He did not stir. I was sure he had not even heard me.
Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen came rushing into the room. They placed the rags, towels and soap I had asked for on the floor beside me. Sister Ruth had brought a comb and scissors too.
“Good Lord,” Sister Ruth said as she drank in Rider’s injuries. “What have they done to him? He looks awful.”
I did not want to answer her. I feared I would break if I did. I made quick work of wiping down his arms and chest. His legs were covered with what looked like filthy tunic pants—I guessed they were once white, now they were anything but. I would not touch them though. I would never violate him in that way.
As I wiped at his arms, I frowned, seeing colored pictures peeking out from the coating of dried blood. My stomach lurched as I looked closer. Pictures of devils and evil beings were scattered over his skin.
“How did he get them?” Brother Stephen asked. I shook my head. I glanced up at Rider’s face, but it was once again shielded by his unwashed hair.
Too busy washing Rider, I failed to hear someone arrive at his door. I heard an anguished cry, and turned to see a woman standing in the doorway, holding a basin of water in her hands. She stared at Rider on the ground, her face paling at the sight. She looked at me, and her blue eyes widened further.
My heart thudded. Jumping to my feet, I said, “I am being kept in the cell next door. I saw that he was injured and came to help.” I pointed to Brother Stephen and Sister Ruth. “I pushed past them to run in here when I saw the guards had left the building. The fault lies with me.”
The woman listened but did not respond. She looked behind her, then entered the room. “Who are you?” she asked curiously.
“My name is Harmony.”
The woman swallowed. “Are you . . . are you a Cursed woman of Eve?”
Straightening my spine, I said, “Yes. I have been declared so.”
“The prophet has you hidden away from us?”
“Yes,” I replied truthfully. I had been caught; there was no reason to lie now.
I expected the woman to run out of the cellblock and fetch the guards. I did not expect her to step further into the room and place the basin on the ground. Her eyes fell upon Rider, and she shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. I noticed bruises and marks on her skin too. A sudden jolt of fury settled in my chest. Is everyone here getting hurt? What is happening to our people?
The woman crouched down next to Rider. “This man attacked the prophet.” Cold infused my senses and my eyes widened in shock. “He was called to meet with Prophet Cain, to repent his sins. Instead he attacked him.”
“What?” I said in a disbelieving whisper.
The woman nodded her head. “I heard the guards boasting about their beating of him. The prophet ordered them to truly make him pay.” She sighed. “This man was only trying to protect his people, I know he was. He was trying to keep us safe . . . and the prophet did this to him.”
The woman’s voice trembled. I bent down and placed a hand on her arm. She looked at me, staring at my veil. Confident that I could bare my face to her, I reached up and unclasped it. I drew back my headdress too, allowing my long blond hair to tumble down my back.
The woman did not look away. Her bottom lip quivered and she said quietly, “You are certainly a Cursed. You are so very beautiful.”
I frowned. “You are not afraid of me? Repulsed by my evil nature?” The people in our faith were meant to fear me. No Cursed was ever embraced with open arms.
“No,” the woman said and turned back to face Rider. “I do not fear you. I know that Curseds are not truly cursed after all.” I could hear the pain in her voice. I searched the woman’s face. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she had ever met any other Cursed, but I did not do it. I did not dare push her tolerance further.
“You care about him?” the woman asked.
My heart seemed to miss a beat. Ducking my head, I said, “Yes.”
The woman nodded and a flicker of a smile pulled on her lips. “He is a good man,” she said, and then her smile faded. She looked straight into my eyes. “He is good, you must remember that. No matter what. He is not a bad man. He is like us, beaten down and confused about how we have all been raised . . . but he is good. No matter what you hear.” She huffed a mirthless laugh. “I have encountered the opposite, the bad one, and know with crystal clarity the difference.”
I shook my head in confusion. But the woman suddenly jumped to her feet when music began playing from the speakers outside—the Lord’s Sharing call. “I must go,” she said. “I am needed in the Sharing hall. You must hurry. The guards may be a long time in their meeting, but you do not want to be caught.” Her eyes fell on the scissors. “You are going to cut his hair?”
“He needs more cleaning than he has been getting. He can barely breathe or see through this hair and beard. The heat is too much for him to bear.”
She cast her eyes down. “I will tell them I cut it. I will tell them today’s beating made it essential for his hair to be cut so I could tend to his wounds.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why would you do that for me . . . for him?”
The woman shrugged. “Because, despite it all, he deserves this help. He has been kept in this terrible state for too long for doing what was right.” She smiled a weak smile. “There is not much else they could do to hurt me anyway. One more punishment would not be so hard for me to bear.”
My heart broke for her.
“Thank you,” I said as she went to leave.
She paused in her step, and looking over her shoulder, said, “Remember, he is not bad.”
I opened my mouth, wanting her to explain what she meant, but she was gone. Rushing to finish the task, I cleaned all the blood from Rider’s arms, stomach and chest. I moved to his face. His eyes were shut, and on more than one occasion I had to put my ear to his mouth to check he was still breathing. He was so still I worried that he would pass.
I needed to move fast.
Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen stood watch at the doorway as I tried to wash Rider’s hair and beard. Sister Ruth eventually came to hold up his head when she saw I could not both hold him and clean his hair. It took four washes to loosen the knots and clumped strands of hair into manageable pieces. Taking the scissors, I cut inches off his hair, then proceeded to comb it through. When I was done, I helped Sister Ruth guide his head to my lap. I smiled at the feel of him so close. My heart felt like it was swelling to an impossible size as I stroked my finger along his clean cheek—I was pleased to see that it looked as though the bruising and swelling was mostly on his body. His face appeared mostly unharmed.
It felt strange to touch a man of my own accord, to stare at him so entirely. It was my choice to do this . . . and it was . . . freeing.
I knew it felt different because it was Rider. I . . . I trusted him. Impossible as that was for me to comprehend, it was true. I had not even realized it until that very moment. The fellow sinner had formed a bond with me that I had never had before. Two prisoners, finding solace in the other’s voice and the simple touch of a hand.
“Here.” I looked up to see Sister Ruth holding out a razor. I took it from her hand and brought it to Rider’s cheeks. His beard had risen too high, hiding much of his skin. Taking the blade, I delicately drew it downward. As his cheeks came into view, excitement grew inside me. I would soon see how he truly looked.
I would finally see his face.
As I cut and combed Rider’s beard, his hands began to twitch. My pulse began to race. My eyes darted to Sister Ruth. “He is waking.”
Sister Ruth’s eyes were bright as we watched him begin to stir. Wanting to finish the job I had started, I ran the comb quickly through the rest of his beard. Once the final stroke was made, I glanced down and let myself truly take him in. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing beautiful brown eyes, the pupils struggling to focus.
Rider’s long lashes brushed his cheeks. His eyes met mine. An
d my world stopped. But it did not stop for the reason I thought it would. My heart shattered apart and my breathing became too quick for me to find air.
I scrambled back in fear and panic, knocking his head from my lap. I crawled away on hands and knees until I reached his feet. Sister Ruth held out her hand to help me stand, but the sound of Rider’s voice stopped me dead.
“Harmony?” Rider’s voice was croaked and weak, but I caught the hint of panic in it. I took a deep breath and slowly turned to face him. I felt the blood drain from my cheeks when I saw his face. There was no mistaking what I was seeing.
Rider’s eyes filled with such guilt that it almost made me cry. But I held strong. “How . . . I do not understand?”
Sister Ruth crouched behind me, laying her hand on my shoulder for support. I glanced at her and saw the confusion on her face. She had no idea what was wrong. I faced Rider again, watching as he struggled to shift into a sitting position, his torso black and blue. The pain in his taut face made me want to go and help him, but I was paralyzed.
I could not move.
Rider fought to breathe as he moved his bruised limbs, only finding relief when his back hit the stone wall. Right then, I saw Rider in his true form. He was beautiful. But then again, I had thought that when I saw this exact face many days ago.
“How?” I repeated, forcing myself to hold Rider’s dark gaze.
“He . . . he is my . . . brother,” he confessed, pain racking his face. This time I knew it was not physical pain. It was emotional. I remembered what the sister had said earlier. The prophet ordered them to truly make him pay . . . “He is . . . my twin. The . . . prophet is my twin brother . . . and he has renounced me . . . He has thrown . . . me to the dogs.”
Sister Ruth froze behind me. I heard her breath catch in her throat. I glanced up and saw her eyes grow huge at Rider’s revelation. Before I could ask if she was alright, she dashed out of the room.
“Where are the guards?” he suddenly asked, a panicked edge to his raspy, low voice. I could not look his way. It hurt too much to look him in the face.
“They are away right now. The prophet called a meeting.”
When I made myself face Rider again, his eyes were steadfastly on me. “Harmony,” he whispered brokenly. He lifted his hand and held it out for me to take.
This time the tears did fall. Because although I was looking into the exact eyes and face of the prophet I despised, Rider’s trembling hand helplessly reaching for mine was the single most devastating moment of my life. Fear was written on his face, fear that I may reject him . . . the man with the face of the man I hated most.
My fingers twitched as I stared at his hand. I wanted to take it, but as I looked back to his face, I asked, “I . . . I do not understand. Why are you in here?”
Rider’s face fell into an expression of utter rejection and despair. I watched his hand fall to land on his leg. His shoulders sagged in defeat. His eyes drifted downward and his skin paled. If there was ever an image of a man destroyed it was this. My heart tore into tiny fragments as I watched the hope leave his broken form.
The cells quieted, but I could hear Sister Ruth and Brother Stephen near the door. I knew they would be listening in. They would want to hear whatever Rider would say. “Rider?” I pressed, my voice a soft whisper. I waited for him to speak, my head pounding. I had to force myself to stay back near the door of the cell. But it was hard. Rider looked so lonely, slumped on the hard floor, that I wanted nothing more than to take him in my arms. Even more when he looked up, and with tears tumbling down his cheeks, rasped, “You are so beautiful, Harmony. I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s true.” I swallowed back the momentary happiness those words made me feel. Because those words, from Rider’s lips, did not pain my heart the way they usually did.
Rider sighed and looked down at our gap in the wall. “I thought it when we would talk through that gap.” He lifted his hand and looked at his palm, rolling his fingers closed as if he was imagining my hand was still in his.
“Rider,” I said again, inching just that little bit closer. His hurt was like a magnet to me, and only I held the power to comfort him.
But I needed answers first.
Rider’s head dropped, but after a long breath, he said, “I am Cain. I am the destined prophet of The Order. Prophet David’s true heir.”
The air froze around me. “What?” My hand went to my mouth in shock.
In the same monotone, lifeless drawl, Rider continued. “I ascended a while ago, and came to New Zion with my twin to take the mantle of leader of our people.” His face contorted into an anguished expression. “I was never very good at it,” he said more softly, gently. He shook his head and a small huff escaped from his lips. “But Judah, my brother, was. He guided me. He was the puppet master, pulling my strings.” Rider paused, lost in his thoughts. “I did not realize that until today.”
I edged closer still, my body gravitating toward his as he shared what had led him to this hell. “I kept disappointing him, my people. I couldn’t get anything right. I . . . ” He trailed off, muscles tensing. “I didn’t like some of the practices that Prophet David had taught us. I didn’t share all of the beliefs that the prophet was meant to endorse. Ones vital to many in our faith.” His eyebrows dragged downward. “I . . . I couldn’t let them keep hurting people. I couldn’t keep hurting people. I had to stop them.”
“The Lord’s Sharing?” I asked, hoping that that was one of the beliefs he found so repulsive.
Rider nodded and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as if ridding an unwanted image from his mind. “I didn’t know,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know, I refused to believe this of our people . . . until I saw it with my own two eyes and had no choice but to see its ugly truth.” He sucked in a sharp exhale, and a guttural sound slipped from his chest. “I saw them hurting children, Harmony. Young girls being forced upon by grown men, their arms tied behind their backs with contraptions prizing their legs open.” Nausea clawed up my throat as I recalled what that trap felt like, pushing my thighs apart, the sting from the sharp teeth sinking into my tender flesh. I closed my eyes, just trying to rid myself of the memory of feeling a guard pushing inside me . . . of trying to hold in my screams because it would only give my chosen guard the satisfaction of hearing me cry.
“I couldn’t take it,” Rider said, pulling me from the past I tried hard to keep from my heart. I opened my eyes to see his fingers digging into the flesh on his legs. “I managed to stop one. I stopped a Lord’s Sharing . . . the first and only one I ever witnessed.”
“You did?” I asked, a sense of hope building within me.
“Then my brother, my only family, my only friend in this entire fucking world, cast me out. Put me in this cell and ordered daily beatings to make me see the error of my ways.” Rider’s eyes lifted until his gaze met mine, and his face broke down in tears. “He took it all away, Harmony . . . left me alone, and I . . . ” His voice got caught in his throat, and my heart burst apart, no longer able to see or hear this man breaking apart so completely.
I rushed forward, crawling to sit by his side. My eyes drank him in again, the sight of his face, hair and beard tricking my mind to run. My eyes tried to tell me this was the wicked Prophet Cain that had touched me and hit me so violently. But my heart . . . my heart told me this was a confused and battered soul that needed comfort.
Needed something and someone to be real . . . to be there for him.
I lifted a shaking hand and found Rider’s. He flinched as I touched him. By the way he blinked his tears away and looked at me in shock, I knew he had not seen or heard me approach. Without breaking his gaze, I turned his hand over and threaded my fingers through his. I watched as Rider’s scared and timid face was masked in confusion. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed in trepidation. His gaze fell from my face to land on our joined hands. I felt him squeeze them, as though testing I was truly there.
He closed his eye
s, savoring the touch. The closeness. I let him have this moment. I studied him, feeling butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He had called me beautiful, but I could only think the same about him. His brown eyes and long dark hair were mesmerizing. His body was built to protect—hard and strong. But what I loved most when I looked into his gaze was the kindness it held.
He is good, you must remember that. No matter what. He is not a bad man. He is like us, beaten down and confused by how we were raised . . . but he is good . . .
The sister’s words played in my head. She had known who he was. She had known that he was the prophet.
Rider let out an agonized moan. I held his hand tighter, as he opened his mouth and said, “I tried to kill him, Harmony . . . ” Sympathetic tears ran down my cheeks. I had never heard someone so in pain, so broken and lost. “I tried to kill my brother to save you . . . to save us all . . . ” He took a deep breath. “To save you . . . from the wedding . . . ”
I stilled, the air fleeing my lungs. “What?” I said in disbelief.
“I could see what the thought of marrying him was doing to you.” Rider shook his head. “I know him, Harmony. I know what your life with him will look like—hell. Every day by his side will be pure hell. And the ceremony . . . what you will have to do in front of the people to seal your vow . . . ”
“So . . . so you tried to kill him? For me?”
My heart clenched. I had to marry the prophet . . . but he had tried to save me from that fate. My God . . . My guilt ran thick and strong.
Rider nodded, and the last ounce of strength he had in his beaten body faded away. He slumped farther back against the wall and his grip on my hand slackened.
“Rest,” I said, bringing my free hand to his face. Before I realized what I had done, I had run a finger down his cheek, the tip stopping at his full pink lips. Rider’s eyes locked on mine. I tried to breathe, but the air suddenly felt too thick and hot to try.
Rider took his free hand and brought it to my finger on his lips. Ducking his gaze, I gasped when I felt him kiss my finger, gently . . . a light, butterfly kiss.