"Pick it up, Yaldson."
I know that voice. Isn't that-
"Can't you hear? I said, 'Pick. It. Up!"
The pain that follows his command isn't as sharp as I expected, but still leaves that same ache in my stomach. I open my eyes, lift my head, and rest my chin in the mud. The butt of a hilt lay just out of reach. Where am I?
"Maybe he's finally given up, yeah?"
"Oh, what a bore."
"I say, 'good riddance'. Won't have to be dealing with his pitiful attempts to get my Ann anymore, right?"
One of the boys chuckles. I realize he's crouched down beside me when my head gets pulled back. The grip he has on my hair is tight, but I can still feel some strands slip away. Unforgiving sunlight mixed with the constant tugging at my scalp makes my head pound.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"
It's him. It's Einar. Why is he here?
"Answer me, Yaldson."
I bite my lip until the taste of iron begins to coat my mouth. Then I spit. He scrambles back in surprise, letting my head hit the ground with a hard thud. "Fucking mutt," I hear him grumble. My focus returns to that old sword. My schoolmaster had given it to me. I was so close. Another kick to the stomach distracts me from the only goal I have: survive. I'm pushed onto my side.
"Answer me!"
I can't give in to the pain. I have to make it. I have to do everything I can. Another kick comes, but to my back. Some sort of sound escapes me, rewarded by laughter from my peers. I hide my head under my arms. They're taking turns, I think. It's just a game for them. Maybe if I curl up they'll think I'm dead. Maybe the game won't be fun anymore.
"Get off of him!"
It's a small voice. Off in the distance, maybe? It sounds so familiar.
"Stop!"
No, it couldn't be. Maybe I've just begun to hallucinate some sort of savior. This is just how pathetic I am.
"I said, 'STOP!"
They stop, but I don't move. What if it's all some sort of ploy? Another part of the game? I can't be sure. The ground is too soft for me to hear movement. Or, maybe, the aching is just too much for me to really focus on anything else. All I can hear is panting, which grows closer. Is he out of breath?
"Hey, are you okay?"
I don't respond. Are the others still here? I can't hear much. A light breeze blows past and I can faintly catch the smell of salt. We're all the way out near the coast?
"Come on, don't give up now."
A hand rests itself on my shoulder. I flinch at the sensation of a soft touch, but it doesn't budge. I'm shaken, lightly, as if he thinks I'm only sleeping. I know he doesn't, and I'm sure he knows I'm not.
"Hey."
The shaking is getting more aggressive, but it's hurting less and less.
"We're almost there."
Almost there? Almost where? I uncover my head and look up. The sky is of a green like pears, the land is no longer, and there is no savior.
"Yorick."
He awakened, then, to the voice of Henrietta. Swiveling in his seat, he saw the ocean behind him. Oh, that's right. We're taking a carriage home. To his right was the priestess, who still had her hand on his shoulder. It recedes once she realizes he is finally awake. Across from them both is Sir Van Amstel. He rests his chin on his arms, which are tossed lazily over the hilt of the sword he planted upright between his legs.
"Did you rest well?"
The boy hesitated. It was as if he had fallen asleep and woken moments later. His body felt sore and his head was pounding. I had some sort of dream, didn't I? He tried to recall it, but to no avail. "Yes, I did."
She did not respond.
"Are you blind?"
The silence continued. That might have been… improper. Hopefully she doesn't thi-
"I am," she answered, which eased his worry about her thinking him rude for being so forward about the idea. "It is a dreadful disease I suffer from, but it was my fate. Just as this is. He knows me, and so he has bestowed this upon me."
"So you are not ashamed?"
"Ashamed? No."
"But you keep it hidden."
"Many do not wish to look upon festering wounds. Wearing this hood is simply a courtesy to those around me."
The sun was shrouded by clouds, keeping the ocean breeze a cold that was much more than simply refreshing. Just how terrible is this disease? Is it something I might also get? Yorick had a difficult time thinking only about the details of what might horrify him underneath that hood. His mind wandered back to their earlier conversation, in which Henrietta had refused to tell him more about what she called, "Illud Putrem". Instead, she had led the conversation towards the academy, and how Yorick was feeling. He still wasn't too sure about the events taking place, which led to a quiet hike. He had grown used to that, and almost preferred it over speaking with the priestess. She acts like there's nothing to worry about. Can anyone let go of freedom so easily? Maybe a small loss here and there, but this is extreme. How does she know she won't become one of those… putrem? How am I supposed to trust her?
He looked over the side of the carriage, through the whirling dust below, attempting to stare directly into The Oleg itself. He knew who sat there, waiting for him to complete this journey. How am I supposed to trust you?