VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
That’s what Charity has first seen when the riots broke out, seated by her piano near the window, absentmindedly practicing a piece for the small review the orchestra were planning to hold in the coming days. At first, there had been some muffled yells and cries, not enough to draw the galdor’s attention but enough to be heard when she stopped playing. It wasn’t till the house a block across from the theatre itself began to smoke, and flames licked the sky. The blonde stopped, jumping up from the seat and pressing her face to the window. Only then did she see the people running, fighting and looting down the lane way.
Of course, the first thing she had done was think of her lover, knowing full well his occupation would take him directly into the fray. Taking the staircase two at a time, she had fled the house, Damen already gone dealing with the mess. Avoiding the worst of it, and keeping to the back streets, Charity arrived at Rhys. Only, he wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t there.
She waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually the noises scared her enough to go home, heart in her throat and field on edge as more than once she encountered groups of angry people. As darkness settled in Vienda, she entered the gates of her father’s home and locked them shut behind her, before entering the house and locking herself inside.
The fighting went on for days, and Captain D’Arthe forbade her to leave the house, when he was home. As soon as he left, she would sneak out the window, over the fence and along the aqueducts till she could reach Rhys. Except he was never there. The house looked unlived in, Charity even making an effort to clean up his last unfinished meal. She didn’t even use during those days, afraid that if she was high, she would miss him some how.
Eventually, finally the fires were abated and the rioting forced into heavy handed control, and yet Rhys still hadn’t come home. Doing her best to feed the one eyed osta, Charity felt fear and concern for the tall Seventen that she’d held a candle over ten years for. Mad with worry and withdrawals, the petite resorted to desperate measures.
“Excuse me, sir.” The nervous woman said softly, knocking on her father’s office door. Damen sat at his desk amid paperwork that seemed to span for days, sharp eyes not even looking up at his daughter.
“What is it Charity?” He asked in a voice that was already threatening in tone, annoyed by her interruption.
“It had better be good. These bastard wicks have hell to pay for the past few days, and I’ve no patience for your nattering.” Swallowing her fear, the blonde entered, dressed in a high necked lavender blouse and black skirt. Her hair was drawn into a simple ponytail, and her eyes were lined with dark circles, feeling the effects of her withholding like an illness.
“Apologies sir, but I don’t know who else to ask and I am concerned that someone I know may have been hurt in the riots.” The Bastian looked up for a moment from under his heavy brows, searching her face, before placing his paper work down and standing. The pianist watched, heart all but leaping from her throat as he approached her, ready to dodge or move should he try to grab her. Instead, with an unprecedented gentleness, Damen placed his hands on her shoulders and smiled warmly.
“Diaxio is just fine. I already had one of my Sergeants check in on her, and we placed security at her home just in case.” Nodding as though he knew what she was thinking, the black dressed man sighed.
“You’re so much like your mother, and I could never refuse her. At least, not before she let herself become the town chrove.” Charity smiled wanely, nodding and lacing her hands nervously as Damen released her to turn back to his desk.
“Not Xi. I need to know if you’ve...have you heard whether Mister Valentin is safe?” Her field jittered, and her knees felt weak with terror as the dark haired man stopped at the mahogany table top, fingers toying with the quill sitting in his ink pot.
“Rhys Valentin?” Her father said after a long pause, looking back at her over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. The petite galdor nodded, violet eyes wide and mouth dry. The Captain made a face of ‘oh’, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other tapping his well manicured moustache thoughtfully.
“Rhys Valentin. Why would my daughter be asking about a go nowhere son-of-a-farmer who she hasn’t seen in years?” Charity stammered like a fish out of water, her eyes burning with unshed tears of terror.
“Plantation owner.” She said ridiculously, watching her father turn slowly.
“No better than a wick either way. Low born. Low raised. Not worth a second look.” The pale creature bit her lip, before pressing on.
“I...I just...I just want to know if he is okay. The riots have hit all of Vienda after all, and I doubt he’d have left the city. I...I recall he was interested in...in the Seventen. So I thought...” Her lie was flimsy, and they both knew it. The man smiled at her again, coming closer as he inspected the nails on his free hand. His field was strange, unreadable.
“Sergeant Rhys Valentin. Did he tell you that he’s a Sergeant now? In the Investigative Division. Managed to bag a significant narcotic ring a few weeks back. But he probably told you that too.” The blonde shifted back away from the man, instinctively aware that this was the calm before an allmighty shitstorm.
“I just want to know he’s alive.” She said softly, raising her hands slightly to placate the man, before finding her voice.
“Besides, even if I had spoken to him, I’m an adult father. I can talk to people. Including a former school friend.” The D’Arthe dragged his hand over his chin, nodding slowly and shrugging nonchalantly as though she’d made a fair point, all the while advancing step by agonising step.
“Talking. Is that all it is then? Or, are you fucking him Charity? Like mother like daughter, I should have known it.” Charity blushed, anger and shock bursting through her field.
“What the clock, that’s disgusting! You have no right to—“ She’d fallen right into his trap, and with a snap of his arm, Damen grasped at her blouse dragging her closer. The blonde grabbed at his arm, tearing her top away with a desperate sound, loosing a button or two in the process. She stumbled back with an angry shout.
“You don’t own me, you hear?! I’m not your property and I’m not mother. You can’t keep me forever, parading me for suitors that don’t clocking meet your standard of perfect.” The woman shouted, stunning them both into silence for a moment, before the older D’Arthe growled and began to come for her. Charity turned to run, only to feel his hands on her hair as he drew her head back to smack her forehead into the solid wood of the doorframe and throw her out across the marble floor. The house staff watched in silence, none moving to help her to her feet.
“I made you! I housed you! I fed you! You owe me a life Charity Ann. Your fucking brother was a scrap and your mother a whore! You owe me!” Damen raged as he stormed towards the dazed woman, rolling her over roughly and straddling her thighs. Charity sobbed, flailing her small fists and scratching at his face, legs kicking madly where they were trapped. The staff looked at each other with concern, afraid of the man’s unbridled wrath. It wasn’t the same as before, it was unhinged and uncontrolled. He was red in the face, teeth clenched as he fought to grab her wrists and keep her nails from his eyes.
“You’re insane! Clocking insane! Get off me! Help me please! Cowards! Cowards all of you!” The terrified blonde screamed, looking at the staff in anguish. Tugging a hand free, she slapped him hard, feeling a surge of elation as his head snapped sideways from the blow.
“I hate you! I’m leaving, do you hear me Damen?! I’m leaving and you can’t clocking stop me! You can’t—“ He punched her, square across the mouth, splitting her lip and sending blood flying across her blouse. Charity cried out in pain, raising her arms to defend herself as Damen suddenly began to lay into her, his fists landing on her forearms or face without care.
“You! Owe! Me!” He roared into her face with each blow, whilst Charity screamed for her life, and the staff watched in guilty horror. This wasn’t his usual attack, he would always take care to be sure her bruises could be hidden, always careful to ensure no one outside of the house knew. He was going to kill her.
Good lady he was going to kill her.
“Captain stop!” One of the passive girls shouted suddenly, rushing forward to grab at his arm. It was enough to distract the man, turning his attention to the girl to shove her hard, eyes wild. The bleeding pianist seized the moment to scream a sharp syllable of monite to push her father away. The mona reacted in kind, and a huge hard shove knocked the galdor back, sending him crashing into a beautiful 200AT dynasty sculpture of Alioe.
Scrambling to her feet, Charity ran for the front door, crashing through it and sprinting to the gates. She fell through them, a sobbing bleeding mess, catching herself before she landed on the cobblestone and fleeing through city streets like a wild remnant of the days before. They were empty, what people left busy cleaning the aftermath of the looting and fighting, some glancing up at the bloodied galdor with caution in their eyes. Somewhere along the way, the petite creature realised she’d left her shoes behind. Her key to Rhys apartment. Everything. Everything she owned was in Damen D’Arthes house.
She slowed, looking around and behind her, blood down her chin and throat soaked into her shirt. Her forehead was red and blue and black, a large lump already formed and deep purple shadows forming on her arms. Where in the tocking Circle was she? Gasping to catch her breath between sobs, Charity recognised the dsoh shop, jogging towards the stairs that led above the little Hoxian establishment and finding herself face to face with a familiar door.
“Rhys, Rhys are you home?” She pounded on the wood with her palms, breaking down and shaking as she banged, unsure whether it was a waste of time or not. Crying heavily now, she sank against the door with a keening sound, legs unwilling to support her anymore. Kneeling at the threshold, the blonde beat on the door once more, at the end of her tether.
“Please be home. Please. Please...” Charity pleaded with the gods themselves it seemed, resigned to sleeping on the front landing if she got no answer.
What had she done?