#2 - Face of the Enemy

#2

The click of a key in the hall door brought Ahrimaz Kenaçyen, one-time Fire Lord, Emperor of the Dominions and Possessions of Inné, to his feet. It wasn’t a meal.  The putative mid-day meal had just been cleared away.

The guard let the robed man in, closed the door behind him without a sound except for the click of the lock.  He wore the distinctive multicolour, predominantly green robe of an Imaryan healer.  His brown hair, kept back off his face in one of their patterned braids fell to his waist.

Ahrimaz lunged for him, stretching his arm through the bars fast as a striking cobra, his narrow features twisted in rage.  “You stinking anal-smear! You dare show your smug and oh-so-superior pacifist, I-don’t-even-kill-the-plants-I-eat pride to me?  You supercilious, arrogant, condescending, patronizing, toffee-nosed, fit for nothing but spending my seed into every hole you have and every new one I can cut, haughty, full of yourself, self-righteous sack of Scorching shit!  I’ll kill you.  You and every one of your people.  I did it in my world and I’ll do it here!”

“I invaded your oh-so-sacred city and slaughtered every single soul there many with my own hands!  I raped until I could not any more and then used my weapons and not one of them did anything but kneel and accept.  They didn’t even scream!  Only the babies who had not yet been inculcated into your foul, weak-willed, spineless grass eating cult screamed in protest before they died.”

The calm face of the Imaryan didn’t change as he stood just beyond Ahrimaz’s reaching fingertips as he listened to the vileness pouring out of the man in the cage.  He waited quietly.

Ahrimaz raged and swore and turned to strain one arm the extra bit that might give him grip on the healer, but all he could touch was the heat of his cheek with the tip of his longest finger and he could not even dig a scratch onto that hateful face.  When, at last, he'd gone hoarse and then silent and finally merely clinging to the bars to stand, glaring, the healer spoke softly.

“My name is Limyé Ianmen.  I am the physician of the family of the Hand of the People of Inné.  As well as my posting here, I have a life-long calling attempting to discern the roots of illnesses of consciousness.  If you will speak to me, I will be able to compare you to your double, our Ahrimaz, whose care I have had this past ten years.”

Ahrimaz's voice was reduced to a harsh rasp.  “No.  Find someone who cares to help you, you turd under my horse's hooves.”

“It may be,” the Imaryan continued.  “That I might be the only company that can bear being anywhere near you.  None of the family, on my recommendation, will speak to you.”

“Unless you can find a way to put me back in the world I belong piss on you.  Piss on your demon-fucked 'Hand of the Lunatic Mob' even if he is me in this world.”

“Very well.”  Limyé passed a hand through the barred window in the locked door and waved to get one of his guard's attention and they let him out.