He managed to focus his eyes just enough to see the person who had
gripped and twisted his arms violently behind him. A Tibestian. There
were others. Mismatched cloth. Mercenaries. A chill gripped him. He
wrenched his arms free and pushed against the heaviness in the middle of
his back and kicked at another. He bolted toward the door, but flames
consumed his home beyond its frame. Bodies were entangled in melee. Four
of them. Bursts of light blinked in his head. He stumbled and fell. His
face was forced against the cool floor. His head swam in a murk. Hands
subdued him, restrained him, gagged him.
He blinked and was alone. Lethargy and heat bore against his body. His head ached. He twisted his neck and peered out of his room. Bodies were in the flames. Two still stood. Their movements were a blur. Blades flashed.
Smoke. It consumed his room and fueled his fear, his panic, his body to fight against the ropes which bound him. His eyes burned; his lungs. Each breath he took, he sucked in the black smoke. Flames crackled in his head. His muffled cries did nothing to ward death. It came to him softly, gently, pulling his lids to close. To sleep.
He was floating. No, he was being dragged across the floor. His binds were cut, but he lacked the strength to move. He coughed listlessly as he was pulled out of his room and his home. The morning air was cold, but it spurred life into his labored breaths, into his body. He was hauled to his feet.
"Get up! Move!" A voice shouted. The person took off toward a carriage which thundered toward them.
He complied and followed, but his knees folded under him. He regained his footing and leapt at the carriage. He misjudged and his right shoulder struck the door. He gripped the frame with his left hand. The man who saved him, hoisted him in.
Dim light enveloped them.
He could barely sit erect let alone fight off the hands which jerked at his collar. The Tibestian hollered over the noise of the carriage, but the words did not penetrate the fog in his head.
The ride lurched. The pounding in his head became unbearable. His throat burned. A wheel struck a rock and the carriage tilted violently. His stomach retched.
A window exploded. The curtain over it, torn away. Light poured in. It brightened with the opened door.
A mercenary. They persisted.
The carriage jostled and he was tossed to the floor.
The Tibestian in the carriage faltered, regained his footing, and kicked at the other until the door dropped from view. "How many were there?" He leaned out.
Owen coughed. "I don't know."
"I think that's the last of them." Heaving him to his seat, he asked, "Are you hurt?"
His bloodied arm throbbed and hung at his side. His eyes still burned from the smoke. Every fiber in his body threatened to crumble. He shook his head.
In spite of his fatigue, the clear air allowed him to focus, though only sporadically. The Tibestian was clothed in a blue, sleeveless coat. The bands which encircled the pale sleeves of his tunic marked his rank. He finally recognized him. "Ealdwine Belenus." His throat burned.
The Court officer nodded, but said nothing.
Owen did not dislike the youngest of the Belenus brood. Neither did he feel any obligations of kindness toward the officer, but at that moment, he had come to appreciate him. He leaned his head back, felt his body ease into the seat and diverted his gaze through the missing door. He could not understand all the events of the morning, but he knew someone had wanted him dead. He had accepted it. Overcome with exhaustion and smoke, he could not gather himself to question where the officer was taking him. He was only grateful to be alive.
When the rumble of the wheels against the cobbled streets turned to the grind of pebbles and dirt, he was jolted awake. His headache had dulled, replaced by a deep throb in his shoulder. He had been laid flat and his arm was slung with a blue sash.
"You dislocated your shoulder. I did my best to set it," Ealdwine said. "Did you see them?"
Owen shook his head. "Barely. They were mercenaries."
Ealdwine nodded. "You're safe now."
"What did they want?"
"It's obvious what they wanted."
"I've done everything the Court asked. How did they find me?"
Ealdwine did not reply.
He sighed a ragged breath and followed Ealdwine's gaze to a residence. A spacious cottage amidst a field of wild grass and flowers.
"You can no longer stay here." Tenseness eased from Ealdwine's eyes and the corners of his lips. Then with nothing, but frankness, he simply said, "Farewell."
The covered vestibule to the sweeping cottage wrapped around the entirety of construct. In it were two persons. One in a wheeled chair and the other stood by the door. The attendant's visage was concealed by a cloth similar to the Sisterhood veil. The person in the chair, draped with a white, stained cloth from head to toe, had one recognizable article. A thick, silver ring was on his boney finger. The image of a lion's head was etched into a white stone set upon the ring.
Five steps from the vestibule, Owen dropped to his knees and sat on his heels before he pressed his palm into the dirt path. He brought his head down to meet his hand. It was a gesture he had never performed before.
"Rise and approach." The ragged and feeble words conjured no visceral reaction. "Walk with me."
They proceeded to the rear of the cottage where trees and fields dotted with the vibrancy and color of early summer, unfurled.
He blinked and was alone. Lethargy and heat bore against his body. His head ached. He twisted his neck and peered out of his room. Bodies were in the flames. Two still stood. Their movements were a blur. Blades flashed.
Smoke. It consumed his room and fueled his fear, his panic, his body to fight against the ropes which bound him. His eyes burned; his lungs. Each breath he took, he sucked in the black smoke. Flames crackled in his head. His muffled cries did nothing to ward death. It came to him softly, gently, pulling his lids to close. To sleep.
He was floating. No, he was being dragged across the floor. His binds were cut, but he lacked the strength to move. He coughed listlessly as he was pulled out of his room and his home. The morning air was cold, but it spurred life into his labored breaths, into his body. He was hauled to his feet.
"Get up! Move!" A voice shouted. The person took off toward a carriage which thundered toward them.
He complied and followed, but his knees folded under him. He regained his footing and leapt at the carriage. He misjudged and his right shoulder struck the door. He gripped the frame with his left hand. The man who saved him, hoisted him in.
Dim light enveloped them.
He could barely sit erect let alone fight off the hands which jerked at his collar. The Tibestian hollered over the noise of the carriage, but the words did not penetrate the fog in his head.
The ride lurched. The pounding in his head became unbearable. His throat burned. A wheel struck a rock and the carriage tilted violently. His stomach retched.
A window exploded. The curtain over it, torn away. Light poured in. It brightened with the opened door.
A mercenary. They persisted.
The carriage jostled and he was tossed to the floor.
The Tibestian in the carriage faltered, regained his footing, and kicked at the other until the door dropped from view. "How many were there?" He leaned out.
Owen coughed. "I don't know."
"I think that's the last of them." Heaving him to his seat, he asked, "Are you hurt?"
His bloodied arm throbbed and hung at his side. His eyes still burned from the smoke. Every fiber in his body threatened to crumble. He shook his head.
In spite of his fatigue, the clear air allowed him to focus, though only sporadically. The Tibestian was clothed in a blue, sleeveless coat. The bands which encircled the pale sleeves of his tunic marked his rank. He finally recognized him. "Ealdwine Belenus." His throat burned.
The Court officer nodded, but said nothing.
Owen did not dislike the youngest of the Belenus brood. Neither did he feel any obligations of kindness toward the officer, but at that moment, he had come to appreciate him. He leaned his head back, felt his body ease into the seat and diverted his gaze through the missing door. He could not understand all the events of the morning, but he knew someone had wanted him dead. He had accepted it. Overcome with exhaustion and smoke, he could not gather himself to question where the officer was taking him. He was only grateful to be alive.
When the rumble of the wheels against the cobbled streets turned to the grind of pebbles and dirt, he was jolted awake. His headache had dulled, replaced by a deep throb in his shoulder. He had been laid flat and his arm was slung with a blue sash.
"You dislocated your shoulder. I did my best to set it," Ealdwine said. "Did you see them?"
Owen shook his head. "Barely. They were mercenaries."
Ealdwine nodded. "You're safe now."
"What did they want?"
"It's obvious what they wanted."
"I've done everything the Court asked. How did they find me?"
Ealdwine did not reply.
He sighed a ragged breath and followed Ealdwine's gaze to a residence. A spacious cottage amidst a field of wild grass and flowers.
"You can no longer stay here." Tenseness eased from Ealdwine's eyes and the corners of his lips. Then with nothing, but frankness, he simply said, "Farewell."
The covered vestibule to the sweeping cottage wrapped around the entirety of construct. In it were two persons. One in a wheeled chair and the other stood by the door. The attendant's visage was concealed by a cloth similar to the Sisterhood veil. The person in the chair, draped with a white, stained cloth from head to toe, had one recognizable article. A thick, silver ring was on his boney finger. The image of a lion's head was etched into a white stone set upon the ring.
Five steps from the vestibule, Owen dropped to his knees and sat on his heels before he pressed his palm into the dirt path. He brought his head down to meet his hand. It was a gesture he had never performed before.
"Rise and approach." The ragged and feeble words conjured no visceral reaction. "Walk with me."
They proceeded to the rear of the cottage where trees and fields dotted with the vibrancy and color of early summer, unfurled.
by Jade Saelee
Read the complete version here: Owen and the Thaumaturge
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