Poisoned Truths
Book 1
By: Eärillë

3. Alna

Rating: PG
Warnings: confusion, , fractured thoughts, mild violence
Genres: Action
Word Count: 1,353

Dawn, Day 21 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age
Shop Area at the Hut in Lanstream Village, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine;
Living Area at the Hut in Lanstream Village, Northwest of Leona Lake, Foothills of the Spine

Someone screams: female, familiar, tinged with a lilt, as if a harp or flute is being grated with a serrated knife.

Nalyar.

I lunge forward at the source of the voice. I cannot trust my vision any longer. My hands hit something: one solid and the other yielding. I punch at the solid one as hard as I can. A male low growl. I scrabble and punch, but often hit the yielding contour instead of the solid one, resulting in more screaming.

Nalyar is saying something, pleading, persuading. Her voice is moving – no, dragged, by the sounds of it, and I can hear wooden table-legs scraping the stone floor and glasswork tinkling alarmingly.

She is being brought into the living area, perhaps, or the front door. Either way is bad for her and for me as well. I cannot allow it. We must go. We must go. We must run, run away.

"Let her go!" I shout – no, I want to shout, but what comes out is a watery, histerical half-scream. "Let her go," I repeat, but now it is not a scream at all. It is a shame that I am pleading now, genuinely as well, but I have no heart to argue, to fight, to maim. And now there are two familiar scents caught by my nose, as I am rushing towards the silently-grappling pair.

Voices and noises filter in from outside the wooden walls: questioning, wondering, agitated.

I blink, and blink, and blink again, but my vision remains unrecorded by my brain. I bump at the intruder and Nalyar, yank at the interlocked limbs fighting for dominance, try to separate them, to bring Nalyar away hopefully to safety, but I may as well try to roll a boulder ten times the size of my body alone without magic.

Still, I try. Fright drives me. I can think about nothing else, can feel nothing else, can see nothing else but the sight of Nalyar's horrified countenance the last time we were nearly captured by the man that used to be Áltor.

She must escape, even if I do not.

And truth be told, I partly do not wish to escape. I wish… I wish …

"Orri," I whisper: confused, hating how tremulous it sounds in my ears. But I do want him deep in my heart, even if a part of it does not acknowledge that he is still alive and near.

The grappling seizes, but without any aid from my arms, both weakened and strengthened by heartsickness and fear.

The opponents separate themselves from each other, but not by much. The sharp sound of a blunt something hitting flesh. A loud male grunt: pained and angered: recogniseable, familiar even.

I gasp.

Orri!

But no no no no, it must not be he. It is not he now. No longer Orri, no longer Orri, not my – no no no, still my – but no, dangerous, not to be trusted, unpredictable – dragon-flesh poisoning –

Affection? Can it …

A loud male growl: definitely angry, resentment boiling over, mad like a wounded boar. Nalyar, calling my nickname. A choking sound – hers.

"Let her go!" I plead. Cannot command. Cannot ask. Just plead, plead and hope there is at least a tinge, a remnence of the boy that I sacrificed any chance of bearing a child of my own, that I cared for, that I raised, that I loved, that I loved still.

It is as if a small, cold knife is twisting in my heart. Or perhaps it is in fact. I cannot determine. I do not know.

My eyes are warm, too warm. My eyeballs squeeze tight. Cannot see, even more than before.

I stumble forward. Yielding contour. Nalyar's scent. She is staggering, but catches me as my legs waver. But hands – strong hands, large hands with a cruel grip – are separating us in a harsh yank. I stumble backward.

Sharp edge, wooden edge. Table legs scraping harshly. Edge gives away, tilting. Glassware shattering. I cry out: alarmed, pained, surprised.

They are grappling before me again as I fall with the table: growls, hissed acquisitions, blunt hits against flesh, grunts, yelps, curses.

The side of my head hits a wooden something hard as my body slams against the stone floor. My hearing and sense of smell dim into near nothingness, come back a little, dim again, totally blank out for a moment, filter back again slowly –

Sounds of tables crashing, glasswork falling, words in the Ancient Language. Smells of pungent medicines, cloying blood, sweat – recogniseable scents.

The apothecary.

Fighting. Still fighting, near silently, desperate it seems, none winning.

I scramble into a sitting position, groaning. Dizzy, very dizzy and nauseated. Want to wretch. Want to help. But help whom?

A vicious hit. A loud female yelp. More crashing. A bark of flat, harsh laughter. Orri's voice – no! Morzan's voice – taunting, mocking. Hitting. Female yelps, weaker than before, half sobbing: regretting, lamenting.

No no! Not like my son at all. Where is he? Why –

My throat tightens up. Cannot breathe. Choking: cannot talk, cannot call out. The knife in my heart turns to ice. Pain pain pain …

Nalyar. Nalyar in trouble.

Not Orri, not my Orri there.

I scramble onto all-fours, crawling, crawling to the noises. Have to save her. Have to let her go, run away. She was right. I was wrong. Not Orri, not my son, but – no no no no no no. Have to help her. No thinking. No talking. No feeling.

Pain in my head, in my eyes, in my throat, in my chest, in my heart, on my back.

Dizzy. Very dizzy. My head is spinning as I move. Cannot take it far. Doubt I can stand, much less fight. Doubt I will even if I can. Nalyar, Orri: sister, son: family, family.

Still Orri. Must still be he, deep in there. Still my son. I will not allow it. He is mine. I will take him back, save him, save them.

But the men-that-are-not-my-family equals trap, cage, binding, perhaps slavery …

Cannot think. Cannot feel. Numb.

Glass tinkling near the floor; perhaps shards. Rustling; someone is scrambling. Light footsteps running away. Heavier footsteps pursuing. No no!

I lunge up to my feet and forward, following the noises, trying to. Have to get there. Have to stop it. Have to … do something; perhaps finish it once and for all – but how?

Too dizzy. I stagger, flail around wildly, grip something hard and cold – stone? I wretch, but nothing comes up into my mouth except bile. I swallow it back down past the lump in my throat. Must move forward. Must go on. Chase them. Stop them.

Loud roaring: maddened, drunk, furious. Never heard it. Does not sound like Orri at all. But his voice … Can always remember his voice.

I try, I do, I try, but a sob escapes my throat. Cannot say he is my son, not even to myself, not even in the language in which lying is possible.

My son is dead. He is not my son. I cannot believe it. I do not want to believe it. My son is still alive!

I lurch onward, regardless of anything, regardless of everything. Perhaps I am similarly mad. That would be fitting, no? But his not – no he is – not –

Open space. No crutch. Nothing to lean against. I stumble, pitch forward, catch myself just in time, stagger onward.

Sound of a booted foot hitting wood. Wood cracking, growled curses.

No female voice. No Nalyar.

That enraged roaring …

Nalyar is gone.

I … cannot believe it. I am happy. I am disappointed. I feel cold. I feel relieved. I feel betrayed. I feel … amazed.

A gurgling chuckle forces past my throat. Mad, mad, yes, perhaps I am mad.

But Nalyar is gone. Nalyar is free.

I am alone. I am alone with a not-son-but-still-son. I am alone … but who is he?

Recogniseable scent. Still the same. Smell blood still though. Is he wounded?

I reach out. He whirls. I cannot step back.

Pain on my forehead, struck by bony flesh.

Black. Nothingness.