remnant of home :: luci&andy [day 4]
Aug 3, 2013 21:32:29 GMT -5
Post by semper on Aug 3, 2013 21:32:29 GMT -5
when the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses
and revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,
and terror is on the land
Everywhere in the spider web forest looks the same. We’ve been walking for what feels like hours and I swear we’ve made absolutely no progress. My weary legs slowly begin to start dragging, cuts throbbing and welts burning, and I find myself cradling my arm stump against my chest.
Never in all my life did I imagine that I would ever lose my arm. Everything I’ve ever done has always required use of both my hands and feet, and now that I’m down to just one hand I feel useless. I can’t vault, I can’t climb, I can’t do very much of anything. But I’ve been fighting still, haven’t I? My sword hangs from a strap on my backpack; I’ve never really given much thought to the slick piece of iron but it’s saved my life so many times. It’s become an extension of my body, honestly, and is far more precious than anything else I have in my backpack. The axe’s weight is unevenly distributed on either side of the pole so it’s much harder for me to control with just one hand. The sword is much easier: a single blade, lighter, and more controllable, but has the power behind it to kill and cause serious damage. Almost like a horse – no matter what size or shape, each equine has enough power to take your life or break a bone, but can also be so gentle and friendly. Not that swords are friendly, really, that’s a bit of a stretch.
You name things that mean something to you, right? I’ll name my sword Anima.
A sudden shock of pain in my arm brings me back to the present and I whimper, pulling my arm tighter against my chest and trying to rub out the pain. I had heard stories of doctors back home and whenever they had to cut off a limb or finger or something they would numb the area first so that the patient felt no pain. Unfortunately there was no numbing when my arm was severed – all I remember was feeling like I had stuck my arm into a fire and now there are embers just smoldering inside. Pinpricks of constant pain. I massage a little harder, pressing my fingers as close to the stump as I dare, trying to chase away the searing, smoldering agony and extinguish those so-called embers.
”Andy, are you okay?”
I look up and see Mik watching me, an expression of what I think is worry on his face. I don’t really like how he’s always concerned about me but aren’t I just as concerned about him? Isn’t that why I gave him the vest? I mean, I trust Yaa, but I trust Mik a lot more. He’s swooped in on many occasions to save my skin and he’s used up a fair bit of his first aid supplies on me alone. I need to repay him for it somehow. The vest is a good start but it doesn’t satisfy me, oddly enough. The want to do more for him settles deep inside me and so I determine that I’m going to repay him soon, somehow.
He closes the distance between us and rests an arm around my shoulders, quite like a supportive gesture. I take the moment to lean into him, focusing more on the physical contact with him rather than the pain. For a moment or two it works to dull the pain and I’m able to let my mind wander free of restraint. It doesn’t go too far, though; I’m unable to think outside this arena, scared of what sentimental memories will come up.
I want to tell him that everything hurts – my physical body and my state of mind. It hurts to be cut, whipped, limbs severed, hungry, thirsty, but it also very much hurts to see people die and be the reason people leave this arena. For twenty-three of us this spider-infested place is going to be our deathbed. Who is going to make it out?
”No, I’m not okay, but that’s just the usual now, isn’t it?” I don’t mean it in a negative way (honest, I don’t). But when you’ve lost half your arm, feel nauseous when you even so much as think about food, have your throat burn every time you try to swallow – you’re never really just okay anymore. It sucks the life right out of you. I’m hanging on as good as I can with what I have, isn’t that enough?
We pause and Mik looks around, taking his arm off from my shoulders, trying to gather his bearings, I guess. I had been so engaged in my thoughts that I have no idea where we are. Upon looking around all I see is more of this damned and blinding fog. It’s really rather disorienting for someone like me who is already terrible with directions to begin with. ”Yaa?” Mik calls out, taking a few steps into the fog. Another step, another step, and it’s not long before I can’t see him anymore.
Panic tries to trickle its way in but I fight back by grinding my teeth and swallowing hard against the lump that’s forming in my throat. I won’t be alone for long, I’ll find him. I strain my eyes to try to see through the relentless fog but to no avail; everything is coated in a dim whiteness and once again I feel disoriented.
”Mik?” Silence. ”Yaa?” Quiet again. I suck in a deep breath, following in the direction I (think) I saw Mik head in.
The fog doesn’t end. I slowly make my way, watching out for things that’ll snag my feet and listening for any signs of another life – human preferably. I figure what’s more terrifying than being alone is hearing absolutely nothing. No yells, no whines, no screams, nothing but the sound of my own breathing. I stumble along a little faster now, frequently biting back against the growing fear inside of me that’s keeping me moving as the fog starts to grow brighter.
I’m completely unaware of what time of day it is but frankly I don’t care. I’m just as hungry and thirsty and hurt as I was hours ago. The only difference is that I’m beginning to see roots: big, chunky, tree roots. I pick my way cautiously but not careful enough – my foot snags on a root and I tumble forward, landing on my side. My arm swings around instinctively in a futile and late attempt to catch myself but it never reaches the ground, thankfully, because it’s the stump. That would’ve hurt like hell. I breathe a quiet thanks and hoist myself up, freezing when I spot an outline not too far off.
It’s a she, obviously, with long hair the color of one of the horses back home. Even with the veil of fog in front I recognize her: my district partner, the one I stood on stage with only a week or so ago. Us two, the only ones from Five in this hellhole. Honestly we’re the last bit of home either of us has. She looks a wreck, though: something is wrong with her leg (was it cut off?) and she looks rather beat up. A frown tugs at the ends of my mouth. ”Luci? What happened to you?”
yea, the south wind sobs among the drowned creek courses
for sorrows no man shall bind---
ah, god! for the horses, the black plumed horses,
dear god! for the horses, death's own pale horses,
that raced in the tracks behind
A Gallop of Fire, Marie E J Pitt
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