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Lorelai rubbed her shaking hands over her face wearily. She'd tried very hard to keep a grip on it, but eventually she'd completely lost track of how much time had gone by. At least a week...but she feared the actual number of weeks would be enough to break her fragile grasp on control and let panic flood in.
Pulling her dirt-encrusted hands away from her face, she watched them for a time in the flickering firelight. Normally so deft, so nimble. She'd never met a lock she couldn't pick, a knot she couldn't untie. Now they trembled like the last autumn leaves in the last autumn breeze, still clinging stubbornly to the branches of the slumbering trees.
Clenching her hands into fists suddenly, she bit her lip in fury. Traitorous hands. Traitorous mind.
She released her lip before she drew blood, and sucked in a deep breath. It was unfair to place blame on her hands, on her mind. Their state wasn't their fault. It was just so much easier to blame some aspect of herself than to admit that things were so entirely out of her control.
She glanced down at her legs, hobbled to a large piece of wood for the night. Any other time, the idea of something as simple as being hobbled keeping her from escaping was hilarious. But that damned drug they kept giving her... It made almost everything impossible.
It stole her fingers' agility. It suffocated her reflexes, making her movements like that of an old woman. It shackled her mind's communication with her body, leaving only the essential functions intact. She felt a prisoner in her own body, her brain helpless to make her limbs do what they were told. Unless the orders were simplistic: walk, eat, sit, stand. Anything more complex than that and her body was unable to comply.
Worst of all, most panic-inducing of all, the drug completely, utterly, smothered her ranger abilities. She could not feel any animals, even the horses standing nearby. Their absence made her feel more alone than she'd ever felt in her entire life.
Zevran would know what it was if he were here, she was sure of that. Without her elven assassin, however, Lorelai was at loss as to what was coursing through her veins. Deep in the back of her mind, a frantic voice kept wondering if this...thing...they laced her food and drink with would hurt the baby. Even deeper, a bitter voice asked if there was even a baby to worry about anymore.
Lorelai wrapped her arms around her midsection tightly. She hadn't exactly obeyed Morrigan's commands to be careful and coddled, had she? But she hadn't been given much of a choice, either.
That day had decomposed into a messy blur. Though the drug left her mind mostly whole, it seemed to blur her short-term memory. She had no doubt that it was a contributing factor to her having lost track of time. She was normally very good at that sort of thing. If she could forget that day, however, it would be the only blessing the drug would grant.
She remembered the boy racing ahead of her, remembered trying to keep up without exerting herself too hard. She remembering thinking, good-naturedly, this pregnancy thing was already annoying; she couldn't even run.
She remembered the clearing, and the boy being no where in sight. She'd raised her voice, calling out to him. No response came to her.
Then they had come. Jacob's hackles had lifted a second before they showed themselves, materializing through the bushes like wraiths. They did not have the lecherous grin of bandits, or the smirk of practiced thieves. They did not smile, at all. Their faces had held nothing but determination. Nothing but purpose.
That was when she had known she was in trouble.
Jacob was off without a word, taking one man down just as a bolt from her crossbow buried itself in another's throat. As he crumbled soundlessly, the rest continued to advance.
The rest of the fight was lost in the fog of the drug. She remembered firing more bolts, maybe, while Jacob slaughtered whoever was in reach. She remembered being grabbed from behind, her crossbow being knocked out of her hands. She remembered Jacob beginning to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of men that just kept coming out of the brush.
Reaching out, even as her physical body struggled, she'd waded through the forest with her power. The nearby wolf pack, already alerted by all the commotion, was too perfect. It was within her to Call them all. The entire pack.
She'd just put the finishing touches on the Call, been ready to send it down the thread her mind had connected to the wolves' presences.
"Kill the mabari," a man had whispered.
Her concentration had shattered, snapping the fragile Call into a thousand pieces, as the men descended in a focused cluster. Jacob's snarls of anger and battle lust changed to howls of pain...then to cries of mortal injury.
She'd screamed then, a wordless wail of anguish. Their bodies blocked him from her view, and when his cries stopped altogether, she'd screamed again.
Someone had grabbed a fistful of her thick hair, wrenching her head back painfully. Before she'd been able to reason, to shut her mouth, they'd poured the nasty concoction down her throat. They'd ambushed her with it, and now it was either swallow or choke.
The effect had been immediate, as they'd known it would be. They released her from their hold, even before she'd finished her surprised, convulsive swallowing. She'd fallen to her knees as her legs turned to water. Smoke rolled over everything, and her ranger senses were crushed into silence beneath the weight.
The rest was well and truly lost. She vaguely remembered being carried, being thrown onto a horse with someone sitting behind her to keep her in the saddle. She had a sense of a cloak being tossed around her shoulders, of its hood being yanked over her head. They didn't need to make her keep her face down. She hadn't the strength to lift it, anyway.
Once everything had cleared and the smoke had eased away, and all the events had come rushing back to her, there'd been an ill-advised escape attempt. Actually, it had been more like a tavern brawl...if the person who started the brawl was so drunk they could barely stand.
She'd flailed, thrown wild punches, scrambled, fell, kicked, and screamed herself hoarse.
Once they'd gotten her under control, maintaining the same efficient silence they had in the clearing, they'd offered her food. It was only after she'd grudgingly eaten it, right as the smoke was descending again, that she'd realized how well-prepared these men were.
Starving herself would do no good. She had to eat. They knew it, and they knew she knew it. And so the perpetual cycle of the drug began.
"How are you feeling this evening, my lady?"
Lorelai stiffened immediately, glaring into the fire's light and refusing to look up at the man who'd approached. She knew his voice by heart, this apparent leader of the band. It was he who had bade the men to kill Jacob. If it was the last thing she did, she would slide one of her daggers into his heart.
"Still not talking to me, I see," he continued. "I understand your...reticence, but I assure you that we have everyone's best interests at heart."
Lorelai narrowed her eyes and occupied herself by counting the men ranged around the fire: twenty. She recounted them several times a day. It wasn't information she wanted to be lost into the depths of her mind where the drug shoved everything it could. Less than that had attacked her in the clearing, of course. She didn't know how many men had died that day, but it was surely several. No wonder they'd overpowered her...but that was no balm to pride like hers.
"I apologize for all the traveling, my lady. Unfortunately, it is necessary for the grand design that we spent quite a bit of time roaming the country before we settle down." He chuckled then. "Can't expect your husband to acquiesce to our request unless he's properly worried about you."
She turned her head, slowly, until her fierce gaze was burning a hole in the man standing over her. The central fire made him a silhouette, but his long hair moved in the fire-born breeze. Perhaps there was a shadow of stubble across his face, as well.
All this she took in subconsciously. Mental facts for later, pieces of an unknown puzzle.
"What...do you want?" she managed, struggling with the words in a completely alien way. The drug tried to twist her speech. It made talking in complex sentences difficult, but that seemed to be all it could do to a silver-tongued daughter of Highever.
"Oh, my lady, we ask for simple things, but everything will be made easier the more...pliant your husband is." He laughed again, as if this were some great joke. "Nothing makes a man more pliant than fear for his wife."
"He will...run you through," Lorelai snarled through gritted teeth, "as I...watch."
Smug arrogance rained down on her. "We shall see. Let me know if you have need of anything, my lady." He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her alone.
Clenching her fists again, she tried to breathe evenly, calmly. It wasn't working. Anger wracked her impotent body, even as she swallowed the scream of frustration that tried to boil up. Her instincts demanded that she gut those trying to harm Alistair, even though it was only psychologically, emotionally. It didn't matter. Hurt was hurt. And hurt he would be.
She felt it coming. The scream wasn't going to be contained. She was going to cause a scene, and they would make a fuss over their prize.
Let them. It would give her vicious satisfaction to watch them flutter around her like a flock of nervous birds.
Instead of screaming, however, she vomited onto the grass next to her.
She dragged the back of a shaking hand across her mouth, then had to clamp it closed over the strained laughter that tried to escape. Perhaps she was being overly hopeful...but perhaps all was not lost. Who said morning sickness had to happen in the morning?
They mustn't know. Not ever.
Tomorrow, she'd ask the despicable leader for looser clothes, large dresses. Her armor wasn't doing her any more good, anyway. They certainly weren't going to kill her. Not until they had what they wanted.
Damn them and their damn horses.
Nathaniel threw his pack down in disgust and leaned against a nearby tree in exhaustion. The pace he was setting was brutal, and he worried about the mabari's condition as Jacob panted and wheezed, but he had no choice.
It was taking its toll as the days bled into weeks.
Catching up was impossible; he had been forced to admit that to himself one the second or third night. He wished he could tell Sigrun; she'd be happy to know she didn't have to worry about him trying to be a hero. Nathaniel supposed it was better, in the end. It kept him from getting himself or the Commander killed.
However, he must not lose the trail.
If he got a horse to speed up his pursuit, the element of surprise would be ruined. So he had to stay on foot. With those bastards galloping farther and farther away every minute, he had to strain his body to the brink to keep the trail from going cold. Just a few hours of sleep, meals eaten on the run.
He tried to stop for Jacob, to let the dog rest. Jacob had refused, tugging on Nathaniel's shirt when he'd sat down, urging him up as if to say, "Break? I don't need a break."
And now, swimming in pale moonlight, it was time for another brief stop. He didn't bother to eat, he could do that on the move. Ill-temperedly punching his pack into a shape more resembling a pillow as Jacob curled up next to him, Nathaniel Howe closed his eyes and was immediately asleep.