Chapter 8: Going Nowhere

~ Part 1: Goodbyes Are Poison ~

I log back in early, about two and a half hours IGT—In Game Time—before my appointment with the Elder. I promised Dorothy I’d play with her before leaving. I’m not sure she heard that promise because she was crying so much at the time and not really listening to anything I said, but a promise is a promise. Yeah sure. What? Just saying you haven’t the best track record with promises. Now that’s just defamation. Who do you take me for? Spider Man?

I always mean to keep my promise. I just… Forget about them? Yeah. That.

Shrugging those irrelevant thoughts away, I open my eyes and stand up—or not? I can’t seem to move. Why—? A glance at my body quickly reveal why.

Are those…ropes?

I try to move, again, but my limbs are bent in such a way that summoning any ounce of strength is pretty much impossible.

Yep. I’m tied up. What a nostalgic feeling. It is, isn’t it—WAIT! That’s not the point! Why am I—?

A twin-tailed diving missile coming from the door catches my attention. My eyes widen and my mouth open to shout, but I barely have the time to think “Uh oh” before the Double-Knee “Imouto” Stomach-Breaker—a move most underrated in the wrestling world—impacts my abdomen at a speed I declare hazardous. “AHUMPFFFFFfffff!!!” What a nostalgic feeling. It is, isn’t it—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!

Funny. I didn’t expect dying before reaching Nowhere. I guess that’ll teach me to assume things. Goodbye, world… goodbye… argh.

…

……

………

But no, I didn’t die. I just feel like bread dough. Not such a step up in my book.

In the aftermath of the devastating attack, I force myself to push the pain aside and focus on the aspiring rolling pin straddling my mistreated belly. “Listen, Dorothy. Ropes are a bit too…” The tentative lecture dies on my lips when I notice Dorothy’s red puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

My first thought is that whoever made her cry will be very sorry, very soon. My second is that I likely will have to punch myself for making her cry. I sigh.

Alright, one issue at a time. Firstly. “Dorothy, sweetheart, did your mother perhaps teach you things an underage, pure and innocent child—you for example—really shouldn’t know?”

I mean…aside from dual knife wielding, torture, slavery and cooking of mass destruction? Those are bad, I suppose, but this is…kinky. I don’t really mind my little sis slaughtering people. That’s just the family business. I say let her have her fun. To each their own. It’s important to love your job.

However! She is still far too young to be thinking about sex. Faaar too young. I won’t budge on this matter, and will even confront Martha if need be! That’s how far I’m willing to go!

...maybe.

Plus…ropes? Really? That’s, like, advanced play. I’m especially worried about the quality of these restraints. To the trained eye, these knots appear clearly amateurish, but still, the thoroughness of the subsequent immobilisation is highly commendable for a beginner.

The pure and innocent child in question shakes her head in response to my question. Alright. So Martha didn’t in fact go this far in inappropriate parenting. Good to know. Second question. “Then… This?” I ask, pointing at the bondage setup with my eyes. I really can’t move much else. She even tied my hairs—HAHAHA!! I don’t have hair. Sigh. But she did tie my head down in some weird way. When I blink, my left pinkie hurt. “This is your idea?”

A nod from the pure(?) and innocent(?) child.

Ooo-kaaay. Now. Should I be glad Mistress Martha didn’t try to turn her own daughter into a Siberian dominatrix? Or scared to death by Dorothy’s increasingly worrisome streak of dangerous random initiatives…Probably a little bit of both. “I wonder whom she got this from?” I mumble.

*ting*

“…” I feel thoroughly insulted.

A broken sob breaks through my thoughts.

“I-I don’t want you t-to lea-eave.”

Aw…Sweetheart. But this won’t do. “So you plan to keep me tied up here forever?” I keep my voice gentle, but firm, trying to ignore the ever present sarcastic voice in my head. Are you sure you want to plant the idea in her mind. Shut up. It’s harsh, but she needs to listen to reason. And I can’t feel my toes anymore.

“I…I…” Dorothy looks away and clings to my shirt.

“Dorothy? Dottie, look at me, treasure.” I shiver at the mushiness. Gods this isn’t me. But no, this isn’t about me. Be a good onii-chan, Elric. You can do this!

When Dorothy’s eyes finally meet mine, I try to alleviate her worries with some half-truth. “Listen. Yes, I’m leaving. But I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. I’m strong you know? Haha. Nothing can stop your Big Brother!” Except for a truckload of things. Top positions of that list being occupied by a handful of crazy women, including your mother. Gods, I hope this “Immortal” Princess is at least a little bit sane. Yeah. Who wouldn’t be after centuries alone in a castle? Aw, sugar.

But, right. Immortal. Good point.

“I’ll be fine. Remember, adventurers can’t die. I told you, right? Your Onii-chan is immortal! I might be away for some time, but I’ll come back. I swear.” That seems to ease her up a bit, so I take the opportunity to resume my light scolding. “But you can’t tie people up, Dorothy. You know that right?” At least, not without their express consent, but I don’t say that. That talk shall wait at least another eight years.

After a short while, she eventually nods. Good. Glad we had this conversation. Now could you untie me please?

Before I can get to that part, however, Dorothy asks a question of her own. “Big Brother will really be back?” She isn’t entirely convinced yet apparently.

“I will,” I assure her, attempting to inspire as much confidence as I can while impersonating a salami.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really, really?”

“Really, really.”

“…promise?”

This is getting annoying.

“Promise.”

“Pinkie Swear?”

Aaaaaaaaaw~ I want to eat you sweetie. Although… I take a falsetto voice. “Of course, Little Sis. But it’ll be a tad difficult if you don’t untie me first~.” Not that I find this situation entirely uncomf–DON’T YOU DARE!!

“…”

“…”

“Oh…Teehee~ Sorry~”

“Hahaha~”

“Hihihi~”

“Hahaha~”

“Hihihi~”

“Haha~”

“Hihi~”

…

……

………

“Untie me,” I drop, deadpan.

“R-R-Right a-away!”

* * *

It takes a little eternity to free me from this nightmare of childishly improvised knots. This girl is on the right track, but she still has much to learn. In this situation, the safe word would have come far too late. I’ll need have a word with Martha about this…

I try picturing myself approaching the matter of Dorothy’s future sexual education with her icy axe-wielding Viking woman of a mother.

…then again, maybe not.

This whole ordeal could have gone much more smoothly had I remembered the correct name and incantation for that one knot-untying spell I know. Sadly, I didn’t. And the [Spell List] in my interface doesn’t include a search engine. The spells are simply sorted by alphabetical order. Why didn’t those programmers code a search engine? Maybe they didn’t expect people to go around gathering all the most useless incantations they could get their hands on? You know people usually don’t have more than a few tens of spells, do you?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

…Shut up. Who are you anyway? You sound foreign. I’m the Voice of Reason. Well, get out. We’re already too cramped in here. Yeah! Get the fuck out of here, bitch! Mwahahaha!! *chainsaw noises and screams of pain*

…

I should probably reconsider those antipsychotics. Please don’t. *hides bloody chainsaw behind back*

Dorothy and I eventually step out of my bedroom—your mind, out of that gutter, now—and into the kitchen. I’m carrying the little girl in princess-carry while she hides her face in my shirt in embarrassment.

Upon arriving in the kitchen, I look at the two people present, frown, then resolutely ignore one of them and address a polite nod of greeting to the mistress of the house. Martha is standing by the reconstructed stove, spatula in hand, her ever so out-of-character pink apron tied around her waist.

It takes me until I am seated at the table, with Dorothy on my lap, to understand the dark significance of such a sight. My heart widens and my eyes skip a beat…or the other waya round. I’m panicking! Fear creeps inside me, but before I have the time to voice any…what? Complaint? Supplication? Last wish? Before I can utter any of those, a large bowl of…something is set down before me. Something purple, bubbling, hissing and fuming, with lumps of other somethings floating in it.

Ooooh. Did these fumes just take the shape of a skull? Pretty~ …Let’s not think too deeply about it.

“Your last meal…”

My head shoots up at the monotone comment. My eyes find the cold emotionless gaze of Jack the Cooker and I feel my soul freeze. Did she just…?

“…with us. Before leaving.”

BE CAREFUL WHERE YOU PAUSE YOUR SPEECH, WOMAN!!

Ignoring my inner torment, Martha points at the something—which, if I’m not mistaken, is currently trying to escape its bowl. “Family recipe. As gratitude.”

Oh. So she wants to grant me a one way trip to heaven as thanks. How kind of her. And I was right. These horrendous cooking skills do run in the family. How enlightening.

I cast a side-glance at Dorothy.  The invulnerable child is already digging right in and doesn’t appear worse for the cause. Not that it means anything. I bet her milk was laced with arsenic as a baby.

My gaze returns to my own meal. I sigh and pick up the bowl. Alright. This is it. Goodbye world—No. Wait. My hands halt halfway to my mouth as a lightbulb turns on in my head.

Last time Martha cooked, it looked normal, but truly was a toxic abomination. So, logically thinking, if it looks horrendous and like it’ll melt my insides, then it should…YES!!

With a quick prayer to the God of Chaos—better safe than sorry—and a thankful smile to Martha, I finish raising my bowl and empty its content in my mouth.

And, you know what?

…

Screw you too, logic.

As soon as the slimy substance touches my tongue, I know I have just made a terrible, terrible mistake. All my facial muscles suddenly tense and stop responding. Helpless, I can do nothing as the burning fluid literally crawls its way down my throat. I swear I hear my oesophagus scream in agony, feel my recently abused stomach attempt to flee, and sense my powerless intestines tremble in fearful anticipation.

*tutu*

*tutu*  

*tutu*

*ting*

*ting*

“…”

I am at loss for words…Well, I don’t think “aaaaaaaargh” is a proper word.

Ah. No. Here’s a thought: CHAOS!! May your cookie always be slightly too large to fit inside your glass of milk!!

…

Sorry. Sometimes, I am evil.

Sweating and shivering, and I think leaking blood from several orifices, I orient my blurry vision in the general direction of the fourth person in the room, finally acknowledging the presence of the Elder. To my annoyance, the blond smudge appears to be nodding in praise. “My, my, Elric. I see you hold your hot chocolate pretty well.”

…

Oh. So that’s what it’s supposed to be. …Wait. No. How’s that even possible? No, that’s not important right now. Quick! The detoxification magic. No. That won’t work. Argh! What to do? Ah! That might work. Hopeful, I discreetly mumble a healing spell. It will do nothing to counter the poison, but maybe if I keep my HP afloat, I’ll be able to outlive the effects.

And I’ll suffer through a living hell in the meantime.

Curse me and my impeccable manners! Why couldn’t I simply politely decline the food? Hahaha. Right. One does not simply refuse to eat Martha’s cooking. Or refuse Martha anything, really. And let’s look at the bright side of things. I’m sure to get a few levels of [Immunity] if I survive this.

I work up a tentative stoic face and direct my fiercest glare at the Elder—in fact, slightly right of the Elder. I’m not very confident in my aim right now. Then I declare in my most deadpan voice: “You’re early, old manhargrlugrlh…” Unfortunately, my sentence—which had started so well—ends in a fit of gargling gore.

“Kekeke. Are you alright, sonny? You have some blood on your chin.” That old fart. He holds out to me what I think is a tissue, which I take begrudgingly. “Kekeke. And to provide an answer to your…incomplete question, remember you are not alone in this house. I had some important matters to discuss with Martha. Besides, you are the one who is a little earlier than expected.”

Important matters, you say? I repress a cough. “Is that so?”

“Indeed it is,” he curtly replies.

Okay. I can read between the lines. It’s none of my business, is it? I thought we were already past this. A shame.

I finish wiping my chin and take a peek at the clock in the game interface. At least that thing isn’t blurry. It would seem unknotting Dorothy’s handiwork took longer than I initially thought. It’s almost time already. I sigh. “Shall we get going then?” I’m fairly impressed at my ability to speak without coughing blood. Years of experience.

“Kekeke,” the wrinkled man cackled. “Such haste drives the youth. PATIENCE! Patience you must have, Young One, if you desire to defy the dark forces. Patience. Yes.”

Shut up Yoda. Despite his words though, the Elder stands up and begins moving towards the door at his usual snail pace.

I lower my gaze to the young girl sitting on my lap and affectionately pat her head. Dorothy looks up, surprised by my sudden action. She seems about to say something, but I silence her with a finger on her lips and a kiss on the forehead. She closes her mouth and presses against my hand like a kitten. My little psycho kitten.

I keep patting her head in silence for a short while, then eventually lower her to a neighbouring stool. I reiterate my promise to come back, ignoring Martha upsetting stare on me, then stand up to follow the Elder out.

About to step outside, I suddenly remember I had yet to thank Martha for her hospitality… Well, for providing me with a room—a closet and a bed—a matrass on the floor…not to speak of her horrendous cooking…and having me do most of the chores around the house…

…

……

………

What is there to thank her for exactly?

Oh well. A little polite gratitude never hurts… Except with trolls. They take politeness as condescension.

And if there is something you should remember when dealing with three-metre tall green giants with more brawns than brains, it is: do not patronise them. Rule 56. They take it poorly. And they have anger management issues. Trying to talk a troll into channelling their anger into something more productive than than splattering you all over the nearest hard surface also tends to yield mediocre results.

But I’m going off topic again.

With the intention of thanking the intense woman, I spin around—and die. Almost.

Martha has somehow crept up behind me during my short walk from the table to the door. When I turn around, she seemingly materialises inches away from my nose, giving me a frightening close-up of her pale blue eyes—her admittedly attractive cold blue eyes—which are boring through me like two very sharp icicles. Already dealing with severe poisoning, my poor little heart isn’t having a good day.

Fortunately, for once my brain and my mouth—after swallowing the scream of terror that threatened to gush out—decide to work together for the greater good. “Err… Miss Martha, thank y—”

Abruptly drawing closer, the woman shuts me up…with a kiss…on the forehead. My confused and feverish brain isn’t sure whether I’m supposed to have a heart attack or be disappointed right now. What’s disturbing is I’m not certain those are mutually exclusive anymore. Why do all the adult women I meet insist on making me sexually confused?

What I’m sure of however, is that seeing Martha closing in on me, then reach for my neck and force my head down was the single most scary experience in my entire life. On the other hand, I’ve been slowly getting used to often re-evaluating my definition of “scariest” since I met that woman.

After releasing me from her grasp, the absurdly strong professional axe-wielder continues to wordlessly stare straight into my eyes.

She stares into my eyes for a long, looooooong time.

…

A loooong time.

…

Aaaaand, we just reached a new level of fright, ladies and gentlemen—Oh, she’s talking.

“…need for thanks, Sir Walker. You saved my daughter. It is me who is forever in your debt. And it is my shame that I have nothing of equal value to offer in return. Were they mine to give, I would gladly swear you my allegiance, my blade, and my life. However those are long pledged.” She has what I can only describe as self-derisive twitch of the eyebrows before she continues. “And in any case I believe I wouldn’t be of much use to you in my current state.”

Geez. Could you be any more cryptic? Of course I don’t tell her that. I’m too busy trying not to piss my pants from the intensity of her stare, which I swear just gained even more intensity, something I didn’t think possible.

I gulp and step back unwittingly, but she follows me out. “As such, I want you to know, Sir Walker, that as long as you hold a place in your heart for this village long forgotten by people and time, this house, and everything in it, is forever yours. It is but a small token, almost an insult compared to the gift I received from you.” She gives me a small, small, small, tiny but almost pleading smile. I have never seen her so emotional. “But it is all I have.” She concludes with a deep bow, as usual eyes closed and right fist on her chest, right above the heart. “Please accept it.”

Stunned beyond belief, not even able to nod in reply, I can only stare in silence.

Eventually, blood begins flowing again in my brain, enough for me to realise the woman is waiting for some sort of answer. After a couple seconds, I manage to wrench a few words though my stiff lips. “I…accept…it.”

Good. Great even, If I may say so myself. I mentally pat myself on the back. That answer was bit broken, but much better than the “yeah, sure” I almost blurted out at first.

Apparently satisfied with my reply, Martha abruptly straightens up and turns towards the Elder. The old man has been observing our exchange, patiently leaning on his cane, a bittersweet smile floating on his lips. Once again, Martha bows, less low but with as much, if not more, sincerity than before. But then, Martha, if anything, isn’t woman to lower her head lightly.

When she speaks again, she is back to her clipped speech, but her tone contains more deference than I ever heard her use towards anybody else. “Please. My liege. A little time. I will talk to Dorothy.”

Glancing in puzzlement at the Elder, I shiver at the cold light I see flickering in his golden eyes. For a brief instant, the smiling wrinkles harden into an authoritative impassive mask, just long enough for the old man to reply the woman’s plea with a sharp affirmative nod. Then I blink and the easy-going grin is back on his face, as if the oppressive feeling I experienced just now was but a figment of my imagination.

My mouth twitches as I repress a smirk. Same thing with my hands. I have a hard time stopping myself from throwing a punch. I really, really want to know just how strong that geezer truly is. I—I lightly shake my head, and the feeling is gone.

Like an actor in a well-rehearsed play, or with gestures forged by habit, Martha addresses the ancient man a short, curt military salute, then turns heels and disappears back inside the house, closing the door behind her. Right before the wooden panel completely shuts, I still perceive a whisper coming from inside.

“Goodbye, Sir Walker, and pardon, for everything. Please forgive us.”

…

I probably should feel creeped out, or a little afraid, but the grin that is fighting to spread on my lips clearly doesn’t reflect either of these emotions.

…

And who are these people, really?

* * * * *