(Continued from "A Finch's Beginnings: A Woman Named Averill and a Man Named Bên - Part the Second")
Lightning flashed in the red sky above him like an ill omen. And, indeed, the one-year-old child, held to his thin form by an almost-threadbare cloth wound around him, had been like an ill omen to him from the moment Averill had told him that she was growing within her womb. A part of him felt almost guilty for thinking this way. What father looked upon his own child and resented her existence like this?
He watched Averill as they stood in the shadows, only half-hearing what she was saying to him; and why should he waste his time listening to the tenth repeat of Averill's plan when he could spend memorize the now-gaunt contours of her face, the determination in her eyes, and the way she let the babe hold onto her fingers like a lifeline? This would, no doubt, be the last time he ever saw her - this woman who carried fire in her gaze and reminded him what it was to feel in the darkness of Carn Dûm.
"... - And make sure you do not give her too much milk of poppy. Just enough to keep her quiet. They mustn't hear her laugh or babble on as she does. But don't use so much that you run out of it before you even escape from this accursed land. And you remember the way I told you, Bên?... Bên? Are you listening to me?!"
He blinked and nodded ruefully before sparing a glance downwards toward the child in question. He didn't even have a name to call her by. Averill refused to give her one that could be taken away. Of course, that did not stop Erach, sick-minded as he was, from giving her one himself after her birth. But, of course, Averill refused to use it and even forbade him to so much as utter it.
Averill frowned and then glowered at him, grasping his shoulder painfully with her free hand, causing him to wince. When Bên looked up to her again he could see the fire building in her clover-green gaze like a deadly storm. It occurred to him suddenly how different she looked now; the thinness of her frame, the lasting scars littering her body, the raggedness of her mousy brown hair. Yet still, the fire in her never went out. They could kill most everything else that was hale and whole about her. But, he decided, they could not kill or take away her will.
"Remember Bên, you swore to me... If you fail or give up, I will curse your name. You will never find rest even if they should catch you and flay you alive. I swear-"
"I understand," was his reply, voice sounding half-dead and hollow; as it had ever sounded since that fateful day a year and nine months ago. She gave him a hard look and then relented, releasing his shoulder and moving to check the small bundle of supplies - what food she could find, poppy milk, drinkable water, and a single, tarnished silver - wrapped in yet more threadbare cloth that she had tied to his waist. Once finished she laid her hand upon the child's head, now covered in thick black hair, so much like Bên's. Sorrow crossed her expression and she leaned in and laid a kiss there.
"Shhh, this is my last gift to you, my darling... Because I love you. I have loved you from the moment I realized you existed. I have never loved anyone so much as I love you, if I ever truly loved anyone at all... Do you understand? Mama loves you..."
When she pulled away, Bên could see that the child's hair was semi-soaked with tears, the only evidence that Averill had even shed them before that hard, determined look appeared on the woman's face again. He felt a small pang somewhere deep in his chest. What he and Averill had between them was not love. At least, not love in the romantic sense. It never had been. No, they had been each other's solace in this horrible place. He knew well enough that neither would have long survived and held out any sort of hope for this long without each other. But, why did he so often resent it? Did he hate her for for being the flame that attracted him like a moth or did he hate himself for even daring to think that there could be anything but darkness and despair?
"Bên... The signal has been given."
He slowly turned halfway and looked to where Averill was pointing - another slave hanging a red-dyed cloth from a dangling chain. Anxiety churned within his stomach and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest entirely but he nodded and made sure the babe was secure.
"It must be now," said Averill, making sure that the stolen shoes upon her feet could not come loose or trip her up. "Before they realize I and our baby are not within the tower. As soon as the guard looking over the secret passage way to Himbar is killed, you run. Do not look back. Do not stop, no matter what you hear or see. Others will follow you but you keep away from them and make for the south toward the graves. Then find the high point upon the cliff to the east. Then-"
"I will stick to your plan," replied Bên firmly. "But Averill..." He paused, waiting until she looked at him again. "... You-"
"No, Bên. I will not change my mind. If it is my life for hers, I will give it gladly. And if anyone else manages to escape being recaptured, that is little to me in the face of the life of our daughter... This is goodbye, Bên. Once you have delivered her, you are free."
He opened his mouth to retort - free, he would never truly be free even if he succeeded. But he made a promise. It could not be undone.
"Averill-"
"No. Go, Bên. Goodbye."
And with that, Averill left him. And, he waited there in the shadows. The tension in the air could almost be cut with a knife. He watched the door to the secret passage way, not so much as taking in a breath too loudly. What was taking so long? Surely-... But then, he saw the Angmarim guard's body silently slump into the dirt, throat slit by a slave woman holding a pilfered, rusty knife.
He saw his chance, as did others who were alerted to Averill's daring plan. This was not a mere smuggling operation. This was an outright slave revolt. She had finally rallied others to her cause, though none of them knew what her real cause was. He heard muffled cries and shouts in the distance as he ran forward, legs burning with the sudden exertion. Over the body of the guard, down the secret passage way, and then, after some fumbling around, out beyond the walls of Carn Dûm.
The child remained in her poppy-drugged sleep. Bên did not look back...
