The Nightmare
Running. Breathing becoming gasping. Muscles burning, then cramping. The dim light hiding roots and rocks on the path. But never leave the path. . .never leave the path. Something crashing through the brush. Dark shapes on the edge of vision. Long limbed, keeping pace. Guttural sounds taunting. Staccato snapping, percussive ripping. The chuckle of grunting starts again. There is the flash of claw. Feet begin to feel heavy, everything heavy. Then the tripping root once more. Falling, falling. The path is gone, the forest gone. Silence. Grass, a gentle wind, a single tree on a low hill. Clouds swim through a hazy sky fading into a yellowish pall. The path appears again, bent blades leading around the hill. Leaves begin to fall from the tree. Urgency strikes, time is running out. The feet begin to jog the path. The chuckle starts again, a slow popping pulse. The hill grows no nearer while leaves fall ever faster. Vines begin to cover the path. Tendrils reach up, growing barbs which tear clothes and flesh. Bloody legs run, pumping, raining claret. Clouds swirl over the tree, the sky darkens. Grey mist flows down the hill withering all it touches. A vine trips, gasping to the ground, they pounce. The chuckle turns into a sigh, vision fades, then falling again.
Genil is shaken awake, not by hands, but by the violence of Kavena's seizure. Sick these past days with a high fever, they have become more frequent. Especially at night. Before Genil can blink away the sleep one of Kavena's thrashing limbs smashes into his nose. There is a pop and it is all Genil can do to roll off the bed in a daze. Blood flows unstemmed as he tries to gather his wits. The tent flaps billow as the healer rushes to the bedside. Genil, still wobbling from the strike, stands and helps the healer put the heavy blankets back on Kavena. They bear down with the blanket to restrain the thrashing and keep her on the bed. Several rocky minutes pass before the seizure lessens.
The healer places a hand on Kavena's forehead and looks to Genil, noticing the substantial red stain growing on the chest of his tunic. With a gasp she rounds the bed to examine him, trying to pull his tunic up. She accidentally bumps his newly broken nose and he jerks back with a shriek of pain. Genil falls to his knees, upsetting a small wash stand. The basin and pitcher fall to the ground with a clatter. He pays it no mind as he cups his nose with both hands. A pained sigh escapes the healer's lips. She collects the pitcher and leaves the tent.
Outside the air is cool and fresh. The healer breathes deep to clear the sickness air of the tent from her lungs. A breeze blows her thin sleeping robe against her legs as she draws fresh water from the brook at the bottom of the hill. She takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of the night and the babble and chuckle of the water at her feet. Offering a silent prayer to whatever powers still listened, she plucked a few helpful herbs and returned. On entering the tent, Kavena was sleeping soundly. Genil still knelt, but was rocking and muttering to himself.
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