He noticed first the stump where his arm used to be.
Llewyn opened his mouth to scream but only a feint gurgle escaped. A blurry darkness strangled his vision. He saw blood and snow and felt something thrum ahead. The boy fell into a deep sleep.
*
Llewyn awoke to his body entombed in wraps. Every breath laboured; his eyes watered. The arm on his right, gone but for a stump below the elbow. He moaned, shaking his head. Wind blew through the chamber and his skin reacted. It burned. The boy writhed silently. Every movement depleted his energy, as if running up a snow hill.
A figure hunched and leaning on a stick titled its head.
Tears slid down Llewyn's scarred face.
"Not the face of a boy." The figure said, his voice gravely. "Not anymore." It echoed around the small
chamber. Limestone bricks made up the walls. A firepit flickered at the centre. He stepped out of the shadow; the orange glow of flame flickered over his body. He extended a leathery hand. "Do not writhe. The pain will only multiply."
Llewyn writhed.
The pain did multiply.
The boy gritted his teeth and slammed shut his watery eyes.
"Slow to learn." The old man shook his head.
His flesh never stopped simmering. After laying still for a few moments the burning still kissed his flesh
and stung. They both remained that way for a time. Llewyn not learning, writhing in pain, and the old man hunched and leaning on his stick, watching. The boy lifted his head, straining. He looked down upon his bandaged body, and to the side.
"My arm." He croaked.
"Gone." The old man said. He turned and walked to the fire, poking it with his stick. Embers floundered around. "Nothing left of it." His tired face met the boy's. "Nothing left of you."
Llewyn moaned. The tears burned his cheeks, making him wince. He laid silent.
The wind fluttered the old man's robes. He brandished Llewyn's dagger, a fresh crack ran down its wooden hilt. "Deft of you to kill it."
Llewyn paid no attention to the man who would become his teacher. He paid no thoughts to his family, his home, or even the beast he supposedly felled. His eyes stared at the stump. Stared at where there used to be an arm. It tingled. He closed his eyes and felt the arm laying on the soft bed beneath him. He could move his fingers again, could feel the breeze gently caressing it. Excitedly the boy opened his eyes. Nothing.
The old man shook his head and placed the dagger by the bed. He sat down in front of the fire and closed his eyes.
The thrumming returned; the embers swirled around the old man's form. The boy drifted once more to sleep.
**
"Where else would he be?" A gruff voice that belonged to the man that would haunt Llewyn's dreams echoed outside the chamber.
He opened his eyes. He laid in darkness, the firepit smouldered, a smoky stench wafted around the room. "Perhaps look to the land, a deft thing, to survive it." The old man's voice joined the other.
"Speak plain." The gruff voice said.
Llewyn winced, lifting himself up. Bolts of hot pain bounced across his body as he moved. A shaft of
moonlight lit the exit to room. A white square of light just ahead of it. Llewyn eyed it and there decided to escape. A foolish move, the gruff voice didn't come alone. Indeed, an army accompanied it.
Llewyn didn't know that. A scared boy, he knew only flight.
"I don't know how plainer I could be." The old man said lightly.
Llewyn gritted his teeth and rose to his feet, wobbling. His legs almost buckled, thin and wrapped in
bandages. He looked back at the simple brown cot, a deep depression where he laid. How long...? "Lord." The gruff voice said.
"Lord?" The old man asked.
"I am Lord, you end your sentences with it when addressing me."
That's how Llewyn came to know Lord. He hopped over to his possessions, arranged neatly in a corner. He shoved everything into his bag and slipped into his shirt, struggling with only one arm. Too slow, he fumbled and dropped things. His waterskin clattered softly on the stone.
"Yes, Lord." The old man said. "There is someone there." Lord said.
"You are not permitted." The old man spoke hard, his voice unwavering.
Llewyn's heart bounded in his chest, he threw on his cowskin coat, his flesh stinging with the heavy cloth over it. Looking to the door, the boy limped and climbed the steps. His pack slung over his back.
"I permit all." Lord said.
Llewyn exited the chamber and found himself staring at a cloister of tall trees flanked by deep snow. He looked back as he limped. A stone entrance hewn into a cliffside wall, atop it loomed a small tower. Lopsided and crumbling. Figures stood around it. Some held torches.
"There!" A voice shouted, distant and high.
"Pursue." Lord said.
Llewyn heard Lord clearly, despite the distance. He drove himself through the snow, his body exploding
with pain. The twin moons lit the forest canopy, Llewyn waded and pushed himself, his legs burning.
He stumbled forward and his pack flew off his shoulder. He landed on his stomach and squealed, the
snow like fire, stinging his body.
"Lifeless," Lord's voice echoed in his skull, "spurned," deep footsteps thudded in the snow ahead, "ill-
made."
Llewyn reached for his pack and for the first time saw Lord.
The thing stepped into the moons light. Its alabaster armour glinted; its cloak drifted in the breezeless
night. Its face obscured by a circular helmet with a single, white unblinking eye in the centre. Each step echoed in the night. Deep thuds that reached down into the bowels of the world.
"Words your township described you with." Lord said. And with that he raised a gauntlet and Llewyn screamed.