-sized doll for his amusement. He has no idea that I could kick his teeth in, that I could stab him so swiftly and accurately with anything sharp I find that he wouldn’t realize it until he was bleeding to death on his shiny floor. 

But if I did that, there would be a swarm of his people to arrest me, to take me back to the scientists for more tests. I would never be free. 

I came to the conclusion last night as I lay awake in Markus’s bed listening to him snore, that the only way out is for me to die. 

If I kill myself, they won’t be able to have me anymore. 

Of course, the expression of shock and dismay on the face of Markus’s. . .son? Ward? at my announcement is amusing enough that I crack a smile. The young man Markus called Tryxtan is sitting across from me and I can see the worry that has now flooded his mind. If I die on his watch, he’ll be in serious trouble. 

His jaw tenses and his eyebrows knit, and I almost feel bad that he’s going to take such a bullet because of me. 

Almost. 

“Look.” he says, fast and low, “I can’t imagine how this must be for you. . .all of this. But don’t you think suicide is a little extreme?”

I’m pleased by the frantic note that tinges his voice. It’s the first time since being in this nightmare place that I’ve felt something other than depression or anger. 

Thanks Tryxtan. 

“What’s extreme is the way you people are keeping me under lock and key and treating me like some--some animal being raised for slaughter!” 

Any hopes I had of keeping my voice calm go out the window. My hands are shaking and I’m on my feet, letting my rage bubble over. 

Tryxtan hasn’t moved, doesn’t look much different. He looks like he pities me, and that just makes me madder. 

My hands curl into fists so tightly that I can feel my nails digging little crescent-moons into the flesh of my palm. 

“You don’t even see me as a person, do you? I’m just some brainless warm body to you City freaks, aren’t I?” 

My voice is shaking like my hands now, and I’m sure that any moment I’m going to be restrained or sedated. 

“Don’t act like you’re so special.” says Tryxtan quietly. There’s a kind of bitter edge to his voice now. “You don’t know how the people who live under the City are. You think there aren’t other girls who work at grottos who feel used and trapped? And they don’t get to marry the President! They don’t usually get to marry anyone!”

He’s on his feet too now, and seems a little bit shocked at his own explosion. I see that he has a spray of freckles across his nose and under his eyes. It reminds me of my best friend Melot from back home, and suddenly the fight seems to drain out of me. I slump back onto the couch with a sigh, dangerously close to tears. 

Weakness seems to have taken over my entire being, replacing the hate that has been the only thing keeping me alive. 

Tryxtan sits down again too, runs a hand through his hair; I wonder what he must be thinking. 

“How can I survive here?” I say quietly after a moment has passed. I mentally curse myself for my quavery tone. 

“You have to. . .you have to make yourself. Pick something, just one thing that makes you strong. Let it fuel you.”

“I...thank you.” the words taste foreign on my tongue; I’d abandoned all niceties when they threw me in that holding cell. 

He’s right. If I can latch onto something, anything, I might be able to survive. To keep myself afloat in this endless ocean I seem to have fallen into. 

Tryxtan gets up and walks over to the wall-screen to program the closet. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to figure it out, and have been allowing Markus to dress me in his whimsical fantasy costumes for too long. 

“I doubt you’ll want to wear that out into the City,” he says over his shoulder while tapping the screen a few times. 

I crane my neck to try and see what he’s choosing, but his body is too big and blocks most of the information. 

After a moment, he comes back over with a neatly folded stack and hands them to me. 

He’s selected a simple short-sleeved zip-front shirt made of the cool stretchy fabric these people seem to favor, a pair of light gray-blue pants with lots of pockets, and lace-up boots in a darker shade of the blue from the pants. 

Relief floods over me, warm and sweet. It’s as though he sensed my discomfort in this glorified scarf-dress. 

“Go get dressed in the bathroom, I’ll wait out here. Oh, and have the mirror do something with your hair. It’s windy outside.” 

He doesn’t even look at me while speaking, seemingly lost in something on his digitab, so I do as I’m told. 

The shirt is tight but comfortable, and the pants fit slim yet relaxed. I lace up the boots over the pants, saying a silent prayer of thanks to whomever sent this Tryxtan to me. Out of all the people here, he has been the most real. Everyone seems like a flat copy of a human, a synthetic surrogate, but not him. He’s shown me kindness, real kindness, and though I don’t quite trust him, I find myself beginning to like him. 

At least in comparison to the other people I’ve met. 

I give the mirror an experimental touch with one fingertip, and it comes to life, offering a digital read of different options for makeup and hairstyling. 

There are so many choices it makes my head spin, so I go for something simple; two braids which turn out to be some fancy kind of braid called a fishtail. 

Now I look more like them, the City people. 

I’m somewhat surprised to find that I’m still utterly myself. 

I’m more surprised to find that I like it. 

The City streets are busy with people, and my first instinct is to be overwhelmed but Tryxtan calmly explains things to me as we walk and I feel my heartbeat slow to normal once more. He’s clearly not used to escorting anyone around, and sometimes he falters but I don’t mind. He even makes me laugh once or twice. 

The first thing on Markus’s list is to have me fitted for a wedding gown, which the very thought of makes me gag. We walk in silence for a few blocks before entering a bejeweled shop called Cake. 

The woman who must be in charge of this twinkling, shimmering place strides over to us on heels so pointy and high I’m amazed they support her. We’re surrounded by gowns in shades of white and pastels, and I bite back the urge to laugh at how out of place we must look. 

“Tryxtan, how lovely to see you again!” she kisses the air next to his cheek before turning to me, watery grey eyes taking in my whole body in a series of rapid movements. “And you must be Issa! What a lovely little thing, if on the thin side. And so lucky!”

I know that she’s referring to the fact that I’m set to marry the richest and most powerful man in this Nation, and that to a City woman that is the absolute epitome of good luck, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. 

I say nothing, but let her whisk me away into a curtained cubicle to be dressed like the doll that I am. Tryxtan lifts his eyebrows in an “I’m sorry” sort of way when I glance back at him over my shoulder and I feel a tiny bit better. 

I try on dress after dress, short and long, skintight and pouffy, until finally one gets oohs and aahs from everyone in the shop. 

I look at Tryxtan from the pedestal they have me perched on, trying to breathe in this slightly iridescent gown of silk and lace they’ve so tightly packed me into. Sleeveless and sweetheart, it looks like a modern version of the dresses on the princesses in books my parents found for me. There are pearls and crystals sewn into the overlay so I shimmer and twinkle like ice on a tree branch in the sun. 

It makes me feel a twinge of pain, that ache in my chest again when I remember what this beautiful dress is for. The only time I will ever wear something so lovely is for an occasion which feels to me like a death sentence. 

Tryxtan’s eyes seem to drink me in, and it makes my cheeks heat for a boy to be staring so intently at my body. 

He suddenly remembers himself, where he is and who I am, sitting up straighter and making his face serious again. 

I change back into my regular clothes while Tryxtan pays the woman and she singsongs that the dress will be shipped to Markus’s suite within the next day or so. 

“That dress cost enough money to feed every family on my block for six months.” Tryxtan says bitterly when we’re out of the shop. 

I say nothing. I’m too tired. 

Throughout the day we visit a bakery to taste cakes (all of which I hate), to a florist to choose arrangements (I wouldn’t, so Tryxtan randomly picked some of like color), and to a party-supplier to decide on decorations for the huge reception. 

At the party-supplier, the reality of it all becomes unbearable and I have a meltdown of sorts. I can’t seem to stop crying and swearing. 

I break an entire rack of baubles. 

To make matters worse, the cake from earlier (which hasn’t been sitting well in my stomach) makes a surprise reappearance all over the lacquered floor. The man who apparently is designing my wedding reception is disgusted and can’t even stand to be in the room with me anymore, waving his hand in dismissal before click-clacking into his office and slamming the door. 

I crumple into a ball next to the puddle of my own sick, hugging my knees to my chest and sobbing loudly. 

It isn’t fair that I have to do this, that I can’t just go back to my family and the way I’m used to living. I don’t want to marry a man I don’t know and don’t love, and I don’t want all this fancy, useless garbage. 

I try taking a few deep breaths before collapsing into gasping sobs again. So much for being strong. 

I’m so lost in my own breakdown that I hardly notice Tryxtan gently picking me up and setting me on one of the party planner’s sofas. He wraps his arm around me, a little awkwardly at first, like I might have poisonous spikes or might suddenly burst into flames. 

It’s this contact, though, that makes me cry even harder. 

He didn’t ask to get stuck with me today, but he’s been helping me and been more understanding than anyone here, including the man who is supposed to be my husband-to-be. 

Tryxtan rubs soothing circles on my back with his large hand, and I can feel the callouses on his fingertips catch on the material of my shirt. 

He touches me so lightly, so sweetly. He doesn’t even know me, but he’s trying to make me feel better. 

“I know this is all so much,” he says softly “...and there’s nothing I can say to make it right, but anything I can do to...ease the hurt...” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. He’s said enough. I lean into his arm and he holds me while I cry.

My tears slow after a little while longer, my whimpers subside, and I feel the feverish headache that follows a good cry. 

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice still a little wet and shaky. Twice today this boy has seen me break and twice he has succeeded in reassembling me. 

Tryxtan sighs like he’s just as exhausted as I am and I realize he must be. He doesn’t take his arms away, though. 

“It’s nothing.” he says, a little gruffly. “You...you’re like me. Life dealt you a s****y hand and even though you’re a fighter, sometimes you need something to lean on.”

I nod in agreement with my eyes closed; suddenly I am so very tired. I want nothing more than to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

He smells like the forest, earthy and green, but also like something else. I realize I’ve never been as close to a boy who wasn’t my family as this. Laying in bed with Markus doesn’t count. 

After a few more minutes, he helps me up and we ride in what he calls a hovertaxi back to my prison. 

“I have to go now, Markus needs me downstairs,” Tryxtan says softly after I’m lying down on soft blankets in a dark room. He seems like he wants to say something else, but he just closes the door quietly and I fall all the way asleep. 

I wake up to damp sheets, cold with sweat. The digital clock next to Markus’s bed says that it’s very late at night. He isn’t in bed beside me and I am relieved. 

Someone (Tryxtan, obviously) has unbraided my hair and removed my boots before tucking me into bed. I’m still in the zip-front top and blue pants from earlier, but now they feel unbearably stuffy. 

I fling the covers off of myself and take a few cautious steps before venturing over to the wall-screen to try and get some different clothes. 

It takes me a few tries and some silly mishaps before I come up with a soft oversized shirt and loose shorts. I put them on, and they are so comfortable I could weep. 

I’m unsure of what to do with the rumpled clothes on the floor, but it seems a shame to just throw them away like I’ve seen Markus do. Instead, I fold them and place them on the desk that Markus says is for me. 

The lights turn on, not at full-brightness, as I walk around. They sense my body, a fact which still makes my head spin.

Markus’s suite is strange at night, the giant wall-window in the living area showing me almost all of Cityland. There are lights dotting the buildings, and colored ones dancing around what I know now to be clubs, and it seems as though the people here never sleep. 

I wonder vaguely what Tryxtan is doing, if he is in one of those clubs or if he visits grottos. Somehow, I think he’s in bed sleeping. 

I pad around quietly, enjoying the feel of the cool floor under my bare feet, before finding Markus’s collection of Old World books. Many of them are in impeccable condition, compared to the books my parents and I used to salvage, and I can’t imagine having so many at my disposal. 

I pluck one titled Jane Eyre and get so lost in it that I stay on the sofa until I’ve read it cover to cover. The mad wife scares me and makes me sad, and I hate Rochester. Jane’s too good for him. The depictions of life from so long ago seem unreal, the way they spoke and dressed, and I realize with a sad smile that nothing really lasts. 

People always think their way is the way that’s going to be the end-all. That things can stop changing now, thank you, we’ve got it handled. Only, things never stop changing. There are always people who want to push it, make it different, and I wonder why. 

Markus’s entrance breaks my little thought bubble, shocking me back to reality. 

“You’re still up?” he says thickly, and I can already smell the liquor on his breath. “You should be sleeping. Little girls need their sleep.”

I almost laugh. 

I’m a little girl to him? He’s even more loathsome than I thought. 

Still, I can’t afford to offend or anger him. I put the book away and then help him take off his jacket, playing the part of his little wife-slave. 

“I slept for awhile, but I couldn’t fall back asleep when I saw you weren’t home yet.” saying this makes the bile rise in my throat, and I know it’s forced but thankfully he doesn’t notice. 

He staggers towards the bedroom and I guide him, noting with satisfaction that standing up straight I’m several inches taller than he is. 

When I get him into bed, he pulls me down onto him and I feel the panic take over. Even though he is drunk, he’ll still likely be stronger than me. I calculate the odds of being able to fight him off, try to think where I could run. 

He kisses me sloppily, and it’s all I can do not to wipe my mouth when he releases me. 

“You’re going to be a good wife, aren’t you?” he slurs, blowing his boozy breath into my face. His grip is tight on my waist so I nod. 

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be the best wife.” 

Markus smiles drunkenly and loosens his hold on me, his hands sliding down my back to rest on my buttocks. I resist the urge to vomit or slap him. 

“You have to wait,” I say in what I hope is a sweet, coy tone. “Until after we’re married. Just wait,” I plead. I feel desperate. Not tonight. Not now. 

He lifts one hand before bringing it down in a stinging smack on my behind, laughing as he does it. 

I can’t help the sharp hiss that escapes my lips as his palm meets my flesh. It hurts, and I’m sure there will be a bruise in a few hours. 

“All right, you win this time.” he gurgles, pushing me off him. “But after the wedding I’ll have you anywhere and any way I want.” 

And with that, he rolls over and falls asleep, snoring loudly. 

My eyes remain wide open until the sun’s rays shine through the bedroom window, shaking and biting my lip until it bleeds. 

I feign sleep until after I know Markus has gone; he plants a soft kiss on my cheek and whispers that Tryxtan will be here again today before leaving. That thought alone makes me able to rise and face the day. 

I stretch and head to the bathroom, allowing the sink clean my teeth and my face for the first time before I examine the hand-shaped bruise that has blossomed on my backside, a reminder that last night was not just a bad dream. 

The shower is nice, soothing, and I let myself enjoy the deliciously warm water on my bare skin before feeling guilty that my family would probably never know what this feels like. 

After I am clean and in undergarments, I let the mirror put my hair in a ponytail, and I contemplate having it put some makeup on me before ultimately deciding against it. 

I program the wall for an outfit similar to the one Tryxtan made me yesterday, only this time I choose a black zip-front tank top and a pair of pants with splotches of greens and browns like the ones my father and brothers wear. Black boots, soft and molded to my feet complete the outfit, and I traipse into kitchen through the living area to try and find food. 

Before, Markus had someone bring food to me on a tray. 

I suppose he figures I’m comfortable enough to try and feed myself now. 

“I see you’ve got the closet thing figured out now.” says a familiar voice, and I see Tryxtan sitting at the kitchen table, which is piled with food and fruit. “You’re a quick learner.” 

I shrug, but can’t deny the fact that I’m pleased. 

He is my first friend in this hectic, crazy place, and I realize how much better I feel knowing that he’s here. 

I sit down across from him and pile my plate with fruits that I’ve never seen, some bread, and some porridge. Without hesitation, I dig in, ridiculously hungry all of a sudden. Tryxtan looks amused and pours me a glass of juice the color of a garnet. 

When I’ve managed to clean my second plate, he actually laughs. 

“So, I bet you’re wondering what’s on the docket for today, huh?” he says sardonically. I wipe my mouth with a napkin and roll my eyes. Hopefully not more wedding plans. 

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to any more boutiques. I think you might actually like what we’ve got today.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” I say, crumpling the used napkin. He just smiles that funny little half-smile of his and shakes his head. 

“Well, Markus said that I should basically try to make you comfortable here, find out what you like to do. He left the plans up to me, and I noticed yesterday that you’re pretty muscular for someone so skinny.” 

I frown. He was looking at my body. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Where are you going with this?” 

“Just listen! There’s this place I like to go, the Arbordome. It’s like. . .it’s like a botanical garden or a greenhouse from the Old World, only way bigger. Like a natural landscape in a bubble.”

So far I’m intrigued, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m sure that whatever the Cityland people think is a forest will be disappointing at best. 

“It’s huge, tons of space and fresh air,” he continues, getting more animated. “I go there a lot to run or swim, stretch my legs. It’s peaceful since not a lot of City people like to get their shoes dirty. I figured you might like the chance to get away from all this...all this busyness, you know?” 

His expression is slightly hopeful, a little eager, and it does sound like an enticing escape from this plastic world. I nod and let my lips curve into a smile, which makes him smile too. He looks so different when he’s happy, much younger and (I mentally slap myself for thinking this) much more handsome. It suits him even more than the stern-young-soldier look. 

“Okay. Let’s go to this Arbordome place, then.” I say before downing the entire glass of juice in front of me. 

I don’t fail to notice the grin that flashes quickly over Tryxtan’s face at my agreement. 

He’s right, I do like the Arbordome. It’s immense and beautiful, like its own little world away from Cityland. We start off on a trail that Tryxtan says is is favorite, and it isn’t hard to see why; the trees are so dense that no one here would even attempt to hike it, and there are the comforting sounds of insects and birds from all sides. After we walk for awhile, he asks if I’d like to run and I tell him yes. 

The feeling of the air on my skin and the tree branches scratching my arms as my leg muscles propel me forward is near-euphoria. 

Tryxtan keeps up with me, much to my surprise, and we wordlessly enter into some kind of race. I’m not sure where he’s taking us, or whether we’re actually racing toward a destination at all, but I haven’t felt so good in weeks. 

His arm bumps mine at one point while we run and he mutters a sorry, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of running with my brothers or with Melot, running just for the heart-pounding joy of it. I turn to look at Tryxtan, who is looking ahead with a determined set to his brow that makes me smile. Melot used to make that face when we would hunt or race, so serious even when doing something he enjoyed. 

This is the first time that a memory from home doesn’t bring me to tears. 

My leg muscles are on fire when we finally reach our destination; a lake hidden by a thick border of trees. Tryxtan flops down onto the grass and I do the same, the only sound for a few moments is our panting. 

“You’re so fast,” he says after a little while, still slightly winded. He’s just as fast as I am, and I tell him so. 

He sits up then, starts unlacing his boots, but I think I see pride in his face from my compliment. He takes off his socks and rolls up the legs of his pants before scooting close to the water and submerging his feet. 

That’s the first small discrepancy between this lake and a real one; it’s like a swimming pool how it has automatic depth for him to dangle his legs in. A real lake starts off shallow and drops by inches and then feet, but I don’t bother to say so. 

I take off my boots and socks as well, plopping down beside him and sighing as the cool water soothes my throbbing feet. My bottom is sore though when I sit, and I’m instantly reminded of Markus’s little gift. 

“Thanks for bringing me here, Tryxtan. I really needed this.” 

“It’s nothing. I knew you’d appreciate it.” he says, leaning back on his palms. I steal a lingering glance at him when he closes his eyes for a moment. We’re both sweaty, and his hair is plastered to his forehead. I resist the unsettling urge to brush it back for him. The flush in his cheeks is very becoming as well, but I regret the thought immediately after I think it. There is something seriously wrong with me. 

I avert my eyes quickly when he opens his and catches me staring. 

“What are you looking at? Do I have mud on my face or something?” he teases, and I blush instantaneously. I should be used to this teasing, what with having brothers and all. He doesn’t have mud on his face, just freckles and a few little cuts from sharp tree branches. 

“No! No. Not at all. I’m sorry for staring, I forget that people here don’t do that.” 

It’s a cheap lie, to make it seem as though staring at someone is perfectly normal outside Cityland’s boundaries, but it’s the only thing I can think of off the top of my head. 

He clearly sees through my flimsy excuse, but is nice enough not to expose me. 

Instead, he lays back on the grass, arms behind his head and closes his eyes again. 

“Okay, now you can stare at me all you want. Let me know when you’re done, though okay? Don’t take too long, we’ve gotta head back in a bit.” 

A giggle makes its way out of me, and I give him a light shove. 

Two days with this boy and I’m not on the edge of suicide. 

Two days with this boy and I’m not so much of an empty shell. 

Author's Note

R&R, constructive criticism. How do ya like my narrative? :p