Stranger in a familiar land

[Adrian Kane]

Arikan

It was cold. Cold deeper than standing wet in the snow. A cold that drilled to the bone and made him shake uncontrollably at times. Enough that the twitching muscles and spasming limbs yanked him from the edge of oblivion that was sleep. The blanket was ice during those hours, or days, or however long passed in that donkey stall. And the great Dreadlord Arikan would have burrowed deeper into the hay if he could dig down any further.

He barely noticed the touch to his forehead. The wife came back a few times with more water, but soon he flat out ignored her and grumbled about being left alone. So when a different kind of hand reached out, his jaw clenched tight at the touch, he thought a tooth might break off.  When saidar invaded his skin, one almost did. He opened his eyes to see who dared.

Flaming red hair bright as a torch filled the view, and instinct made him react. To jump her sack of shit bones and return to her some of what he felt that very moment. The One Power’s shield was already broken, but amid the shatters he would not be able to grab hold of it lest it rip his soul to shreds, but in the heat of that moment, he seriously considered the sacrifice to be worth it. Self-preservation won the day, though, and all he managed was a pathetic jerk of the body instead. One that fell back into the hay as the shudders rippled fresh and strong.

The view focused. It wasn’t Lythia, he realized after her voice filtered muffled ears. Whoever it was, her declaration about being too weak for healing was no shocking revelation either. As much as he wanted to spit on the Source and dare it to even try and kill him, he hadn’t escaped only to find defeat in a disgusting donkey barn. None too pleased with being disturbed, he participated in some of the actions required to move locations, but losing the blanket and the warmth of the nest flushed fresh cold, and the shivers were stronger than even his mighty will. It was an arduous journey. Finding himself before another slab registered, and he eyed it warily. No chains, no straps. He eventually submitted to rolling up in the fetal position after a few moments’ consideration. The blanket was a poor aid for warmth, but soon he drifted into that blessed oblivion, the one beyond the realm of sleep and dreams and let them go about their business.

Except they kept picking at him. Little nibbles and stings. Pricks and pulls. It roused him awake more than once. Curses and other savories frothed from red lips on the regular, but their bite was less about the pain and mostly for being woken. And that blasted cold.

During one such annoying interlude, the girl, an Aes Sedai he had managed to discern from the ugly ring on her finger, put a cup to his lips. Medicinal, woodsy, and layered with the syrupy film of sick sweetness. He recognized the taste immediately, and suddenly all-too-aware eyes flashed their silent accusation of poison.

“No,” was all he managed to say. He turned his head away, but her weak grip overpowered him, absurd for how easy it was, and the swallows came else he choke on what literally she poured down his throat. It wasn’t his first time being poisoned, and hatred stared her down for it anyway.