Lightblessed

“Your curiosity has done you no favors, Prandag. You have lost Light’s sanction. You are a pagan. By giving in to these voices and using the powers of the elements, you have lost sight of your purpose. Your actions are abhorrent to Life, and to the Light. The Eternal Light is stripped away, and you shall suffer the judgement of the Light.” - Artur Stark’s final declaration to prisoner and former High Illuminari of Praxoenn, Prandag Lightblessed, just before her execution in the Light

***

Trynneia watched Old Chet try his best to ward off the first blow, but his arm only feebly deflected the hatchet, which took its ration of flesh in return. Her protector did not scream; the spear through his gut stole his energy and crippled his legs. The man raised the hatchet again, and she yelled “Stop!” as others came out of the trees into the clearing from behind her.

Someone cupped her mouth, and she bit down, tasting blood. The hand gripped harder, pulling her back against someone, and Trynneia felt cold steel against her throat. She watched in terror as the hatchet fell again, and again, and Old Chet’s head was removed. Slate gray eyes turned to her as the man wiped his face while she replayed the scene in her head. It felt like watching her mother die all over again.

The man approached, dangling the innkeeper’s head carelessly from his left hand. Trynneia felt her hot tears collect about her cheeks and roll off her captor’s hand. He thrust Old Chet into her face. She turned her head, but felt sickly wet drops fall upon her blouse.

“This honorable fool. What was he to you? A father? Lover? No matter. He misunderstood all this.” With callous abandon, he looked down on it, and tossed it away. She listened to it land with a wet thud. “Your boyfriend’s almost gone,” he whispered seductively in her ear. “If you are who we think you are, you can save him,” he urged.

They marched her over to Ditan, and threw her down. Nothing else happened, no words spoken. She rolled him over, cradling his body in her lap. The sickening puncture wound was blackened with dry blood, and leaves clustered all over him. Trynneia removed the hood from him, and his eyes stared sightlessly, pupils fixed and unresponsive. “Please don’t be dead, Ditan, please,” she whispered. As if in response, his aura flickered several different colors, almost imperceptible, if she hadn’t started learning what to look for.

“Oh no, looks like you were too late,” the man cooed in mockery. “Seems like everyone you touch dies, Trynneia.” He leaned in to emphasize his point. “Everyone.”

Trynneia placed her palm on Ditan’s wound. She winced, but felt something, like bone or a jagged piece of the spear left behind. Cradling his head, she pressed the wound and her runes burst forth, streaming deep metallic gold through the clearing. The others stopped disposing of Old Chet’s body, and watched, their leader oddly interested.

Time seemed to slow down for her then, and a sensation akin to understanding flooded her. She perceived his body in a new manner, and directed light into the puncture. Warmth filled her, traveling down from her body into his. At her touch, his flesh knit itself together, and she felt her strength ebb. Trynneia directed the light, though more it felt like guidance or focus than any conscious effort. Intuition, Ditan had called it, the willful control of the elements. Yet this felt more purposeful, and innate to her.

A more natural green color returned to the goblin’s flesh, and he began to blink. Her efforts shifted to his left wrist, where his hand had been taken. The aura flicked off as black wisps, and she understood it had been too long. Ditan’s self-cauterization flaked off, leaving behind a well-formed scar as the underlying bone structure bent together to form a hardened nub instead of shattered bones.

Ditan smiled at her and she slumped, her energy spent. Trynneia’s runes went dark, and the leering leader brutally punched her in the temple, knocking her out. He turned to the goblin and smiled. “Looks like you’ve got a dear friend here, goblin. Since we’re going to be best friends from here on out, let me introduce myself. I’m Modius.” He smashed the butt end of his spear into Ditan’s mouth, shattering his jaw and knocking free several teeth, then put the hood back over his head.

“Time to go,” he said.

Trynneia awoke sore, and found she couldn’t move. Her hands and feet had all been bound, and she laid on a hard floor that bounced. A hood made of scratchy burlap covered her head, and a soggy rag had been shoved in her mouth, which was bound by another piece of cloth. Her head ached most of all, and it felt like a spike drilled incessantly behind her left eye.

Keeping still, she listened to the clatter of wheels over dirt and rock, and heard the clop of hooves. She felt scared and alone, and this is what alerted her captors to her consciousness, as her runes slowly began to glow.

“Ah look, she’s comin’ to,” said a youthful male voice, followed by a swift kick to her gut. Trynneia tried to weeze, but the gag forced her to almost choke instead. “She’ll wish she’d ’a kept right on sleepin,” he continued.

“Leaver be, dolt. Lord Modius needs her whole. Beat the other one instead,” came a woman’s gravelly voice, older and more cruel. Trynneia gathered that she’d succeeded in healing Ditan. Her comfort in that fact crumbled when the man did indeed “beat the other one.”

Several swift thumps followed, and a groan that unmistakably was Ditan’s. Another loud crunch followed as the goblin’s head ricocheted off the floor.

“I said beat him, not kill him, Cron. He’s no good to us dead.” Trynneia heard a spitting sound. The woman chuckled “Never seen a gobby shaman. Worth a pretty bounty, I’m sure.”

Trynneia wept, hearing the brutalization of her friend. Her guards stayed silent as she laid there, and the journey continued for some time. Through the creaks and groans and the casual swaying of the wagon, she tried listening for any conversation. On the whole this group remained quiet.

Her mouth had gone dry, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, or drank. The rag sapped her of what moisture she had, and her lips felt dry as well. When she shut her eyes, she remembered Old Chet and Deputy Fant, and she silently blessed them, despite Fant’s cruelty towards them. Even Deputy Sule turned out alright in the end, and she hoped her village would be spared further pain now that she’d gone.

Now she tried to puzzle this out, but got nowhere. These people had hunted her, setting her up by murdering people she loved, and killing indiscriminately to have her banished. That seemed like a preposterous game, though it had happened within a few day’s time. An improbable series of events played into their hands, with the unwitting accomplices who had lost their lives trying to smuggle them to some form of freedom despite her and Ditan’s exile.

Part of her was pleased she’d managed to save Ditan, because she’d felt how close he was to death. Truly, he might have already been gone. She couldn’t know for sure. But he’d seen her, and smiled, then everything went black. He lived, but had she spared him, or sentenced her friend to a darker fate?

Now she faced new circumstances, held captive by a man of deep cruelty, and followers she felt were just as savage. She didn’t know this endgame. Their leader had seemed pleased she’d managed to heal her friend, but that was all she could understand. Now Rendrys, Driver, Deputy Fant, and Old Chet were dead on her account, as well as half her village.

How to recover from the guilt? It was a long time before she could fall asleep again.

“They both reek, throw ’em in.” Trynneia heard the words and a first splash, just before she dropped and hit water as well. The icy flow of fast-moving winter runoff shocked her fully awake and she began to shiver. She struggled to turn about with her head submerged while her arms and legs remained tied. Once more she found herself nude, but this time subject to the bath she’d requested jokingly of Old Chet.

Someone yanked her hair, pulling her head free of the water. At best she tried coughing through the cloth gag, then sucked on it to get any liquids she could. With the hood removed from her, she watched Ditan receiving similar treatment, though he’d been further brutalized.

His jaw hung askew, and he just looked lifeless as their handlers roughly scrubbed him as they did the same to her. Purple welts covered what she could see of his body, and his left eye was swollen shut. He brought up his hand briefly to ward off another strike even as they bathed him, and every finger had been broken. She was comparatively unharmed, and wondered at the difference.

“At least we’re not the ones scrubbin’ the fuggin’ waggin,” the old woman said. “It was bad enough havin’ to travel with these two layin’ in their own shite.” The scrubbing didn’t last long, and the old woman didn’t hide her distaste for the duty, using the mud and sand to scour Trynneia’s body before dunking her in again to rinse it off. Nodding curtly, they cut her leg bonds and escorted her back, not even bothering to dry her off. The water leaking down from her hair helped mask the tears she continued to fight as she observed the other man dragging Ditan back, his ankles clearly broken.

This cruelty, I never knew people could do this to someone, she thought. He’s nearly gone. Again. Trynneia’s stomach pinched acutely. At least she’d managed to swallow a few drops. Ditan’s mouth was ruined, and they didn’t even bother to gag him.

The old woman brought her to a campground where Modius sat on a small bench before a campfire. Several small animals were being turned on spits, roasting flesh burning in the evening. The man’s eyes twinkled in the firelight as he smiled at their return.

“I’ve never known someone who could sleep for days as well as you and your friend there. Don’t you worry, we’ll take good care of you,” he said. Trynneia didn’t enjoy the way his eyes lingered upon her body as they walked past. Another younger woman returned with her clothes and dumped them in the dirt, sopping wet.

“Don’tchu be gettin’ ideas,” the old woman said, untying her hands. “Dress.” Escape didn’t even enter her consideration, just the languid weakness and the desire to be dressed filling her thoughts. She eyed whatever was roasting eagerly as she put on her wet clothes. Ditan remained hidden from her sight.

“You’ve got spirit, I like that,” Modius said. “I’m Modius, I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself.” Trynneia jumped. She hadn’t noticed him approaching them. “Come warm yourself, and eat,” he offered, grabbing her lightly by the elbow and escorting her to the fire.

She went willingly, her base needs aching to be satisfied. Modius removed the gag with the admonition, “There’s no one here who cares if you yell, so no point in trying.” Trynneia crouched before the fire, feeling the waves of heat, and took one of the sticks of what looked to be a small rodent. She bit into it eagerly, burning her mouth as her teeth tore into charred flesh. It lacked flavor, but that suited her just fine. Food and heat were all that mattered.

“That’s enough, Trynneia, spare some for your friend. It’s taking him more time to reach us.” He pointed at a shape slowly crawling through to darkness, barely visible outside the warmth of the fire. Ditan struggled to pull himself with a mangled hand and stumpy arm. Someone next to him hooted and jeered, kicking his sides to make him hurry, knowing full well the young goblin could move no faster.

“Why do you do this?” She asked.

“He’s just a goblin. My friends want their sport,” Modius said nonchalantly, biting into a fruit. “It’s all in good fun.”

Trynneia went over and picked him up, surprised that no one stopped her. They’d not even given him the courtesy of clothing him, and he’d lost a lot of weight. How long have we been traveling? she thought. Cuts and abrasions highlighted the bruises, and she cried into his hair as she sat down with him in her lap in front of the fire.

He stared around, unable to focus on anything. “Ditan, it’s me, I’m here,” she said softly. Her voice cracked from disuse. He seemed like a child, scared and confused, completely broken by his treatment. Not the young man of an age with her.

“It amuses me you can still care for such things. Gobs aren’t even worth your time, you know,” Modius taunted. She tried to shut out his words.

Ditan’s aura seemed stronger today than the last time she’d had this opportunity. Why do they keep letting me do this, she wondered. The same intuition flooded her as her runes flared to metallic life. His aura shimmered opalescent as she touched his face. Muscle and bone slowly realigned and he croaked, “They’ll just hurt me again.” What strength she still had left flowed into him.

“Shh, just eat,” she whispered back, taking a spit from the fire. Trynneia gently blew on the rodent to cool it, and helped feed him. Her mind whirled. They needed to escape from this hell they found themselves in. Their captors were allowing them some respite now, but she knew it wouldn’t last, and Ditan would be mistreated again.

Modius stared across the flames at them, ill intent undisguised upon his face.