48th of winter, 515 a.v.
midday
He couldn't move.
Chaos. The screams of men and horses, women and children ripped away from one another. Someone shouting his name, desperate, pleading––Naiya?––from across an ocean of terror and confusion. Akaidras cried out as the hooves were swept from under them both, Snow rushing to his side, and then the cruel ropes of the net settling over them.
His body wouldn't obey him.
Stink and sweat, huddling crouched in the reeking darkness of the brig. Snow in a cage, doing her best to be the good dog to their enemies, while on the inside they were both on fire at the injustice as the pirates beat and raped to their hearts' content, and at their helplessness to do anything but keep their heads down and play the role of the obedient servants.
Nothing obeyed him. He was weaponless, powerless, rendered unable to fight by the disease creeping through his body, disease that ate away at his senses until he couldn't tell the difference between the past and the present.
Beating them, chasing them; the pirates were gods in their own ship, and they knew it. The girl and her boy came to him out of fear; together, at least, their misery was shared. They were running, and there was blood on their hands, and they didn't know where they were going. There was fear, but there was also blazing anger; this was their rebellion. They snatched their lives back from the jaws of the wicked, and they ran even though they couldn't see where they were going.
Noise. Strained breathing. Rustling beasts too large to be allowed. Birds, animals, screeching and cawing. A sharp flavor on his lips, unfamiliar and biting.
Their surroundings were nothing but blending shadows. The shadows leered, waving phantom swords and pulling at them. All they knew for certain was the ground beneath their feet as they took one step after another. They heard nothing. They heard everything. White noise filled their ears with rushing blood and the screams of men and horses and pirates.
There was earth beneath his skin. There was sweat on his brow. Something was wrong with his shoulder; he couldn't feel his fingers.
Snow was the strongest. By the end, all he could do was follow her presence, through whipping leaves and tugging branches. The end was swift, taking all the time in the world and taking no time at all. There was simply pain, the muffled sound of voices, Snow's pain in his mind as she fought to defend her master. The pirates had caught up to them, he was sure of it. There was nothing else it could be. He was tired of running. All he wanted to do was rest.
Pirates––running––the Snowhunts––Snow?––they had come back for them. No! He couldn't let them take him! Shahar struggled, lashing out with foot and fist. He connected with flesh, knocking them back, striking them away. Someone was over him, over his head, his mouth, and the scurvy still blurred them so he couldn't see. Large, salty, pirate; he wouldn't let them take him back! He would die first!
He would kill them before he let them win!
midday
He couldn't move.
Chaos. The screams of men and horses, women and children ripped away from one another. Someone shouting his name, desperate, pleading––Naiya?––from across an ocean of terror and confusion. Akaidras cried out as the hooves were swept from under them both, Snow rushing to his side, and then the cruel ropes of the net settling over them.
His body wouldn't obey him.
Stink and sweat, huddling crouched in the reeking darkness of the brig. Snow in a cage, doing her best to be the good dog to their enemies, while on the inside they were both on fire at the injustice as the pirates beat and raped to their hearts' content, and at their helplessness to do anything but keep their heads down and play the role of the obedient servants.
Nothing obeyed him. He was weaponless, powerless, rendered unable to fight by the disease creeping through his body, disease that ate away at his senses until he couldn't tell the difference between the past and the present.
Beating them, chasing them; the pirates were gods in their own ship, and they knew it. The girl and her boy came to him out of fear; together, at least, their misery was shared. They were running, and there was blood on their hands, and they didn't know where they were going. There was fear, but there was also blazing anger; this was their rebellion. They snatched their lives back from the jaws of the wicked, and they ran even though they couldn't see where they were going.
Noise. Strained breathing. Rustling beasts too large to be allowed. Birds, animals, screeching and cawing. A sharp flavor on his lips, unfamiliar and biting.
Their surroundings were nothing but blending shadows. The shadows leered, waving phantom swords and pulling at them. All they knew for certain was the ground beneath their feet as they took one step after another. They heard nothing. They heard everything. White noise filled their ears with rushing blood and the screams of men and horses and pirates.
There was earth beneath his skin. There was sweat on his brow. Something was wrong with his shoulder; he couldn't feel his fingers.
Snow was the strongest. By the end, all he could do was follow her presence, through whipping leaves and tugging branches. The end was swift, taking all the time in the world and taking no time at all. There was simply pain, the muffled sound of voices, Snow's pain in his mind as she fought to defend her master. The pirates had caught up to them, he was sure of it. There was nothing else it could be. He was tired of running. All he wanted to do was rest.
Pirates––running––the Snowhunts––Snow?––they had come back for them. No! He couldn't let them take him! Shahar struggled, lashing out with foot and fist. He connected with flesh, knocking them back, striking them away. Someone was over him, over his head, his mouth, and the scurvy still blurred them so he couldn't see. Large, salty, pirate; he wouldn't let them take him back! He would die first!
He would kill them before he let them win!