VOICES CAME TO HIM, raised in terror but reaching him as though through water. His head swam, and he was dizzy even before he opened his eyes. The room spun, corners of the familiar kitchen swaying and distorting nauseatingly. He was alone in the room, the warm fire only adding to the wavering walls and floor. His head felt stuffed with cotton, thoughts thudding dully against his skull. His face hurt, his cheek warm and wet. He lifted a hand to wipe it, missing at first, his arm feeling like someone else’s as his hand brushed his cheek. He was only vaguely aware of the streak of red that marked the skin. He lay on his right side, and struggled to prop himself up on his arm, head too heavy to hold up straight. He saw the doorway to the sitting room, and he saw the hand that lay on the floor just within. Was that his mother’s?

He opened his mouth to call for her, dry throat scratchy and rough, the words dying in a fit of coughing. Shadows moved in the other room, sliding over the walls. The yelling seemed to die down, fading into the distance. He tried again, managing to find his voice to call for his mother. Pain washed over him and he whimpered, crawling forward on the floor toward the doorway. Why didn’t she come?

He pulled himself a short ways, having to stop as the pain grew in intensity. He could see more of the room beyond- his mother’s shoulder now in sight. She wasn’t moving, lying still on the floor. The sight sparked alarm in him, but the feeling was distant and lacked urgency. Why was that wrong? His thoughts moved too slowly to keep up, and he pulled himself closer, unable to gather the strength to stand. He reached out, and his hand caught hers, fingers touching.

He recoiled at the coolness of her skin, the sensation sharp, slicing through the fog of his mind. There was something so wrong about it- she shouldn’t be cool, she should be warm. He blinked in incomprehension, staring at the face he could now see. Her eyes were shut, her expression peaceful.

He caught movement again from the corner of his eye, and looked up to see a tall, armoured figure standing in the open front door, sword in hand. They breathed heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm. They lifted the sword, running the blade between the gloved fingers of their other hand, and a thick, dark liquid dripped from their palm. Eldred frowned, wondering if they had cut themselves, until he realised that the gloves were intact, and that the blade itself had been the source of the blood. The realisation brought sound to his throat again, an involuntary squeak that filled the space between them.

The reaction was immediate, the figure dropping the sword with remembered urgency, twisting and darting toward him. Movements frantic, they drew up beside him. He tried to move away, his arms clumsily pushing back, but the figure was too fast, wiping the bloody hand on the cloth that hung from their back, reaching toward him to pull him into a sitting position, hands bracing him on either side, turning him back toward the kitchen door.

Confusion replaced the distant alarm, and he tried to squirm free of their grasp, to get back to his mother- surely she was just asleep? Perhaps he could wake her?

“Do not look.” The voice sounded calm on the surface, although an edge to the words suggested some deeper emotion that Eldred’s mind was too muddled to pick up on at the moment.

“She-” he started, coughing again as his throat stung. One hand broke free, held as he was by the figure and he reached behind toward his mother’s hand, patting the floor as he searched blindly.

“There is nothing to be done,” the voice spoke again, sliding arms clad in cold metal behind his back and beneath his knees, and all of a sudden there was no floor beneath him and he was in the air. He stared up at the ceiling, frowning, and then looked at the dark-visored helmet of the armoured figure from that morning and earlier that day. She did not look at him, instead staring straight ahead, toward the back door that she seemed to be walking toward.

He wriggled again, twisting his head to look around her, to see the shape of his mother lying limp on the sitting room floor, her skirts pooled around her, arms resting either side of her. A pool of red spread from the far side of her head, soaking into the floor and slowly inching forward. His vision started to swirl again, dark spots appearing as the wave of lightheadedness grew stronger and stronger, until the darkness enveloped his vision once more, and everything went black.

Snarling was all he could hear of the hounds that pursued him. The forest was black around him, trees looming up out of fog and mist before him, only just in time for him to narrowly twist to avoid them. The floor was uneven, the troughs and rises making it difficult to maintain speed, the clinging thorns and roots attempting to tangle his feet and trip him. He couldn’t get enough air- his lungs heaved and yet there was never enough air. His vision was dark at the edges, and his head felt light and unsteady. He didn’t know how long he’d been running from them, and he didn’t know where he would go to get away. All he knew was that he needed to keep going or it would all be over.

The world rocked and swayed, and for a moment he was terrified that he had finally been tripped by one of the roots, when he heard the galloping hooves that were moving beneath him.

Eldred’s eyes flew open, the dying panic of the dream replaced swiftly by confusion. He stared down at the ground- a packed road with paving stones scattered across it, flying past at speeds that seemed incomprehensible. A set of grey hind legs flashed into his vision at regular intervals, sweeping past as they reached for the next stretch of ground. It took a moment for him to piece together the rocking cadence of the horse’s hindquarters with the rapidly moving terrain beneath him.

It was light, the shadows short in watery sunlight that warmed his back. He was resting atop some sort of padding that muffled some of the horse’s movement, and he felt something tied around his middle, the sharp contact points of rope padded by cloth in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable.

As his mind woke up, so did the pain and weariness that enveloped him so completely. The right side of his face ached dully, and moving it too much caused lancing pain to spread through his cheek. Even the frown that came so naturally was punished. He remembered the house- his mother and being torn away from her, and then the iron, its cold metal biting into his cheek. Then he remembered everything going dark as Orwel had choked him. He started to move, taking stock of the rest of his limbs- his hands felt numb and clumsy, but he could see his fingers moving beneath him. He could feel his feet, although they were stiff from the odd position he found himself in. The wind whipped up from their fast passage had chilled them, and even the spreading warmth from the sun wasn’t thawing them entirely. He tried to straighten, to sit up, to better understand what was going on around him.

Then he felt something on his back- a gentle weight pinning him to the back of the horse. He blinked a few times, struggling to process this, before he turned his head and saw the armoured figure sitting on the saddle before him, one hand on his back. A spark of emotion- fear- fluttered through him. Where was he? Where was he going? Where was his mother? His struggle intensified, although the firm pressure on his back remained immovable and constant.

“You are safe,” the now-familiar voice said. “Try not to move too much, Ardghal’s back is a precarious place to rest if you wiggle around.”

This did little to reassure him, and he tried to ask just one of his many questions, but found his mouth too dry and his tongue too unresponsive to form anything coherent. He struggled again, trying to gain purchase on the horse’s moving thigh.

The rider didn’t say anything, but the ground beneath them started to move slower and slower, until at last it stopped. The restraining hand lifted, and Eldred was finally able to move- only he started to slide backwards with his struggling, finding only a rope around his middle stopping him from falling from the horse entirely. The rider dismounted, and after a moment he felt the hands again, untying the rope and cloth. He tried to move again, sliding further backwards, and for a moment he feared he would fall from the horse- he hadn’t realised how far down it was- but the hands were there again, slowing his descent and lifting him down. He felt lightheaded as she set him on his feet, swaying slightly as he tried to regain his balance. He was tired, sleep clinging to him like a blanket, and he stared at the ground as he tried to regain himself. His struggles had done nothing but sap his energy, and he found himself lacking the will or ability to even gain his bearings. It took what felt like an immense effort, but he lifted his head and looked at the armoured figure before him. He tried again to speak, getting as far as uttering the word “Where…?” before his vision started to darken again. He felt his knees buckling, and the figure stepped forward to catch him.

“I am taking you to a doctor-” was the last thing he heard as sleep reared its head and reclaimed him.