Bonds

I ducked against the back of the tree, heart pounding, gasping for breath, the pain screaming through my body barely masked by the pure heady rush of terror.

The baying of the hounds was closer, always closer. Sweet lady I’d been a fool, to actually think I could accomplish anything by running.
Three days now they’d been after me, and I’d managed to evade them. Three days since I’d managed to slip my chains and catch the night guardsman unaware. We were far from the city now, chasing through the woods and barrens. I had little idea of how much ground I'd covered, though I knew abstractly that there was a border in this direction.
I was flagging. No sleep, no food, just running and hiding and more running …it made me sweat despite the chill, despite the rain that was even now falling in a fine mist. Deceptive; it was just wet enough to soak me through by degrees, not so wet that my tormentors might decide to give up the chase.

The pounding hooves of my pursuers’ horses rang loud against the hard-packed earth and I began to sprint again, pressing through a break of thorny growth and tearing my flesh in a dozen new places. My back was a mass of pain that burned brightest at the shoulder, where the arrow had caught me, a shot aimed to wound and not to kill. The arrowhead was still lodged in my flesh, I hadn’t been able to pry it free- though Sweet Lady, I had tried. The feel of it was abjectly wrong… I knew how it had been crafted; in the dimly-remembered days of my freedom, my mentor had warned me of such things. The blood of fae creatures perverted through dark alchemy and bound to cold iron, crafted into devices like the collar I’d worn, like the knife that had been used to stab me in the back on the eve of my first capture, like the swords at my tormentors’ sides, like the tips of the arrows in their quivers. Cold, cruel objects that warped magic - drew it in and consumed it and grew all the more powerful for the energies they absorbed. Iron would have been painful and maddening alone, but this? The arrowhead made the magic flow from me slowly, like blood from a wound. Given enough time, I would die from the loss of it.

New pain made itself known in my legs, and I knew I’d stopped too long. I had to keep moving, for once I stopped I wouldn’t be able to go again for a very long time. I ran, with the hunters’ hounds chasing me, following my scent. They’d found my trail, they knew where I was. There was little hope now. I would be captured again, and probably flogged within a hair’s breadth of my life for this attempt at freedom, and then I would be returned to my cage to await whatever whim my master sought to fill by my power. The last time I’d attempted escape, my master had threatened to blind me if I tried it again. Did his son remember that threat? Would he carry it out, now that he was master?

There was a grassy plane ahead of me, rare patches of snow still clinging to the more shadowed parts of it. The forest to my left was impassible, tangled beyond even my navigation with dead grape vines and ivy. The hunters flanked me on the right and directly behind… and if I crossed the field one of them would surely pick me off with another arrow. I set my jaw and considered… the first hadn’t stopped me.

I came out into the open, and almost immediately I heard the telltale whistle, and blinding fire exploded in my back, making me stagger. It would not stop me. It would not…. I reach back and pulled it free, my hand coming away dark with blood.

My muscles were failing my by the time I reach the field’s midpoint, cramping and seizing. I stumbled over a grassy hillock, falling onto my side, panting heavily…the horn sounded again, and I heard voices this time.

I had to get up…had to…run…Just a little farther, then I could stop running, for a while at least. Just a bit farther…
I staggered across the endless grassy plane in front of me, dazed, spent far beyond my limits. I opened my eyes, unsure of when I’d closed them. I was on the ground again. There was a man on horseback coming toward me at a walk. He was coming from the wrong direction, the hunters were behind me…

I was senseless for a moment, then lay still, panting, fearing, trying for nothing more ambitious than keeping my wits about me…. The baying of the dogs and the cursing of human hunters rang loud in my ears…
I felt, more than heard, the rider dismount. I braced myself, expecting a kick or a bite from an overzealous hound. To feel my chin grasped in warm fingers and my face forced upward was the last thing I’d expected, and I offered no resistance whatever. The face that gazed back at me was pale, reddened in the cold wind. He wore no beard, which made him seem young, though he might have been as old as thirty. The hair that hung around his face was the shade of brown that bespoke blondeness in childhood, his eyes gray. It was these that I focused on, for they held something I’d come to think impossible in human eyes: compassion.

“An elf…” he said, his voice colored with surprise. I heard the hoof beats approaching, the dogs whining, and he released me again and stood.

And then so much talk….all I could do was listen, sickly grateful for even a brief reprieve. At least it was over. I’d failed wretchedly, and there would be punishment to come, but I hadn’t surrendered. I hadn’t given them that. Three days. A longer chase than I’d ever led them on before. At least I would know as I sat in my cage that I’d been free for three days.

"Who are you and what are you doing on my property,” the man in front of me said, his voice ringing sharply in the open air.

“Chasing that,” a cold voice replied, and my eyes searched wildly. Sweet Lady, HE was among them? Another jarring dismount, and I saw the vilest of my recent tormentors coming toward me. I scrambled away from him, a sound that could only be described as a whimper escaping my lips. I KNEW that one. Teadric, the lord's falconer. He came forward, standing beside the lead hunter, his eyes fixed on me with a look of hatred…and hunger. The stranger stepped moved to stand between the hunters and my prone body, and I felt a wash of relief.

"He's an escaped slave, sir, and a spirited one. It's not the first time he's tried,” the leader replied, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“Indeed,” the stranger said, his expression thoughtful. “I keep that which comes to me.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll let him go that easily,” my tormentor hissed, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Quite, Teadric,” the lead hunter said, his voice soft but carrying the sureness of command. He tuned back to the stranger. “I don’t know if he’s for sale, sir. He’s…not an average slave,” the man faltered. I opened my eyes again, looking back up at this stranger, wondering why my pursuers would show him such deference… he was dressed like a nobleman, an especially rich one at that.

“I’ve already discovered that he’s an elf, if that’s what you mean,” the nobleman scoffed.

“We were hired to fetch him back,” the hunter replied.
“And how much are you being paid?”

I moved to rise, determined it to be a wasted effort, and drew my knees up to my chin against the cold. Part of me still wanted to run, wanted to do anything but give in to these humans, who discussed my fate so casually in front of me, as if I were some chattel to be bought and sold. But a tiny flame of hope flickered in me now; this human might buy me, and so I might escape my master’s retibution. I would certainly escape Sir Teadric’s… attentions. Part of me simply wished for death, to release myself from such torment, to spite those who’d spent so much effort in my catching.

“We’ll each get five pieces of silver if we manage to bring the fae whelp back alive.”

“I’ll give you fifty pieces of gold to turn and leave and make no mention of this place,” the stranger replied with a startling coldness.

There was a gasp, and much chattering among them. The offer was absurd…fifty pieces of gold was more than my own price, and to laboring men, even such skilled hunters as these…

“Oh, and if you’re thinking of declining the offer, I’ll remind you that you’re well beyond the borders of Gilvrain. Half a league that way stands Gilvrain Keep. This is my land, and anything that wanders onto it is mine by forfeit. I even have the right to slay trespassers, if I so choose.”

“And who are you, to say such things?” one of the others shouted from somewhere out of my current line of sight.

“I’m the Archmage of Gilvrain Keep.”

A new wave of terror crashed within me, and I managed to surge to my feet. An Archmage…I held no false ideas as to why a human mage would purchase me; the most potent of magics could be distilled from fae blood...

“Don’t try,” a voice said hotly into my ear. I had no comprehension of how he’d managed it, but suddenly he was standing behind me, holding my wrist in a strong grip, his thumb placed in such a way that I would know quite a lot of pain if he decided to press. I closed my eyes and stilled myself, shuddering in fear. If the hunters won this argument, then I’d go back to my captive servitude. If the Archmage won, I would die. I couldn’t decide which fate was worse.

“An Archmage!” the hunter said, taking a step backward.

“Yes. An Archmage. Take your money and go. I don’t care what you tell the one who sent you, but don’t send him here,” the Archmage replied, reaching with his free hand and drawing forth a small pouch. He tossed the ground at the lead hunter’s feet, then turned without a word and pulled me toward his horse, which was standing some distance away. My legs refused to move. He turned at looked at me… and there was an odd, pained sensation in my chest.

If he'd glared at me, furious, I could have understood. But his quizzical glance, filled with pity, that was too much for me. I could have defied anger, I could have answered it with rage of my own- but his eyes held a quiet compassion that silenced me; made me drop my gaze and follow, made me allow him to place me on that horse and mount up behind me. He pulled me close, his cloak falling around my shoulders, the heat of his body at my back.

“You’re soaked to the bone.” His breath, as gusted across the back of my neck, was very warm. There was movement, and my mind flared in panic as he raised his hands above me…and a pendant fell about my neck. And I was no longer cold.

I shuddered at the sudden improvement, relaxing back against his warmth, wonder ghosting through my mind that he would spare such consideration to me. Magic, surely, the same sort of item that my blood would soon be spilled in the making of. It laid warm against my breastbone, and I couldn’t bring myself to be anything other than grateful.

“Thank you,” I said, very softly, my eyes stinging. I hadn’t had genuine occasion to thank anyone in more years than I cared to remember.

“What’s your name?” he asked

“Nydiel,” I answered, closing my eyes, letting my head fall back against his shoulder.

“I’m Gray.”

I nodded understanding, my dizziness returning with a fierce vengeance as the horse was spurred into a trot. I felt myself drifting, knew that I should try to keep my senses…but what did it matter, really? I was going to die, very soon, and probably in a very unpleasant fashion…though this man’s actions thus far spoke of kindness. Perhaps it wasn’t too much to hope that he might seek to spare me pain. My death, when it came, might at least be quick.

There was movement… we seemed to travel for an age, moving over meadows and through dense forest, and after a time I left myself. The next thing I was fully aware of was warmth that hit me as if I’d blundered into a wall. Sweet Lady, so good! I murmured, clutching at…the mage’s shoulders. I was being carried.

There were voices, but it seemed far too much effort to open my eyes or try to decipher what they said…the language was unfamiliar.
No sooner had I realized this than I was set down on something so soft that my breath left me for a moment. It couldn’t be real, I couldn’t be afforded such wondrous comfort as this.

I was in and out of visions, unable to separate reality from dream. I was falling without ever landing, reeling only to be caught and laid down again. Hands, so many hands, clawing at my body with so many fingers soaked in my own blood, and then suddenly all gone save one pair drawing the clothes from my body with a gentleness that made me ache.

“There’s something in the wound at your shoulder,” a clear voice said into my ear, and I realized that I was lying face down amongst that impossible comfort again, with a warm hand laid firmly on my back.

“Arrowhead. Magic... Please let my death be quick,” I murmured in strained reply.

“Sap arrows? I should have guessed as much. That will have to come out, then,” The voice replied, and the hand left my back. I heard footsteps moving away, growing fainter for what seemed far too long. I was alone. This was an excellent chance to make another dash for freedom, if I could just school my aching muscles into obedience, if I could just resist the lulling pull of the heather-scented softness beneath me, a greater comfort than I’d known in…many years. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of it, telling myself that I’d rise in just a moment, then in just another…

Then suddenly, there was pain.

Fire flared in my shoulder, driving the breath from my body, tearing through me like a wild thing. I heard my own voice, rendered hoarse by screaming, begging for mercy. One moment it was met with laughter, echoing cruelly in my head, the next by a gentle murmuring of reassurance, promises of safety.

And as suddenly as it had come, the pain was gone, replaced by a profound and sweeping relief that left me equally breathless. That abominable thing was gone from my shoulder.

“Sweet Lady, thank you!” I gasped, blinking away tears as I melted in boneless relief, all the tension and power going out of me at once. I was floating, drifting again, filled with a contentment that was wholly absurd, given the circumstances. Even had my freedom been offered to me in that moment, I couldn’t have made myself rise.

What followed was very strange to me; I turned my head and watched him through half-lidded eyes as he dipped a cloth in a bowl and pressed it to my wound. It was cool, stinging and soothing at once, and it served to pull me back toward consciousness just a bit. My people had no use for such medicine, healing was a matter of magic… but I was far too weak to practice such arts at present. No human had ever sought to tend my hurts before. It felt surprisingly good, this dressing of wounds, this healing touch. I sank into blessed unconsciousness again with the man who would eventually kill me washing the poison from my flesh.

Awareness came again sharply, the rim of a cup forced against my mouth made me thrash. I’d been drugged into submission before, I wouldn’t be again- not without fighting. Liquid fell against my lips, burning, and I could hear my own voice again, babbling something…curses, threats, pleas perhaps- and suddenly my head was caught in gentle hands and closed lips pressed against my own, warm and insistent.

Impossible…It didn't matter, I offered openly to this dream, eager for whatever comfort it might offer me. I was rewarded for such capitulation with warm liquid that flowed into my mouth, rich and honey-sweet, the taste green and fresh and alive. The kiss deepened for a moment, warm tongue teasing at my lips in gentle exploration, and a choking sob escaped me for the tenderness of it. A dozen or a hundred such kisses followed as I drank from that mouth, vaguely aware and ardently grateful for such attention, for the hand that was moving in calming circles across my belly- Sweet Lady, it felt like care. A final kiss was laid on my forehead…and then there was nothing at all.