Menedhyn Bek : peregrinations

menedhyn · December 2016

MENEDHYN BEK
of Wrothgar

1. Accident

He could hear them breathing heavily as they stood over his broken, bloodied body. He kept his eyes shut, not because he was frightened by them, but because he dare not gaze upon the gashes and rips and holes in his flesh. At least, not just yet. The terrible, searing pain scared him. Made him feel sick.
“He’s not dead, then?” said a brusque voice as a heavy boot found its way to his rib cage more forcibly than was necessary. A small, almost breathless gasp provided an answer of sorts. The man snorted and spat something foul onto the muddied, sodden rags that still partly adorned the boy. Not that the act mattered.
“Not yet. But he’s been ‘ad, that’s for sure. Prob’ly a boar or sumthin, who knows”, replied the other man, before letting out a slow, wheezy laugh. “Or an old, toothless Sow! Little sod would come off second best wi’ most! There’s ‘nowt of ‘im. Bone and hair, that’s all.”
The men picked through his belongings, or what little there was, scattered as they were in the mud and snow. A few coins, a chunk of slightly stale, foot-trodden bread, some herbs and leaves tied up in a cloth and a thick, dark grey cowl which seemed well made and was lined in soft grey cotton. Not much to show for their efforts, though. The coins were pocketed and the cowl was stuffed into their sack, for it would likely sell for a few more at market. They might get a small mug of weak ale, if they were lucky.
“So, what do we do with ‘im?” said one of the men. “Don’t fancy draggin’ ‘im with us. No point.”
The other one took a small, grubby leather pouch from a pocket within his fur overcoat, took a long, deliberate swig of the contents before corking it and passing it on. “Nor me. Leave ‘im. Little runt will likely die anyway. Not my problem.”

The cold had started to set in by now and he began to shiver. He hadn’t long been attacked when the men had found him, quite by accident, though that clearly made no difference. The stiff breeze blowing down from the snow-peaked hills to the east was enough to cut through the cold and wet material which covered him, offering little to no protection. The men had sat on a thick, fallen trunk at a short distance, muttering and grumbling about something that he couldn’t quite make out. Opening his eye ever so slightly, he could just about make out the form of the boar, partly hidden as it was behind a thick shrub dusted with snow, off to the right of the clearing. Hidden from view was the small dagger he had thrust into its belly in a desperate attempt to fend off the tusks that ripped and bore and stabbed at him. It was still there, no doubt. And despite his pain and discomfort, he felt great sadness at seeing the body slumped there, the once magnificent and proud creature, now lifeless and drained of blood and of life. His clumsiness had prompted the attack. A careless footstep and a slip and stumble on wet snow had startled it. Stupid boy. The boar only sought only to protect itself. It was his fault. Maybe he deserved to die for it. And then he began to sob.

There was something else over there. Something large, hiding in the thick scrub beyond. It was watching him. A dark shape, a mass of... something, he couldn’t tell. What was it? Suddenly panicked, he tried to calm his breathing, quietly pulling the remnants of his already worn cloak around himself, wounds swollen and hot and aching as he did so. He closed his eyes once more, for he was far more terrified of what might happen next than what had gone before. What was it?

It crept over to the boy, slowly, quietly and deliberately. He felt an overbearing presence, a thickness and stillness in the air all around him. He heard it breathing; felt hot, fetid breath on his face, and then over his belly and legs where the boar’s tusks had been before.

And then it was gone. The thickness in the air lifted, the chirrup of birds in the boughs of the trees gradually returned, and the cold wind continued to needle and prick and slice at his face and through his cloak. And the wounds continued to bleed...

geonsocal · December 2016

howdy @menedhyn ...thank you very much for posting

...

going through some of your other threads now - wow, really nice work...

menedhyn · January 2017

2. Bitten

They were still there, the two men. They were just about visible over by the edge of the clearing, by now very drunk on whatever liquid warmth they had poured down their necks and seemingly oblivious to the noise they were making. A small fire had been lit and the grey smoke from it arched and danced as the wind fanned damp wood and leaves struggling to burn. Not much of a fire to warm themselves, he thought. But maybe enough smoke to...

With much gritting of teeth, he very slowly dragged himself to his knees. It was agony to do so. Each slight movement sent pain shooting through his chest, stomach and arms where the flesh had been torn. He was weak, very weak, and barely had the strength to stand on his own. If it wasn’t for a fallen branch nearby, he might not have managed to push himself up with it onto his feet. He took a few more uneasy steps before slumping up against a tree trunk just about wide enough to hide him. He caught his breath for a moment before hobbling to another tree, this one a bit further away again, trying to keep it between him and the men.

He carried on in this way for what felt like an age, though in truth it was a very short while and he had made only a little progress. He wasn’t sure whether he was heading in the right direction, but putting distance between himself and this place was his only intention. He didn’t trust the men to leave him alone. He didn’t trust them to keep their daggers in their sheaths. And he didn’t wish to see whatever it was that was hiding in the undergrowth.

But that wasn’t to be.

From somewhere behind him, he heard a scream. A petrified, startling scream that made him jump. He turned his head to see what it was; he could just about make out one of the men staggering and stumbling around, disappearing and reappearing behind the dark trunks and thick bushes as he moved. He was shouting incessantly, calling something or someone, but the words made no sense at this distance. And then suddenly, he completely disappeared from view. For a few seconds, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Then a long, low growl broke the stillness. And then he saw it. A great, black form, walking slowly on four limbs, its massive head bowed low to the ground. Was it a bear? It was hard to tell from this distance and with the light starting to fade. No, he thought after watching it move. Not a bear. Something else. It looked like it was...

It turned to face him.

He slumped to the ground, his legs unable to keep him upright any longer. Breathing heavily and wiping spittle and blood from his mouth, he tried to move, tried to crawl away as fast as he could... but he couldn’t. He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know what to do. He suddenly felt... petrified. Helpless.

It was walking towards him.

He closed his eyes and began to sob again. Silly, stupid little boy.
And then he felt its breath on his face once more, for it had circled a clump of trees and now stood close by. The same thickness as before filled the air and he found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He raised bloodied, cut hands to his still tightly closed eyes, and he cried. He cried because he was scared. He cried because he was in tremendous pain and nowhere near home. He cried because he was cold, and hungry, and alone. And in between his cries, he said something, weakly, over and over again. “I’m sorry”.

With limp body in its maw, it held him momentarily, as if in some strange bestial embrace, before releasing him back to the mud and snow and dirt that lay all around him.

menedhyn · April 2017

3. Bond

“Be still, little one! Be still, and let me tend to these wounds.”

The boy fidgeted in her firm embrace, though he would have been wise to heed her words. The poultice she was trying to apply worked best when pressed close to the broken skin, but his severe discomfort meant that he found it hard to do as she asked. The concoction, however, was potent and it quickly numbed the stinging pain and provided some relief to the cuts and lacerations of his flesh. And though he could feel a soothing sensation gradually take hold, there was a deeper, throbbing sensation within him - a disturbing, sickening sensation that felt like it was trying to tear his body apart.

“Am I... going to be... I mean, will it get better?” he asked her in a faint, broken voice. He stared at her stern face through glassy eyes, hoping for some words of comfort. She had a weathered, wise appearance; wrinkles held traces of dirt borne from hard labour and, no doubt, racial conflict, and there were strange markings across her brow and cheeks. Her tusks - jagged and dulled yellow - stood proud from her jaw and her eyes were dark, almost black it seemed to him. And yet, there was a softness there as well. It was hidden, in part at least, but it was there.

The Orsimer carried on attending to his wounds for a while, before eventually answering his question. "You have been unlucky, little one. And you have been stupid as well, no doubt. But you are weak, very weak". She stopped for a moment, and looked up at the trees and bushes and the path that led away into the deepest part of the forest. The moon was bright in the sky, and almost overhead, and its blue-tinted light illuminated the forest floor, still and subdued as it now was. "You might die before we leave this valley. Or maybe... maybe you will find strength from somewhere," she said, her hand peeling back slightly the rags she had bound to his chest and shoulder, her face visibly concerned at the punctured skin beneath. "You would do well to," she muttered quietly. Her words were met with silence.

Carefully, she wrapped up the small boy in a thick fur she had about her, his arms held tight against his sides in doing so, before picking him up without effort, for her stature was large and her strength formidable. He winced a little as she did, but she ignored him. They made off at a fairly brisk pace along the narrow, winding path which was just about visible on the forest floor, stepping over fallen trunk and hopping over ice-cold springs and streams as they went. They continued in this way for some time, and though it was difficult to know where he was, he knew they were climbing up and out of the valley. He occasionally caught a glimpse of his wider surroundings, but it was too dark to make any sense of it. Eventually, as the warmth started to return to his body, helped no doubt by the thick pelt that protected him from the elements, he felt he could no longer keep awake. His body was shattered, broken and battered, and the fever-like aches that coursed through his body began to take their toll. He needed to rest, to close heavy-lidded eyes, and hope that he would wake the next day. Exhausted from what had gone before, he placed his trust into the powerful arms that bore him away from that place, to the stranger Orsimer who had stopped to help. He knew not how she had found him, or why she had chosen to help him, but he didn't dwell on that. And in an instant, he had slipped into a deep slumber, though it was a disturbed and darkened sleep, and all the time his body was carefully carried up, up above the trees and into the foothills beyond.

menedhyn · April 2017

4. Paths

They were almost there, or at least that is what she had repeatedly said to herself these past hours. Tired legs and aching arms reminded her that despite her strength, even an Orsimer had to rest; to continue in this way, at this pace, was unwise, for mistakes and carelessness would risk them both. She knew it was for the best. Finding herself readily accepting of the situation, no doubt prompted by the thirst she had also developed, she carefully lowered her burden to the ground while all the time listening for other sounds that might suggest a threat or disturbance. But apart from the owls who called out to each other in declaration of their territory, there were none, for they were in fact very much alone.

Wiping her lips of spittle, she then reached for the heavy, leather flask that she kept under her jerkin. Cold, refreshing water tricked into her open mouth and across her sweat-covered brow, rinsing away the dirt and grime and detritus that had accumulated as she scrambled through the wood. A small amount was taken by the boy, albeit with some reluctance at first, but her stern words were sufficient encouragement. Wiping the hair from his face and wrapping the furs around him tighter, she crouched for a moment, gently panting and catching her breath in readiness for the next push. Almost there, she now said aloud, as if having to convince herself that the words were true.

She placed her hand on an ancient stack of neatly arranged stones as she rose. Just like the others before, they had marked the way to the very edge of the woods. She didn't quite know what to make of them, or what they represented, but then very few folk did. The stacks were a mixture of flattened, angular slates occasionally interspersed with more squared, carved blocks of a darker material. Many of these bore odd scratchings, symbols and rudimentary drawings of beasts and plants and other living things. And yet, despite their unusual form and unnerving, imposing silhouette made more so under the creeping pale skies of dawn, they presented no harm and offered no threat.

Their path so far had been crossed by numerous other tracks and walkways made by men, mer and beast alike - some more recent, but most of great age if the smooth, worn rocks underfoot were anything to go by. But now, it was without interruption, and much less used - almost difficult to trace in places. The upland slopes were often ignored as there was little of interest here, save for scrubs of willow, birch and slow-growing pine poking through closely cropped grass. A smattering of larger boulders and patches of moraine, left there an age ago, provided scant shelter for those occasional, weary travellers from the cool winds that blew down from the ice fields above, and a small trickle of meltwater would probably quench a thirst if one was patient enough. But there were other places that offered better protection from the elements, places much closer to the trade routes that snaked their way through the Wrothgars, and there was little reason for most to explore the slopes further. And yet despite this remoteness, it seemed it suited a few stubborn, determined folk who chose to live here, away from the prying eyes and inquisitive minds of others.

The boy was collected in her arms once more and after some reassurance to his minor cries, she set off along the last small stretch of path. It was here that she began to question why a small boy, barely armed and less than adequately dressed, might find himself so far from home and so very alone in a harsh and dangerous place. It wasn’t like them to allow their young ones to wander off, which meant that he may have been with… someone else. Were there others with him? No, surely not, for she would have found them – she knew those woods and the paths and the vantage points to survey the land very well. Perhaps he had simply been curious and lost his bearings? Perhaps he had been led away by something… enticed by something that meant harm. Only the boy would know the truth. Only he would know what really happened. Only he knew what he saw.