"Of Humans and Elves, Part 1" by Ben Cameron

Of Memories and Pain

Some forty years later…

      He awoke.  His clothes, more rags than anything else, snapped violently in the biting wind.  Unconsciously, he curled up against the cold but cried out in pain as the rocks beneath him cut further into his beaten body.

      His eyes opened wide as the sudden pain pierced through his wearied thoughts, revealing a world as pallid and formless as his mind.  Within a few paces everything faded into thick fog that swelled like a living fortress.  His body shivered in the damp fog, unprotected as it was from the elements.

      He slowly turned his neck and vainly attempted to decipher his surroundings.  Where was he?  More importantly, who was he?  Lost in the misty recesses of his mind, neither would surface.  Confusion etched into his eyes as he searched for anything that could open the doors closed within his mind.  His forehead ached with a dull throb and his ears rang or was that chimes in the wind?  To escape the pain, as much to ease his own weariness and confusion, he slipped into a deep nothingness.

      The second time he awoke, his pain and thirst greeted him.  An imposing cliff, dotted with wiry trees rose behind him.  In front stretched endless trees, their canopy interrupting his view of the cloudless sky and only the birds and trees witnessed his unsteady rise to his feet.  Speckled sunlight lit the forest around him yet his mind remained empty, devoid of name, history, circumstances and indeed of all thought except one, which chased itself around and around in his head.

      Water… I need water.

      It was to the calling of his thick, heavy tongue that he wound his hesitant way through the vast trees.  He stumbled forward, desperate to reach a stream or pond, anything to drink.  Roots and rocks clutched at his feet as he lurched forward, his mind ignoring the vicious beating his body had been subjected to.  He stumbled and tripped, falling face down into the dirt, reopening the wounds in his legs.  The sudden impact thrust his air out of his body and he lay there gasping for breath.

      Why was he here?  A vague recollection of trees, of a forest.  No, that’s not right.  He was confusing reality with imagination.  He raged inwardly, his mouth too parched to curse aloud.  How could he remember nothing?  How could he get revenge if he knew not where he came from?

      His animal instincts overpowered the hopelessness that pervaded his mind and he picked himself up to stagger forward.  Pain and thirst mingled together in his mind till he wasn’t sure which was which.  He had to manage.  He had to survive.  Even if he had wished to lie down and die, his body had already decided to keep moving.  He stumbled forward, following the path of least resistance: an animal track.

      Even as an automaton, it was not easy.  Those tracks were made by creatures no higher than his waist and thus branches and vines whipped into his torso, shredding what remained of his shirt.  It was only his thirst that kept him moving through nettles, branches and undergrowth that seemed intent on inflicting evermore wounds.  He clenched his jaws together, and pushed forward resolutely.

      Water…I need water.

      The sweet sound of water broke through to his ears, drowning out the songbirds, the odour of fresh sap, the sunlight and even his pain.  He staggered forward, pushing his body beyond what it was capable of to reach that cool water.

      After plunging his face into its shallow depths his pain came rushing back though.  He tried not to choke on his deep draught of water as the all too familiar pain rushed back to the myriad of slashes, scratches and bruises across his body.

      Water.

      The coolness flowed through his body as he drank as if it was his entire body that was immersed, not just his face.  Having quenched his thirst, there was little else for him to think of than the pain of his cuts, bruised muscles and stiff joints.  Gingerly, he placed his legs in the cold water to numb the pain and clean the blood from his legs.  He meant to lie down only to rest, but the soft grass and his own weariness pushed him into sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

      Magarez strode up beside the stream, followed closely by five other men.  Gared, walking beside Magarez, was dressed as finely as him in a fine silk shirt and pants held in place by a cowskin belt.  Magarez’s side, however, was adorned by a elegantly fashioned enamelled sabre held at a rakish angle on his belt, its jewelled hilt thrust before him.  Two guards walked behind wearing leather breastplates, pauldrons and greaves.  Their sides held a blade each, not the decorative weapon of Magarez but functional, dual-bladed swords kept in excellent condition despite their frequent use.  Behind them followed two younger men holding a large skin between them for water.

      Magarez was annoyed by the hold up.  He had to be at Cowan’s renowned markets within eight days and they were already behind schedule.  “Is there not enough water to continue on without it here?”

      Gared hesitated.  “The next stream we cross is four days travel from here.  Even if the water rations were halved, it would not do even the men, let alone the horses.  Nor can we take this water, we cannot drink water polluted by blood.”

      “Then lets find whatever forsaken animal had the misfortune of dying.”

      As they moved upstream, the blood in the water gradually increased till they rounded one of stream’s many bends and came across a lifeless form, half in half out of the river.  His body normally muscled and toned was dark purple from multiple beatings and legs bore deep scratches.  Though cleaned by the river, a congealed layer of blood covered his thighs and arms exposed as they were above the water.

      Their voices roused him from sleep.  Woozy from blood loss, the pain and still tired, he lay there, unable to move and half-convinced he was still delusional.

       “…what do we do with him, then?  Look at his body.  We don’t have the gold to heal him if it’s as bad as it looks.  Are you sure he’ll be ok?”

       “He’ll be fine.  Bring him with us.  And get some clean water so we can finally be on our way.”  Magarez said.  Maybe this wasn’t a dream.  Two pairs of hands grabbed him at opposite ends.  His bruises screamed in anguish; this was no dream.

       “You’re awake then?  Good, do you have a name?”  Magarez again, though he wasn’t sure what the man looked like, his eyes still weren’t open.  He tried unsuccessfully to remember his name, a name, any name, but he couldn’t think through the agony of his tortured bruises.

       “No?  Never mind, from now on, you’re Niell.”  His voice became louder, “he can’t walk yet, put him in the caravan.”

      The mercenaries lifted him onto their shoulders, grasping cruelly at his bruises.  His back arched in pain as they carried him unevenly to the caravan and placed him down inside.  Through his closed eyelids he had felt the bright sunlight as he was carried back down the river and the welcome shade of the caravan’s mantle.     

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

      The sound of creaking cartwheels arrested his ears.  He brushed the hair out of his eyes, moving stiffly due to his aching muscles.  Poultices covered his legs and he wore clean new clothes, admittedly of cheap wool, but woven comfortably so they didn’t catch on his wounds.

       “Good morning, Niell.”  Magarez lay opposite him clearly at ease lying languidly against the side of the caravan and a collection of fine rugs and tapestries.  He was in his early thirties, still quite youthful and at the peak of his health.  Even resting, his muscles showed through the silk shirt he wore; the sabre was not purely for show.  His beard and pony-tailed hair, both a light chestnut completed his look.

       “…morning…" Niell’s mouth was still dry.

       “Do you want some water?  Food?”  Niell nodded to both and greedily took all that was offered. It was plain, but welcome nonetheless.  “Most of your wounds have been cleaned and seen to.  Lucky for you, we have quite a good healer that travels with us.”

      Niell glanced down at his bare feet, careful not to antagonise his neck.  He almost retched what little food he’d eaten.  From beneath the bandages, large discolorations spread across his legs and his skin was ripped and torn where he’d scratched it during his walking.  One large gash, no longer bleeding, went down the entire length of his knee to his foot.  No wonder he was in pain every time he moved.

       “Don’t worry, Niell, you’ll heal quickly.  The healer will see you again tomorrow to change the poultices.” 

      “Where are we?”

      “A few days ride north-west of Cowan.” 

      He shook his head slowly, it meant nothing at all to him.  Stretching slowly, Magarez stood up and jumped out the back of the caravan, hitching a ride on the wagon following behind.

      For the next week, this pattern barely deviated and Niell slowly recovered from his wounds.  Outside, he could hear the creak of the caravan, the murmur of voices, and the shuffle of feet and in the background the sound of leaves whispering to themselves and, once, the sound of a vast river.  Lying within the caravan’s leather sides, he could only see behind to the carriage following, pulled by two horses.

      Most of the time he slept, recovering slowly from his wounds.  Yet often, sleep brought nightmares. 

“See?  Do you see it?”  He saw it.  He twisted and turned, desperate to escape yet wherever he looked cities crumbled to dust, seas turned into boiling cauldrons and the blood of armies seeped into the ground.

He hardened himself to the view before him, refusing to give in to the cruel tormentor gripping his head, forcing him to bear witness.

“Do you understand what needs to be done?”  Images of men and women, hung on crosses and burnt alive floated up out of the darkness.  He could not bear this.  He did not know the answer.

“Do you?”  The breath down his neck was burning his neck.

“Yes.  Yes, I see.  I understand.”  Every night was the same.  Though he didn’t know what he was accepting, it was the only way for him to escape the dream.

      He gasped for air, trying to slow his heart thumping in his chest.  Sweat covered his body like morning dew.  Thankfully, no one heard had his calls.  No matter how often he had that dream, the gut-churning disgust and repulsion remained the same.

      Eight days later, with the sounds of Cowan beginning to reach Niell’s ears, Magarez climbed once more into the caravan. 

       “You have to get up today, no more lying around.”  Niell shifted uncertainly.  Was he meant to leave now?  How he was to survive by himself, a foreigner even to himself in an unknown land?  His eyes questioning Magarez.

      “Is there someway I can repay you?… you saved my life.”

      Magarez laughed, “Don’t worry about that.  You must be seventeen or eighteen harvests by now.”

      Niell was still confused.

       “We’ve just reached Cowan.  Cowan has a good trade for those like you.”

      Niell was tired, his mind unable to make the connections.

      “You’re a slave, Niell.  Now get up.”