14 – Lavender & Honey
As we return to our cell, a wave of disbelief ripples through the cramped space. The prisoners stare, their faces a mix of fear and awe. Some shrink back against the walls, while others lean forward, hungry for details of what transpired in the arena.
“What happened?” one asks, voice pitched high with anxiety. “Did you not fight?”
Papa and I settle onto the bench without responding, our backs against the cold wall. I exhale deeply, realizing I’d been holding my breath since the arena doors closed behind us. The adrenaline slowly drains from my system, leaving me shaky but alert. My muscles burn pleasantly from the exertion.
The two survivors who witnessed the fight huddle with the other prisoners, their whispered account spreading like wildfire. “…pulled some kind of wire from her hair…” “…killed them all in seconds, never seen anything like it…” “…moved faster than humanly possible…” They steal glances at me between words, as if I might suddenly attack. Their fear would be amusing if it weren’t so justified.
A few of the more hardened prisoners eye my proths with new interest. I notice them examining the mechanisms, probably wondering how my legs give me some special advantage. They don’t realize the power also comes from years of training, not just Papa’s engineering.
Braam catches my eye from across the cell and gives a subtle nod of approval. It’s strange to think I’ve earned respect from a former protector, but the arena changes everything. Perhaps he’s remembering that girl who outran him in the royal garden, finally understanding what he was really chasing.
“You did good, Neeka,” Papa says solemnly, his face etched with worry. I can see him struggling with pride in my abilities and fear for what they might cost us.
“Am I a horrible person, Papa?” The question spills out before I can stop it. “Those men… they were sick, weren’t they? Not right in the head.”
“You did what had to be done.” He squeezes my hand. “We are alive because of you. Those men were too far gone to save—whatever the Fat Man’s people did to them made sure of that.”
“I understand that, but when I was fighting them, I felt so…alive.” The admission feels like a betrayal of something, though I’m not sure what. “The way they moved, the madness in their eyes—it was like fighting animals. But they were men once, weren’t they?”
“You have a lot of anger built up in you.” His voice grows softer. “Don’t let it be your undoing. Instead, harness it and use it when necessary, like you did today.” He pauses, studying my face. “Your brother would understand. He always said you had the heart of a warrior.”
The mention of my brother stings, but before I can respond, the cell door creaks open. The healer girl enters, moving directly toward me with purposeful grace. Her eyes shift away from mine as she approaches, though whether from fear or shyness, I can’t tell. The other prisoners fall silent, watching her progress across the cell.
The sweet scent of lavender and honey surrounds her, making me acutely aware of my own sweat and blood-soaked clothes. Her presence seems to push back the prison’s oppressive atmosphere, creating a bubble of calm. Even the hardened fighters straighten up slightly, as if her dignity demands respect.
“Are you hurt?” Her voice is gentle but professional, carrying a hint of an accent I can’t place.
I look down, suddenly realizing I haven’t checked myself for injuries. Papa’s safety always comes first in my mind. My arms seem intact, and my face doesn’t throb anywhere. The fight replays in my mind—the knife throw, the wire, the kicks. It all happened so fast.
“I think I’m ok,” I say, then remember. “Wait—my side. I was cut.”
I lift my shirt to show the wound, oddly proud of this proof of survival. Her golden eyes study it clinically, unimpressed. To someone who tends arena fighters, this must seem trivial. I wonder how many deaths she’s witnessed, how many fighters she’s tried and failed to save.
Her hands touch my skin, cool and soft like a morning breeze. The gentle pressure makes me catch my breath, though not from pain. When was the last time someone besides Papa touched me with such care? In Coghaven, most people avoided contact with those wearing proths, as if our mechanical parts might be contagious.
“Do you think I’ll survive?” I try to joke, watching her apply the healing salve. The ointment tingles pleasantly where it meets my skin.
“You’ll be ok.” A hint of amusement colors her voice. “The cut is shallow. You move well—most new fighters take much worse their first time.”
“My name is Neeka,” I tell her. “Neeka Blackthorn.”
I wait, studying those extraordinary golden eyes. They remind me of the ancient coins Papa keeps hidden away, precious relics of the world before the Shift. The dark fabric of her niqab makes them seem to glow from within.
“I’m Amari Winter,” she says, smiling beneath her veil. The name suits her—gentle yet somehow cold, like the first frost of the season.
The moment stretches between us, full of unasked questions. What brought her to this place of death? Why does she hide her face? How can someone retain such gentleness in the Fat Man’s arena? I want to ask her about the healing salve, about her golden eyes, about anything that might keep her here a moment longer, her presence a respite from this deplorable place.
“Healer! Let’s go. You’re done.” The guard’s bark shatters the moment.
Amari’s movements become hurried as she gathers her supplies, but her hands remain steady. Just before she turns away, our eyes meet again. In that brief connection, I sense a kindred spirit—another soul trying to preserve something good in this brutal world.
As she leaves, I touch the salve on my side. It tingles pleasantly, already dulling the pain. The lavender scent lingers, a small comfort in our grim surroundings.