Unknown Omega

Chapter 5 - Unknown

Shattered. I have lost my grain of sand solidarity. I have no whole; large chunks leave gaping wounds in my soul. My parents, of whom I have zero memory, have left a miserable hole in my soul. Humans are familial creatures, and no matter my horrid experiences with other people, my sense of abandonment is keen. I have no one to belong to, not even myself. Pain is too intrusive, too much of a companion, for me to find myself within this cloud of misery.

A large hand clamps on my wrist, shocking me into awareness. Short fingernails lead to dry, cracked knuckles. Fear hammers my heart into my throat, causing my vision to narrow. My cheeks throb in tandem to my heartbeat. Loose fabric covers the man's arm, the wind flapping his cuff around his wrist. Up and up, to a bulky bicep and higher still to a wide set of shoulders.

A full, golden beard hides what must be a thick neck and strong chin. His lower lip is visible, but a bright blonde mustache covers his upper lip. A strong, proportionate nose juts out between masculine cheekbones. His head covering obscures everything else except for clear blue eyes. Shockingly intense, they force their way into my soul, and his fingers tighten on my wrist.

Similar to how the Chieftess' palm cracked against my face, his attention sears my innards. His expression is neutral, but an air of menace and danger hovers around him.

I shrink back as a keening cry joins the throbbing in my skull. On instinct, I try to yank my wrist from his grasp.

Fresh pain bursts up my arm, reigniting the cacophony of miseries in my body.

Fear and agony, my familiar companions. It doesn't matter that this assault hasn't been violent; it feels more potent. The visceral searing inside my mind pushes me off kilter, causing panic. The need to fight my way free almost steals all my senses, but memories flash through my vision and I freeze. His grip loosens, and it's just enough of a change to snap me out of my nightmare.

I look away from his gaze, searching our surroundings in hope of escape. Seeing no other option, I force myself to stand still. My terror of the humongous man makes me feel weaker than I've ever felt, and I hate the sensation of vulnerability.

"Little thing, aren't you? Going to market?" his deep baritone rumbles through my skull.

Tell him the truth? Lie?

Neither seems a good option.

His grip loosens further, but his eyes continue to bore into me.

"Ah, I see. I've frightened you. No worries. Even covered in dirt and rags, I can tell you're a gem."

Even submerged in fear as I am, my eyebrows squeeze in confusion. A gem? Nothing so precious should be degraded by being compared to me. These worn, stained, ragged coverings match me, describing me to perfection. I am ruined, my soul as worthless as my threadbare sandals—broken and decayed. No human can spend their life being treated as I have and still have any worth.

"I'm going to market. You have a bag, so you must be too. We'll go together," he says, and I can't stop the hammering of my heart.

Shock and fear glue my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I don't know or trust this man. He is a giant stranger, touching my skin and invading my spirit.

Without a word, he releases my wrist, turns, and takes four steps toward market. He stands there for a moment, then turns his neck, giving me a view of his profile. His eyebrow rises.

I stand stock-still, battling the urge to run in the opposite direction. I know in my marrow that if I try to bolt away, he'll catch me within two strides.

If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done so before, when I wasn't paying attention, right? I know that if he'd wanted to kill me, I would no longer be breathing. He gives off a distinct air of lethal knowledge and predatory skill. And he's so much bigger, so much stronger than I am.

How long was he following me before he made me aware of his presence?

Does it matter? My choices are either attempt an escape or head to market.

If I return to the Chieftain's house without fruit, I can expect this evening to be worse than this morning.

But the threat of my guardians seems vague amongst the danger of this man.

I don't have a choice, do I? He hasn't hurt me, and I have to continue on my quest.

It feels as though an eternity passes before I can force my bruised, sore muscles to carry me towards the market—towards the man.

His eyebrow drops, and he faces forward, but stays in place. Do I walk behind him? Beside him?

My fatigued body limps forward and I try to straighten my stride. I don't want to show him more weakness. Entering the marketplace, especially at noon time, without my wits about me would have ended in catastrophe. At the very least, I would have been robbed. The coins in my pocket would have disappeared, along with the rest of my possessions. At the most, my life would have ended. The terrible acts that could have happened aren't something I'm willing to think about. Those things wouldn't cause much scandal here; it would be a normal experience in this section of the city.

I take another step toward his back, but he doesn't move. Giving him a wide berth, I skirt around his right side, struggling to understand what's happening.

Adrenaline and fear are strong motivators, but my injuries steal my attention, sucking me into a pit of suffering.