11-29-2015, 11:16 PM
some are lost in the fire
some are built from it
He doesn't remember when it started. He simply remembers the pain building in him, sapping his strength, dragging him down, down down.
He does remember the night when he woke, alone, startled to find that he had fallen asleep. He remembers how the pain had twisted him, how it had bitten him from the inside out like a thousand wolves. He'd thought to try to get it out, tried bucking and rearing to dislodge it, tried twisting himself on the ground until a sheen of sweat darkened his black coat and he felt a preternatural exhaustion come over him.
When he started coughing up blood, he'd finally understood.
He didn't really know what it meant to be sick. He didn't really understand illness, not in the same way that a human would. He'd seen it a handful of times – horses do get sick and die, even in this magical land that is Beqanna. But he didn't immediately know what it meant. All that he knew is that, no matter what, he could not suffer it to be transmitted to any other horse in the Chamber.
And so he'd run. He'd run and he'd hidden, actively avoiding any noises that sounded like it might be horses. And blessedly, he'd been far enough away by the time the fever had taken him that he no longer had to run. He didn't know how long it had been. He'd tried counting the days at first, but then all of a sudden he'd found that the days started to lie, and the numbers started to slip away from him. Sunrises bled into sunsets, he'd wake to darkness or light, and it simply ceased to matter.
He tried everything to stop it. He tried to burn it out many times, turning his heat manipulation on himself, trying desperately to think of something, anything. But it had always been in vain. Hot, cold, nothing worked – existence narrowed to survival as his entire world became enduring another day with the pain. He lapsed in and out of consciousness, seeing little and comprehending less.
And even when he saw things, he could never know if it was reality. Things came back to him from impossible times, images of little girls who never really existed (he thinks), images of the burning of the mother tree, the cries of the Gates. And even the face of Lagertha, Amazon queen, swimming in front of him. Malis too, her face always silent, mingling with Killdare and all the others of the Chamber. But he never sees Straia – only the swirl of ravens and feathers.
And then one day (days? Months? Years?) later, as suddenly as the sickness had come, it left.
It left him a shell of what he once was. As he picks his way back to the Chamber slowly, he is barely recognizable. His coat is ragged, stretched loosely over muscles that have almost entirely lost their tone. His mane and tail hang unkempt, with the ragged look of one who is just recovering from sickness. The disease has taken its toll. One day he will recover, in time he will be whole again – and he will be lucky, because he will have no permanent damage. But today he is less than half the creature he once was. Impressive and imposing, no more.
He does remember the night when he woke, alone, startled to find that he had fallen asleep. He remembers how the pain had twisted him, how it had bitten him from the inside out like a thousand wolves. He'd thought to try to get it out, tried bucking and rearing to dislodge it, tried twisting himself on the ground until a sheen of sweat darkened his black coat and he felt a preternatural exhaustion come over him.
When he started coughing up blood, he'd finally understood.
He didn't really know what it meant to be sick. He didn't really understand illness, not in the same way that a human would. He'd seen it a handful of times – horses do get sick and die, even in this magical land that is Beqanna. But he didn't immediately know what it meant. All that he knew is that, no matter what, he could not suffer it to be transmitted to any other horse in the Chamber.
And so he'd run. He'd run and he'd hidden, actively avoiding any noises that sounded like it might be horses. And blessedly, he'd been far enough away by the time the fever had taken him that he no longer had to run. He didn't know how long it had been. He'd tried counting the days at first, but then all of a sudden he'd found that the days started to lie, and the numbers started to slip away from him. Sunrises bled into sunsets, he'd wake to darkness or light, and it simply ceased to matter.
He tried everything to stop it. He tried to burn it out many times, turning his heat manipulation on himself, trying desperately to think of something, anything. But it had always been in vain. Hot, cold, nothing worked – existence narrowed to survival as his entire world became enduring another day with the pain. He lapsed in and out of consciousness, seeing little and comprehending less.
And even when he saw things, he could never know if it was reality. Things came back to him from impossible times, images of little girls who never really existed (he thinks), images of the burning of the mother tree, the cries of the Gates. And even the face of Lagertha, Amazon queen, swimming in front of him. Malis too, her face always silent, mingling with Killdare and all the others of the Chamber. But he never sees Straia – only the swirl of ravens and feathers.
And then one day (days? Months? Years?) later, as suddenly as the sickness had come, it left.
It left him a shell of what he once was. As he picks his way back to the Chamber slowly, he is barely recognizable. His coat is ragged, stretched loosely over muscles that have almost entirely lost their tone. His mane and tail hang unkempt, with the ragged look of one who is just recovering from sickness. The disease has taken its toll. One day he will recover, in time he will be whole again – and he will be lucky, because he will have no permanent damage. But today he is less than half the creature he once was. Impressive and imposing, no more.
erebor
heat manipulating servant of the chamber
warship x straia
