One
He becomes aware of light before the pain strikes him. And when it does, light is not welcome anymore, but blinding and robbing him of all his other senses. For how long it tears mercilessly at him he cannot tell, but the only part of his body that he can feel thus far is his head, which explodes with agony. He prays for unconsciousness to a god he cannot remember and he cannot form enough thought to thank him before he succumbs to darkness once more.
He does not dare open his eyes this time, because even if he cannot recall the searing pain, his subconscious does and thus it thwarts the action before it happens. The pain is still there, although somewhat dulled and he forces his eyes open, in a surge of courage. But light fails to hit him and he stares open-eyed into darkness while fear creeps into his bones.
He cannot see.
By the gods, I've gone blind, he thinks and panic spreads through him unstoppable. He thrashes about like a madman, screaming incessantly until he feels many pairs of arms wrestling him down. A cup is pressed to his lips. In spite of himself, he drinks a gulp, but spits the next out defiantly. It tastes vile. The din of voices around him speak a language he cannot understand and terror grips him anew when he feels his wrists and ankles looped into bonds that now secure him to the bed where he lays.
He screams again - every curse he can think of, even though a part of him suspects that those around him might not understand a word he's saying. The pain in his wounds increases with every word he utters until once more - and gratefully - he is drawn back into the abyss.
The next time he wakes up he knows that he has not lost his sight. The bandage that covers his eyes and head is carefully removed and, although his vision is a little blurred, he can discern a face close to his: a girl with sad painted eyes and long dark hair. With infinitely gentle hands, she presses a wet cloth to what he supposes is a wound to his head, because pain makes itself known immediately and blots out everything else. He almost loses consciousness again, but somehow becomes aware of the soft clucking sound that the girl is making. It soothes him inexplicably and keeps him from passing out.
He remembers his bonds and tests them, tugging gently. The girl scoots away, water bowl flying, letting out a squeal. It is then that he notices the bare torso and he realizes that his care-giver is in fact a young boy, barely in his teens. He tries to say something reassuring, but fails anything above a coarse whisper. He cannot recognize his own voice.
Over what he thinks are the next few days, he drifts in and out of consciousness, his despondence and fear increasing with each waking moment. Every time he awakens he sinks deeper into despair: no matter the effort he cannot even remember his own name. He feels spent and hollowed or enraged and homicidal. Never anything in between.
His only anchor is the boy with painted eyes who tends to his wounds twice a day, gently and efficiently, though in complete silence. He lets the boy go about his business, because more often than not, he feels removed from his own body. The best way - he has decided in a moment of rare lucidity - is to regain his strength before he can begin look for answers. Apart from his head wound, there is a cut on his upper stomach and a gash in his leg, none of which look as dangerous as they are unsightly.
How many days or weeks have I lain here, he wonders.
With signs repeated many times over and with even more exasperation, he has somehow managed to convey the question to the boy who eventually held up his hands, showing his fingers. Eight, he knows now. But whether it is weeks or days, he doesn't know.
It is not long before he can tell the days apart from the nights, when the pain in his wounds becomes bearable enough for him to take account of his surroundings.
A while back, men had come to him in the night and undid his bonds. He had not let on that he was awake but had known that he was too weak to try and take them on. He counted four separate sets of hands severing the ties around his limbs. That led him to think that they did not fear him yet they were wary to come in alone.
The only certainty to him is that he is not on friendly ground. That he is a captive is no longer something he questions. They care for him, feed him and never interrupt his frequent slumbers. Yet he is aware that unseen eyes watch him every moment.
And where in the first days he has enjoyed dreamless, forgetful sleep, he now has violent, vivid visions. Crimson splatters every image of battle and killing and while he fights for his life, he tries to recognize the faces of the other combatants, to acknowledge the difference between friend and foe. He wakes up drenched in sweat, batting at the empty air, screaming a name that over the past few nights has plagued his nightmares. Always the boy is there with a cup of water or soothing hands that massage him back to sleep. But the name lingers in his mind even after slumber reclaims him.
Alexander.
Could that be his own name, he wonders.
He must be a soldier - that much he had gleaned from the repetitive dreams. It is entirely believable that he has seen long years of battle, because he can count scars, some more recent than others. They adorn his body like the bracelets and chains on his silent attendant.
His surroundings and the moderate luxury he enjoys confirm his suspicion that he must be an officer of sorts. Of what standing, he cannot tell, but it is only logical to assume that he would be one of the high command – of whatever army. A common soldier would have been treated with a lot less care.
But the long days of solitude start to gnaw at him eventually and he craves to talk to someone. He knows that he cannot talk to himself, because even if his language is unknown to most of his captors, there will be at least one who would know it. He wants to keep his afflicted memory from them. Even more, he does not wish to give away any secrets that might still be locked inside that prison that is his mind.
A prison more frightful than the one where he is being kept by his guardians.
For the first time since he regained consciousness, he adventures out of bed. However, when it comes to it, he realizes that putting his whole weight onto his feet proves more strenuous business than he has initially assumed. The instant he stands, light-headedness makes his knees buckle. He keels over only to be caught, with great effort, by the boy, who has appeared out of nowhere. Gritting his teeth against the disgrace of it, he steadies himself slowly, accepting the help and muttering a grudging word of thanks. When he tries to take a few steps and the boy wants to offer his arm for support, he quickly waves him away. It is as far as he would accept aid and the boy withdraws, allowing him his dignity.
He would take those few steps by himself if it kills him. The wound across his stomach, though not overly severe, tugs painfully as he tries to walk and he feels as if his entrails would spill out. But he keeps moving under the boy's watchful eye, until he reaches the tent exit. He pulls it aside and is confronted by a guard, who, after a moment's shock, barks something at another and instantly bars the way out.
Painfully, and nauseated from the effort, he drags himself back to his bed and accepts gratefully the hot drink proffered by the boy. He smiles to himself. The little incursion had not been entirely without gain. Before the guard pushed him gently but firmly back into the tent, he had time to sweep a gaze across what he now knew was a camp of high tents, stretching all the way up a hill. Thousands must be contained in here, he reckons. Double or treble that for what he has not yet been able to see.
A voice calling outside has the boy dashing at once. Urgent orders are issued and he rushes back into the tent in a flurry of movement with a mass of silken material in his arms. He unfolds it, beckoning the man to put up his arms and before he can protest, the boy has swept the material over his head and he is now wearing a strange garment, long and flowing. Like a robe women would wear. He is ready to voice his disapproval when the boy, the tent and everything else disappears.
Instead, he sees raw green rolling hills and a well-tended, though not overly luxurious garden. He watches from a window and he knows that is where his bedroom is. In the garden, a boy with bright hair tends to his horse, a breathtaking black stallion. He turns towards the window and waves at him. Instinctively, he waves back. He cannot tell who the face belongs to – he is too far – but he can almost feel the other one smile.
A gentle tug on his robe hauls him back to reality. He reacts before he is even aware of it. His hand shoots out, grabbing the intruding arm and twisting it viciously. The boy whimpers as his thin arm is almost wrenched free of its socket by the much bigger and powerfully built man. Suddenly aware and ashamed of his own action, he lets go. Glancing at the boy, he feels guilty for the needless violence he has just inflicted and wishes to express some sort of an apology, but in the next instant he becomes aware of eyes on him.
Four other men are standing in the tent, staring at him silently. Two of them are guards and their spears are at the ready. The other two wear lavish robes and gold rings on their fingers. The one is tall and brooding. The other has small beady eyes and looks somewhat daunted by the scene he has just witnessed. It is this one who speaks first, carefully and haltingly.
'Lord Hephaistion Amyntor, you have been summoned to appear before the Great King Darius.'
TBC