Chapter 126: Mask of Illusions

Book 3, Chapter 25 - Mask of Illusions

Exotic and tasteful foods given twice a day. A thick scented bundle to help with hiding from chill gusts during sleeping hours. Frequent water to aid with cleansing oneself. And of course, a second face for conversation and to help keep company.

Life was good. Luxurious even.

For now.

Jackrin would never have expected such an upgrade to his living conditions in the hands of his brutish new captors. He was given food . Yes, in the form of raw meats. But it tasted oh so good. Gone were the days of sitting and waiting for a dirty mouse to hide in his cage. Jack was now allowed mutton, or quail, or hare, depending on what it is the bandits caught for the night. Edible meats, skinned appropriately, rich in texture and blood.

There was, though, a growing weakness in his joints from the distinct lack of human blood. They creaked and cracked too easily. Shallow movements brought subtle pains, the intensity of which seemed greater with each passing cycle. Smooth pale skin began drying and flaking if Jack had itched his insect bites with too much vigour. And he had a feeling his bones were growing brittle.

But still. These bandits weren't heartless like his former captors. They didn't cover his cage during the day, letting in much welcomed sunlight. They provided Jack with a blanket at night, acrid though it maybe. A bundle of torn and burnt cloth from the robbed caravan. It was big enough to fold into two layers before Jack crawled under it for the night, breathing in its smoky fragrance as he was reminded of his failure to obtain a cookie.

But still. These bandits tipped his cage over when the skies were painted dark. They allowed rain to batter his ever frailer body, cleansing away days of gathered grime and stains. Even light rains were beginning to hurt now. Without human blood, storm rains might just start fracturing his bones. Or so he assumed. Jack wasn't quite certain what the exact consequences of lack of human blood were.

But still. Jack had a partner now. A second face. Someone he could converse with, spill his heart out to, and laugh along with. That silly face. He was always smiling, always happy and full of laughter even if Jack was describing the horrors done to him. “And why wouldn't you smile, Jahck? After all, those horrors were just jokes. Extended and brutal, but comedic nonetheless. Right?”

Jahck smiled, violet lips spread along a snow white face, curled up in mocking fashion. A smile of agreement, Jack decided. Those violet, thin eye lines made it seem as if Jahck was always amused. Jack pressed the white mask to his face. It stuck there, amazingly, without the need for any string to bind it at the back of his head. “Look at me! I'm Jahckrin Malkieri! Kekekeke!”

He took the mask off. He was glad for the second face which he'd named Jahck, but sometimes, Jahck was too insensitive. Not every joke had to be laughed at. Especially the ones about his mother's death. But the mask was always smiling. Always mocking. Jack sighed. “Just an object with a painted face…”

And then he cried.

But still. Perhaps the best part of living under bandits was the general abandonment. He was ignored until it was time to sup or sleep. He wasn't forced to labour. He had his own personal space within his cage, and iron bars to set boundaries. And best of all, he wasn't berated or insulted. He was just left alone.

Left alone with Jahck.

Jack put the mask back on, becoming Jahck. Perhaps it was better like this. Better to always have a smiling face rather than force himself to wear one at times.

This way, Karine will never know who killed her. She will die in wonder, excruciating curiosity claiming her soul while I cackle and stab!

This way, his tears would always be hidden as well.

Ning, the narrow eyed bandit, walked over to the cage. He tossed a dark slab inside. It landed before Jahck's feet and slid an inch, leaving a small trail of grease and ash. Ning scratched his head and looked back at a laughing group of one short a dozen huddled around a fire with what looked a pig on a spit over it. The man squatted down, staring at Jahck between the iron bars of the cage. His hair was tied back in a tail, black bangs hanging before his forehead. The scar beneath his eye cut out a rather sharp figure, despite the crummy attire.

Ning took out a flask and took a swig. “Iss pork belly'at,” he said, pointing at the slab before Jahckrin's feet. His usually strict speech was impeded by the alcohol in his veins. “Good fat on it. White Flames, boy. Yer lookin a ghoul with being so thin. Won't sell high. Go on. Eat. Washed an roasted it. Deadly eatin pig without care. Lots of illnesses.”

Jahck stared at the slab of meat, unmoving.

Ning took another drink from his flask and shuffled closer to the cage. His leathers were worn, dark and scratched. Cloth strips had strings coming out of it. The single shoulder plate on his left shone a dull polish, campfire light reflecting off its dented surface. Ning poked his lean arm inside the cage, prodding Jahck's shin with a finger. It hurt a little. But the pain went ignored. Jahck stared at the human arm inside his personal space. Somehow, that primal instinct inside of him didn't react. Didn't turn him into a feral and mindless beast. Was it the mask? Was becoming Jahck instead of remaining Jack preserving his mental state?

“You breathing?” Ning questioned.

Jahck pushed the mask up, revealing his mouth. “Yes,” he answered, voice haggard.

“Heh. Flamin' knew it. Half those bastards back 'ere betted against you speaking. But would you see now. You bloody speak.”

Jahck slowly leaned forward and took Ning by the wrist. He wasn't mindless. But he still needed blood. If he could have enough of it… Escape. Karine. Revenge. He slowly brought the bandit's hand to his mouth.

“Hey. Are you really going to bite my hand when a perfectly seared slab of fatty pork lies at your feet?” Ning asked, suddenly speaking as he normally did, expression stern and eyes alight with vigor. His free hand was curled around a long knife hanging from his belt. One of four knives there.

Jahck ignored the threats. He brought the filthy and unwashed hand to his mouth, heart racing as a euphoric fragrance filled his nostrils. Carefully, he bit down on the hand. One swallow. A second. A third.

The knife was out.

Jahck pulled away, strengthened, but not enough to escape. He held the wrist still, fingering the twisted dagger in his pocket, wondering if he could kill and drink more. Ning's glower, full of killing intent, dissuaded him from further action. Reluctantly, Jahck let go of the wrist. He grabbed hold of the greasy slab of meat and tore at it with his teeth, chewing with an open mouth. Jahck flinched. It was better than anything he'd had in recent memory.

Unseasoned or spiced, but warm, tender and sweet a different kind than both blood and sugar. The sweetness of molten fat. He tore with ferocity, fat glazing his tongue and rolling down his esophagus with each swallow before settling with a comforting weight inside his belly. A light acidic aftertaste remained in his mouth. How long had it been since he'd had a cooked meal?

The bandit slowly pulled his arm out of the cage and sheathed his knife. “So you've appreciation for cooked foods. What are you, boy?”

“Jahck,” came an answer through a mouthful of pork. Jahck's fingertips shone with the shiny black of char and grease. He licked each clean, frowning at a sense of nostalgia induced by such an action. There was a memory there. An occurrence from his past and a rift the size of a canyon preventing him from reaching that memory. He'd sucked fingers clean before. Cold and slender fingers with smooth white skin, shining red upon them. Whose fingers had those been?

“That's a name. Not a what. Why do they cage you? Why do you feast upon blood and uncooked flesh? How is it you are here?”

Jahck licked the last of his fingers clean. “I am here, because I was brought here. By you and your friends.”

Ning grinned, revealing a kempt set of teeth for a bandit. His shadow cast figure in the mist gave his squatting form a minacious edge. “Humor. Good. You're more human than I thought.”

“And how human do you think I am now?” Jahck asked, shifting his mask down to cover his messy mouth. His grainy voice became muffled. A sense of composure pierced his skin in threads, controlling his actions as a marionette. And with it, more of that rift narrowed, slumbering memories stirring. He was, for the first time in a long while, having a proper conversation in which he was in full control of himself.

“Half human,” bandit Ning said. “Shank bet you were the spawn of man and beast. Said your mother rode an animal in desperation.” Jack's eyes narrowed behind the mask. Saliva slick hands slid into his pocket, fingers curling around a warm dagger hilt. “Said she was ugly and found not a drunk to push her down and fill her up,” Ning continued, unsheathing a shorter knife and picking at his teeth with it. “Stupid man.”

“Projections,” Jahck hissed.

Ning chuckled, twirling his knife around, tossing it over his head and catching it with the other hand by the blade between two fingers. “Agreed, young blood. Agreed. Shank hasn't bedded a woman since birth I wager. That shank in his pants been as dry as the desert, probably all wrinkly and shriveled. Ugly bastard. Now Laosa thought you a product of experiment. Former trooper, that one. Deserter. But he's seen all kinds of ill. So have I, mind you. So have I. There are some cruel ones in the Empire's army. I've seen what was done to my people. Flames and Ashes. Some of those men back there have raped and murdered, but that isn't half as bad as what I've seen.” Ning took a long drink from his flask and swished it around his mouth. He swallowed half and spat out the rest in an amber splatter. “So which is it, young blood Jack? Experiment or unfortunate slave?”

“It's Jahck.”

Ning frowned. “What I said. Jack.”

“No. You say it right but think of the wrong spelling.”

“Boy, I'm not in the mood for games. Bah, whatever. You need more meat on those cheeks, but you'll sell for some real shiny quarters after that. That's a playboy face beneath that mask if I've seen one. With luck you'll be snatched by a lonely widow and live out a comforting life.” Ning sat in that squatted position, staring through the eye slits of the mask.

Jahck glared back, feeling confident with some proper nutrition coursing through him now. He eyed the bandit's hairstyle with envy. Unique, careful, and audacious all at once. Ning stood out from the rest of the bandits. He wore the same ragged clothes, but kept a clean appearance. He had the same set of weapons, but wielded his with an edge of alacrity. His speech stood out from the others, accented though it may be. And he was somehow the least threatening of the bandits and the most. Ning didn't need a mask to hold differing identities. Jahck imagined himself with that hairstyle, with a sharper build and a belt of knives.

Ning took another swig of his drink, eyes suddenly going wide. He fell on his rear on the damp grass and shuffled back, that illusory appearance of his shattering. “What in Flames?”

Jahck tilted his head. He turned and looked out the opposite end of his cage, seeing nothing but the memory of a rainy day within the abundant mists. Not even his enhanced senses caught anything. What was it that made this careful bandit scramble backwards?

“H-how did you do that?” Ning asked, pointing at Jahck.

Jack took his mask off. “Do what?” he asked, feeling his confidence slowly creep away.

The bandit blinked furiously. He rubbed his eyes and peered into the cage, seeing Jack's shriveled form, stained white clothes and unruly blonde hair touching his shoulders. “White Flames. I've been drinking too much.” He shook his head and tossed the flask inside Jack's cage, relieving himself of his squat, sheathing a knife — when had he drawn that? — and walking back towards the group sitting around the fire, pig roasting atop it.

Jack glanced at the leaking flask further staining his trousers with amber, making it seem as if he'd pissed himself. Alcohol. He wondered what it tasted like. He brought it to his lips and took a long drink. Juice. That's what it tasted like. Juice but worse. No fruity tang to it. He thought it was supposed to burn his throat, light a fire in his chest, cause his mind to grog. No such thing occurred. “So it's just glorified juice,” he concluded, emptying the flask and throwing it aside. He pinched his trousers and twisted, doing his best to drain the liquid from it. The stains, unfortunately, remained.

Jack sighed, pressing his head back against the bars. He held Jahck up before him, frowning at the mask. Ning had scrambled back when he'd imagined a different appearance. Had this mask made him seem as his imagination? Curious. He would need to further test that theory. For now, he had to worry about sleeping with damp trousers. Not even an itchy blanket would help with that.