Opus One
by Edward Kyle Stokes
Chapter 13
The Flames of War.
The dust kicked up by the mule's hooves was a familiar companion to Étienne and Corin, a hazy cloud that had followed them for weeks on their journey to Florence. Étienne hummed a tuneless song, his eyes scanning the fields that dotted the open landscape. Corin, still fresh-faced despite the road, was quiet, his gaze fixed on the distant, shimmering heat of the summer sky.
"We'll be there by nightfall," Étienne said, a note of triumph in his voice. "Genoa! I've heard tell it is as full of art and music as Florence, and a most beautiful city."
Corin nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. He thought of the bustling markets, the grand palaces, and the promise of new sights and sounds. The rhythmic creak of the cart and the gentle plod of the mule had lulled them into a comfortable silence for most of the morning.
It was the mule who first reacted. His ears twitched, then flattened, and he let out a nervous whinny. Étienne and Corin exchanged a glance. The air, already warm, seemed to thicken, carrying with it a faint, acrid scent.
Then they saw it. Not a distant haze, but a plume of dark smoke, twisting and writhing against the azure sky. It was too dense, too agitated to be a simple farmer's fire. And then, a flicker of angry orange light, growing brighter, closer.
"Battle," Étienne breathed, a worried look in his eyes as he scoured the road ahead, which warped and shimmered in the heat of the sun.
Corin's eyes widened, a knot forming in his stomach. They had heard whispers on the road, rumours of skirmishes between rival city-states, but the reality of it, the sight of the flames, was terrifying.
They urged the animal forward, hoping to skirt the edges of whatever conflict was unfolding. But the land here was unforgiving, winding roads through the fields and around the chestnut orchards. The roar of human voices, a chaotic mix of shouts and screams, began to reach them, carried on the wind.
"We should turn back!" Corin cried, his voice strained.
Étienne, his face pale, shook his head. "Too late. We're almost past it, if we keep moving."
But they weren't. As they rounded a bend, the full horror of the scene unfurled before them. Two factions clashed in a dusty field, a whirlwind of flashing steel and desperate cries. Men fell, horses neighed in panic, and the air thrummed with a primal energy. The flames they had seen were from a burning farmhouse, now just a skeleton of charred timbers.
Étienne tried to steer the mule off the main track, into a narrow, overgrown path. But as they did, a group of soldiers, their faces grimed with sweat and blood, emerged from the trees. They were wearing the colours of Genoa, their eyes hard and suspicious.
"Halt!" one of them bellowed, his spear leveled at the mule.
Étienne raised his hands, Corin mirroring him. "We are but travellers, sirs, humble farmers on our way to Florence."
The soldier, a burly man with a scar running through his eyebrow, grunted. "Farmers, eh? And what riches do you carry in that cart, then?"
Before Étienne could answer, another soldier roughly pulled back the canvas covering their cart. Inside, they found only their meager belongings and a few supplies.
"They don't look like farmers, Captain," one of the younger soldiers said, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
The captain was in no mood for debate. "Farmers or spies, it matters little. The Florentines are our enemies, and anyone travelling their way is suspect. You're coming with us."
Étienne and Corin exchanged a look of despair. Their journey, their hopes, had been extinguished in the inferno of another's war. Resistance was futile. They were disarmed, their hands bound, and marched away from their cart, the mule left to stand bewildered in the dust. The screams of the battle still echoed behind them, but now, a new, cold dread settled in their hearts as they were pulled deeper into the unknown.
The soldiers, their faces impassive, led Étienne and Corin away from the battlefield, the cacophony of war fading behind them, replaced by the ominous quiet of their uncertain fate. They were brought to a makeshift camp, little more than a collection of tents pitched haphazardly between chestnut orchard and a wooded corpse..
The questioning began almost immediately. Harsh voices, rapid-fire questions about their origins, their purpose, their allegiances. Étienne tried to explain their journey, their artistic commission, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears, met with scoffs and suspicious glares. Corin, wide-eyed and terrified, could only stammer.
Then came the stripping. Every garment, every hidden pocket, was meticulously searched. The coins they possessed, their humble travel provisions, even the worn wooden rosaries around their necks, a gift from the monks at Netley – all confiscated. The humiliation of standing naked before their captors, vulnerable and exposed, was a new kind of cold dread. When they were finally allowed to redress, their clothes felt alien, tainted by the rough handling.
Their hands were again bound tightly, the ropes chafing their wrists, and they were pushed unceremoniously into a small, dark tent. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of damp earth and fear. Hours stretched into an eternity. They sat in silence on the floor, the quiet punctuated only by the distant sounds of the camp and the frantic beat of their own hearts. Every creak, every shadow, sent a jolt of anxiety through them. Had they been forgotten? Or was this just a prelude to something worse?
Just as despair began to settle in, the tent flap was flung open, letting in a blinding shaft of late afternoon sun. The captain stood silhouetted against the light, his figure imposing. But it wasn't his usual stern expression that struck them. Instead, a strange smile played on his lips, an unsettling twist that didn't reach his eyes. It was a smile that promised something, though whether it was good or ill, Étienne and Corin could not possibly guess.
The strange smile lingered on the captain's face as he pointed a finger at Corin. "You. With me."
Corin's breath caught in his throat. He looked desperately at Étienne, his eyes wide with terror, but Étienne could only offer a helpless, strained look in return. Before Corin could protest, a soldier roughly pulled him to his feet and steered him out of the tent, the flap falling shut behind them.
Silence descended, heavier and more oppressive than before. Étienne was left alone in the stifling darkness, the quiet amplified by the frantic hammering of his own heart. He strained to hear something, anything, from outside – a cry, a struggle, a voice – but there was nothing save the low hum of the camp. His imagination, usually a vibrant tool for creation, now tormented him with a thousand dark possibilities. Had Corin been taken for more questioning? For torture? For… worse? The anguish twisted in Étienne's gut, a cold, sickening dread. He paced the small confines of the tent as best he could with bound hands, every minute stretching into an eternity.
Time lost all meaning. It could have been an hour, or several. Then, the tent flap opened again, and Corin was pushed back inside.
Étienne scrambled towards him, his eyes scanning his companion's face. Corin was pale, his usually bright eyes downcast and shadowed. A dark bruise was blooming on his left cheekbone, and his lower lip was split and swollen. But it was not just the visible injuries that spoke of his ordeal. His tunic was askew, and a deeper, unsettling pallor clung to him, a hollowed-out look that chilled Étienne to the bone.
Corin stumbled, catching himself on the tent pole, and then collapsed to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't meet Étienne's gaze, but instead stared blankly at the earthen floor, his body trembling almost imperceptibly. A profound wave of nausea washed over Étienne. It was obvious Corin had been beaten, and from the haunted emptiness in his eyes, Étienne knew with sickening certainty that it was much, much worse.
What could have happened to Corin during those agonising hours?
Étienne's heart was heavy with worry and fear, a frantic drumbeat of dread. He tried to reach for Corin, to offer some comfort, but his bound hands prevented it. Corin remained huddled on the ground, unresponsive, his gaze fixed on some unseen horror. The captain's smile, that unsettling twist of his lips, flashed in Étienne's mind.
The tent flap opened once more, and this time, two soldiers stepped inside. Without a word, they roughly pulled Étienne to his feet, ignoring his silent plea to be left with Corin. He was dragged out of the tent and into the harsh afternoon light, leaving his companion alone in the suffocating darkness, the silent witness to an unfolding nightmare.
Étienne didn't have long to wait before finding out what had transpired. As he was pulled away, he braced himself for whatever ordeal awaited him, his mind reeling with grim possibilities.
He was dragged roughly from the tent, the sunlight momentarily blinding him after the oppressive darkness. His captors were efficient and brutal. He was half-stripped, his tunic ripped open and pulled up to his chest, exposing his torso to the harsh air. Before he could fully process what was happening, his trousers were roughly yanked down to his knees, leaving him vulnerable and exposed.
He was held bent forward, his hands still bound, his face pressed against the rough fabric of a soldier's tunic. The first lash of the whip cut across his back, a searing line of fire that stole his breath. He gritted his teeth, a gasp escaping him, as the stinging pain blossomed. Again and again the whip fell, each strike tearing at his flesh, leaving burning welts that crisscrossed his skin. He clenched his jaw, trying to stifle the cries that threatened to erupt, refusing to give them the satisfaction of his screams. The world narrowed to the agonising rhythm of the whip, the sharp agony, and the taste of dust in his mouth.
When the whipping finally ceased, his muscles trembled uncontrollably, and a cold sweat slicked his skin. He barely had time to register the cessation of pain before a different, more violating horror began. Rough hands gripped him, and he felt a sickening intrusion, a brutal, demeaning violation that stole his breath and shattered his spirit. He was utterly helpless, trapped in a nightmare of pain and humiliation, his mind struggling to disconnect from the brutal reality. When it was over, he was left trembling, his body aching, his spirit utterly broken. The world swam, a dizzying haze of pain and degradation.
Étienne was half-dragged, half-stumbled back into the tent, his body screaming in protest with every jarring movement. He collapsed onto the dusty ground, the last vestiges of his strength abandoning him. Corin, who had been huddled in the corner, stirred at the sound of his return. He looked up, his eyes meeting Étienne's, and in that gaze, a silent understanding passed between them. No words were needed to convey the depth of their shared horror.
The tent flap fell, plunging them back into oppressive darkness. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by their ragged breathing. Physical pain was a raw, throbbing presence, but it was the fear of what might follow that truly consumed them. Would they be subjected to more degradation? Was this their end? Every creak of the tent poles, every distant murmur from the camp, sent a jolt of terror through their exhausted bodies.
Slowly, hesitantly, Corin nudged closer to Étienne. Étienne, in turn, shifted until their shoulders were touching. It was a small, silent act of defiance against the overwhelming despair, a shared comfort in the face of unspeakable trauma. Bound by their suffering, they huddled together, two broken figures in the dark, consoling each other silently. They waited, anticipating the next horror, their minds reeling from the recent past.
But then, a different sound began to filter through the heavy canvas. A distant rumble, growing steadily louder. It was the familiar, terrifying roar of conflict, the unmistakable sound of battle. It swelled, becoming a chaotic symphony of shouts, clashing steel, and the thunder of hooves. It wasn't fading; it was renewing and approaching, drawing closer with terrifying speed. The ground beneath them began to vibrate with the impact of distant blows. The cacophony grew to an overwhelming crescendo, enveloping their small tent. The battle wasn't just approaching; it was surrounding them.
For a moment, a flicker of something other than despair ignited within them – a strange, desperate hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, this renewed chaos might be their only chance at escape.
The sounds of battle raged around them, a terrifying symphony of clashing steel and desperate cries. Suddenly, the tent flap was violently thrown open, and figures stumbled in, their faces hard and unforgiving. For a heart-stopping moment, Étienne and Corin braced for another round of brutality, their bodies tensing with renewed dread.
But as their eyes adjusted, they saw the uniforms were different. Not the Genoese colours of their captors, but the vibrant red and white of Florence, though just as tattered and battle-worn. These soldiers, too, were rough-hewn, their expressions hard, but there was a crucial difference. Behind them, an officer entered, his gaze sweeping over the tent. His face was etched with fatigue, but as his eyes fell upon the two bound and bruised figures, a flicker of something resembling sympathy crossed his features. It was in stark contrast to the cold indifference or cruel amusement they had endured.
He barked an order to his men, his voice raspy from battle, and immediately, two soldiers stepped forward, their movements less aggressive than their predecessors. One of them knelt beside Étienne, his fingers already fumbling with the knots that bound his wrists, while the other moved to Corin. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a fragile tendril of hope began to unfurl in the darkness of the tent.
As the chaos of battle slowly receded, replaced by the shouts of victorious Florentine soldiers securing the camp, the ropes binding Étienne and Corin were finally undone. Their wrists, raw and chafed, throbbed with a dull ache, but the feeling of freedom, even in this precarious state, was overwhelming. They rubbed their circulation back into their hands, still wary, still unsure of their fate.
The Florentine officer, the one with the sympathetic gaze, approached them. He was covered in the dust and grime of combat, his exhaustion evident. He simply looked at them, his eyes lingering for a moment on their bruised faces and torn clothing.
"Where were you headed?" he asked, his voice low and weary, devoid of accusation or suspicion.
Étienne, finding his voice though it was still a little shaky, replied, "Florence, sir. We are artists. I had a commission from Signor Ricci."
"And you have transport?"
"We had a mule and cart," Étienne replied somewhat despairingly.
The officer nodded slowly, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. He didn't ask about their ordeal, or what had happened to them. Perhaps he already knew, or perhaps he simply didn't need to hear it. He turned to one of his men. "Find their cart and mule. Make sure they have what they need."
Then, he turned back to Étienne and Corin. "Go on," he said, a faint gesture towards the road they had been on. "Florence awaits. Be safe."
With those few words, the two young men, bruised and traumatised but miraculously free, were sent on their way. They stumbled out of the shattered camp, leaving behind the remnants of their nightmare, the scent of smoke and fear clinging to their clothes. The road to Florence, once a path of eager anticipation, now stretched before them as a route to healing, and perhaps, a fragile new beginning.
Their journey was now a slow, silent ordeal. Étienne and Corin continuing the voyage mostly quiet, without speaking, the rhythmic creak of the cart and the plod of mule's hooves filling the void where their easy chatter once resided. The summer days were hot and bright, the nights warm and star-dusted, but the beauty of the countryside seemed to mock the darkness that lingered within them.
They bypassed the usual inns and bustling towns, seeking instead a quiet reprieve. They found it in a secluded spot, off the main track, nestled amidst a copse of ancient twisted trees whose roots curled around and between large boulders beside a meandering stream. Here, they stopped. For three days, they remained in that deserted haven. They ate little, spoke less, and moved with a somber weariness that belied their youth. The physical marks of their ordeal—the angry welts across their backs and buttocks had begun to fade, scabbing over and healing beneath the balm of time and sun. But the trauma, the violation of their spirits, was another matter entirely. It was a wound that festered unseen.
On the third evening, as the last rays of sun painted the sky with orange and purple, Corin finally broke the silence. His voice was a thin, reedy whisper. "Étienne ... what happened… to us?"
Étienne, who had been staring blankly at the stream, turned his head slowly. His own voice was rough with disuse and unspoken pain. "I... I don't know, Corin. I don't know why." He paused, searching for words that could bridge the chasm of their shared experience. "It was... evil. Cruel."
Corin flinched, pulling his knees closer to his chest. "I felt... I felt like I was no one. Just... a thing." His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands.
Étienne reached out, placing a hesitant hand on Corin's shoulder. "I know. I know exactly how you feel." He spoke of the degradation, the absolute powerlessness, the way it stripped them of their very humanity. They spoke haltingly, piecing together the fragments of their individual horrors, acknowledging the unspeakable without needing to detail every agonising moment. The silence that followed was different this time; it was a shared silence, born of understanding and a fragile connection. They had begun the long process of airing the shadows, taking the first tentative steps towards healing.
The days that followed their confessions by the stream were imbued with a fragile, emerging peace. The summer sun, once a searing reminder of their ordeal, now felt like a gentle balm. Their pace remained slow, deliberately so, as if the very act of unhurried movement helped mend the fissures within them. The fading marks on their bodies served less as cruel reminders and more as testament to their resilience, a physical healing that slowly, hesitantly, began to reflect in their spirits. They spoke little of the past, finding solace in the mundane rhythm of their journey, in shared glances, and in the comfortable silence that grew between them.
One night, as they lay beneath a canopy of stars, the only sounds the faint rustle of leaves in an almost imperceptible breeze, a different kind of quiet settled over them. It wasn't the heavy silence of trauma, but one imbued with a nascent intimacy. Without a word, they gravitated towards each other, drawn by an unspoken need for connection, for warmth beyond the summer air.
That night was nothing short of magic. In the soft glow of the moon, amidst the vast indifference of the open countryside, they rediscovered each other. Their movements were tentative, filled with a profound gentleness, like two virgins navigating uncharted territory. There was no haste, no expectation, only a deep-seated longing for tenderness and solace. Each touch was a question, each response an affirmation. They found not just physical pleasure, but a powerful force in their intimate and profound connection, a shared vulnerability that wove them together. In that moment, the shadows of their ordeal receded, replaced by the soft glow of a bond forged in shared pain and blossoming into something beautiful and healing. It was a reclaiming of their bodies, not in defiance or anger, but in the tender embrace of mutual comfort and a deep affection.
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
