4th of Ymiden, 717
He was wandering through the streets of the shining city when someone grabbed him by the wrist. By this time he had been wandering for days, though he did not realize it.
"You're--!" the person said, as if surprised, and Quio's mind was too muddled to make any real sense of what was going on as they continued, "You're the Wanderer! We've been looking for you!"
We've? he wondered, not knowing who we meant.
"Come," the person told him, dragging him by the wrist, and Quio followed behind with little resistance, still in a daze. "This way. Come, finally. Your penance."
Penance, he mused, and then flickered from their grasp.
He spiraled.
He was back in the real world, back to the waking world of pain. Someone was shoving something through his wounds, tearing a scream from him as they did, only his mouth was gagged with something to muffle the sound, maybe a cloth. Terse hands took needle and thread and tried to stitch broken, bleeding crystal together, and the hands did not know or care that it only hurt him more. Foreign matter only made it more difficult for him to heal; the thread felt like an abrasion, and kept him in agonizing pain. Or maybe that was the point.
Thirteen excrutriating stitches in and he felt his attention waver and pass on. Then it was dark as he lost consciousness again and he spiraled-- back, back to the Uleuda.
He was in Yldria's warming light and he could have wept from it, from the abrupt change between pain and such peaceful warmth. Maybe he did weep; he was so confused. He didn't know what was happening to him.
---
6th of Ymiden, 717
Someone else found him again two days later. He had been wandering the Uleuda's streets. They spoke to him, tried to get him to comply, and he spiraled in and out.
---
7th of Ymiden, 717
They found him again. But every time they found him it didn't matter, because they could not hold him; he flickered back to the real world, called to his hurting, perhaps dying body.
In the crystal world he walked, wandering ceaselessly through the bright of day and dimmer night. Perhaps he was searching for something, looking for a way out of his torment, but there was none to be found. So he walked. He walked. He wandered.
---
10th of Ymiden, 717
He had been in the Uleuda for a trill or so when he felt hands grip his upper arms and leverage him to his feet. Two of the Yludih stood next to him, one on either side, holding him up. He was whisked away from the light of the Mother to a nearby amphitheater. There, he raised his head, mind still swirling with pain and hurt, and saw a group of five Ancients who looked down upon him from the seats.
"You will have your trial," one of them said, but by that time he was gone. He spiraled.
Back to the real world, back to agony.
Angry hands held him in place and someone was there on top of him as he struggled, pinning him down. They were trying to tie his hands and legs but at least his mouth was no longer gagged. Mumbling, a string of useless noises and cries of pain, he tried to make sense of his surroundings but he couldn't, not with how they held him down. He must have been fighting too much because someone's knee hit him in the ribs and stomach, hit him where he was wounded, and black dots covered his eyes. He passed out once more.
A merry-go-round of consciousness led him straight back to the crystal world.
He reappeared in Uleuda.
He was on his feet and he staggered as if to fall, and someone caught him and held him up. He saw again that the Ancients were there. Six, no, seven of them now, most of them quiet except for one, who muttered under her breath. She stepped forward and reached towards him but by the time she did he was already gone. Spiraling back. He had no control.
In the real world, Quio lay on a small familiar cot, with his arms and legs lashed in place with rope. Pain had ripped him back here, and the first thing he saw were the men and the gardening shears. His sight wavered, and when he looked again he saw one of them holding something, two things, holding them up as if to get a good look. They were small and very faintly bled light.
He realized what they were and noises bubbled from his throat.
They had cut the pinky and ring fingers from his hand.
He shifted his gaze and saw his right hand then, which was still bleeding freely. They had shoved it to the mouth of a jar, collecting the silvery false blood even as it poured out. "Should we take another?" one of them asked, somewhat eagerly, and it was as they were discussing how much of his hand they might chop off that his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted again, fainted in that terrible place and found himself back in the Uleuda.
He was in the light of the Mother crystal and woozily he sank to his knees. The injured hand he craddled against his stomach, and he had to lean and put his other hand against the ground so he would not fall. He imagined the fingers held up to the light in the man's hands, imagined the crystal ring they had made of his mother which one of them had worn, and wanted to scream.
This time no one tried to drag him to his feet.
It was silent around him, unnaturally quiet for a place of greeting, Yldria, which usually buzzed with noise. Quio barely noticed the Ancients gathered around; only noticed the Ancient woman when she crouched by his side.
She took a look at his hand and here, in the Uleuda, the wounds did not bleed. It didn't matter. He still felt the pain.
"Your trial," she murmured, and the others looked on silent and grim. "Is henceforth postponed indefinitely."
"Madame," someone dared interrupt, but she cast a look around at those gathered and whoever it was ceased their protest.
"You have been taken?" the Ancient asked in a soft voice, and as if in confirmation Quio seemed to flicker again and spiral back.
He was in the real world. They had placed the shears on a nearby table and someone had begun to staunch the bleeding from his hand, though another spat upon him as he laid helpless, still tied.
He quickly lost consciousness again.
In the Uleuda, Quio came to.
The Ancient's mouth was a thin line and a radiance of hatred burned from her, hotter than the peaceful light of the Mother, more destructive. For a few long moments after he reappeared he was confused and this time frightened, and he thought that her hatred was directed at him. But her voice was just as soft when she implored him, "You must not tell them anything. No matter what they do to you, you must never speak. Do you understand?"
She reached out and gripped his shoulder, for at her words he had wobbled and nearly blacked out again, a flare of pain from his physical body trying to drag him away. Perhaps they were trying to stitch his hand. The warmth of her touch felt like it might brand him, but it kept him in place. That, and her glare.
"I understand," he said, voiceless, but regardless she heard.
---
27th of Ymiden, 717
Seventeen days later and Quio remained in the Uleuda. In the waking world he was a captive, held by the men who had killed his mother so long ago. They would now very likely end up killing him too.
The Uleuda was his only respite. With some coaching from the Ancient woman --whose name was Qadazih-- he had picked up some of the Ulehi he had forgotten since his childhood and learned to resist the pull of pain when it tried to make him wake. Sometimes he still had to go, when something really really hurt him, like when his fingers had been cut off, but otherwise if he willed it he could stay.
He stayed most days.
He had been given a guard and was questioned daily on his emotional and physical state, usually by one of the Ancients themselves but sometimes by one of their disciples. Quio had told them everything they needed to know about him because there was no point in lying; he had told them that he had been born from a traitorous bloodline, and of his generally traitorous life. This was why he had been put under watch day and night. In case the men ever tried to pry information out of him in earnest.
He surmised the guard had been told to kill him should he indeed betray his people. That was why Yanaqi had not been allowed near him, except during certain hours of the day.
In the last seventeen days he had done little but keep himself locked away in solitary. This was his own choice, something the Ancients especially Qadazih didn't approve of, but Quio felt exceptionally tired from everything that had happened. His trial had been postponed until he was no longer under duress, but that didn't stop him from remaining in the meditation chambers for hours, even days on end. Sometimes he laid in one of the chambers or sat himself under the light of the Mother and went into something almost like a trance or sleep, though he was never able to give into rest entirely. He knew what nightmare awaited him if he did.
Despite it all there were times when the pain became unavoidable, and he suspected that the others were waiting for him to shatter under the pressure; that, or turn into a nulliem and be gone entirely.
Most of the Ancients thought he would not live, and even Qadazih had her doubts. She had seen this happen before; they all had. "There is little chance," she had told him. Yanaqi had said she would never give up on freeing him, but Quio would have preferred her to get on a ship and sail far far away from Ne'haer. Death's Door, it was called.
The Yludih people still called him the Wanderer, but now when they thought he couldn't hear they also called him the Tortured One.
He was wandering through the streets of the shining city when someone grabbed him by the wrist. By this time he had been wandering for days, though he did not realize it.
"You're--!" the person said, as if surprised, and Quio's mind was too muddled to make any real sense of what was going on as they continued, "You're the Wanderer! We've been looking for you!"
We've? he wondered, not knowing who we meant.
"Come," the person told him, dragging him by the wrist, and Quio followed behind with little resistance, still in a daze. "This way. Come, finally. Your penance."
Penance, he mused, and then flickered from their grasp.
He spiraled.
He was back in the real world, back to the waking world of pain. Someone was shoving something through his wounds, tearing a scream from him as they did, only his mouth was gagged with something to muffle the sound, maybe a cloth. Terse hands took needle and thread and tried to stitch broken, bleeding crystal together, and the hands did not know or care that it only hurt him more. Foreign matter only made it more difficult for him to heal; the thread felt like an abrasion, and kept him in agonizing pain. Or maybe that was the point.
Thirteen excrutriating stitches in and he felt his attention waver and pass on. Then it was dark as he lost consciousness again and he spiraled-- back, back to the Uleuda.
He was in Yldria's warming light and he could have wept from it, from the abrupt change between pain and such peaceful warmth. Maybe he did weep; he was so confused. He didn't know what was happening to him.
---
6th of Ymiden, 717
Someone else found him again two days later. He had been wandering the Uleuda's streets. They spoke to him, tried to get him to comply, and he spiraled in and out.
---
7th of Ymiden, 717
They found him again. But every time they found him it didn't matter, because they could not hold him; he flickered back to the real world, called to his hurting, perhaps dying body.
In the crystal world he walked, wandering ceaselessly through the bright of day and dimmer night. Perhaps he was searching for something, looking for a way out of his torment, but there was none to be found. So he walked. He walked. He wandered.
---
10th of Ymiden, 717
He had been in the Uleuda for a trill or so when he felt hands grip his upper arms and leverage him to his feet. Two of the Yludih stood next to him, one on either side, holding him up. He was whisked away from the light of the Mother to a nearby amphitheater. There, he raised his head, mind still swirling with pain and hurt, and saw a group of five Ancients who looked down upon him from the seats.
"You will have your trial," one of them said, but by that time he was gone. He spiraled.
Back to the real world, back to agony.
Angry hands held him in place and someone was there on top of him as he struggled, pinning him down. They were trying to tie his hands and legs but at least his mouth was no longer gagged. Mumbling, a string of useless noises and cries of pain, he tried to make sense of his surroundings but he couldn't, not with how they held him down. He must have been fighting too much because someone's knee hit him in the ribs and stomach, hit him where he was wounded, and black dots covered his eyes. He passed out once more.
A merry-go-round of consciousness led him straight back to the crystal world.
He reappeared in Uleuda.
He was on his feet and he staggered as if to fall, and someone caught him and held him up. He saw again that the Ancients were there. Six, no, seven of them now, most of them quiet except for one, who muttered under her breath. She stepped forward and reached towards him but by the time she did he was already gone. Spiraling back. He had no control.
In the real world, Quio lay on a small familiar cot, with his arms and legs lashed in place with rope. Pain had ripped him back here, and the first thing he saw were the men and the gardening shears. His sight wavered, and when he looked again he saw one of them holding something, two things, holding them up as if to get a good look. They were small and very faintly bled light.
He realized what they were and noises bubbled from his throat.
They had cut the pinky and ring fingers from his hand.
He shifted his gaze and saw his right hand then, which was still bleeding freely. They had shoved it to the mouth of a jar, collecting the silvery false blood even as it poured out. "Should we take another?" one of them asked, somewhat eagerly, and it was as they were discussing how much of his hand they might chop off that his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted again, fainted in that terrible place and found himself back in the Uleuda.
He was in the light of the Mother crystal and woozily he sank to his knees. The injured hand he craddled against his stomach, and he had to lean and put his other hand against the ground so he would not fall. He imagined the fingers held up to the light in the man's hands, imagined the crystal ring they had made of his mother which one of them had worn, and wanted to scream.
This time no one tried to drag him to his feet.
It was silent around him, unnaturally quiet for a place of greeting, Yldria, which usually buzzed with noise. Quio barely noticed the Ancients gathered around; only noticed the Ancient woman when she crouched by his side.
She took a look at his hand and here, in the Uleuda, the wounds did not bleed. It didn't matter. He still felt the pain.
"Your trial," she murmured, and the others looked on silent and grim. "Is henceforth postponed indefinitely."
"Madame," someone dared interrupt, but she cast a look around at those gathered and whoever it was ceased their protest.
"You have been taken?" the Ancient asked in a soft voice, and as if in confirmation Quio seemed to flicker again and spiral back.
He was in the real world. They had placed the shears on a nearby table and someone had begun to staunch the bleeding from his hand, though another spat upon him as he laid helpless, still tied.
He quickly lost consciousness again.
In the Uleuda, Quio came to.
The Ancient's mouth was a thin line and a radiance of hatred burned from her, hotter than the peaceful light of the Mother, more destructive. For a few long moments after he reappeared he was confused and this time frightened, and he thought that her hatred was directed at him. But her voice was just as soft when she implored him, "You must not tell them anything. No matter what they do to you, you must never speak. Do you understand?"
She reached out and gripped his shoulder, for at her words he had wobbled and nearly blacked out again, a flare of pain from his physical body trying to drag him away. Perhaps they were trying to stitch his hand. The warmth of her touch felt like it might brand him, but it kept him in place. That, and her glare.
"I understand," he said, voiceless, but regardless she heard.
---
27th of Ymiden, 717
Seventeen days later and Quio remained in the Uleuda. In the waking world he was a captive, held by the men who had killed his mother so long ago. They would now very likely end up killing him too.
The Uleuda was his only respite. With some coaching from the Ancient woman --whose name was Qadazih-- he had picked up some of the Ulehi he had forgotten since his childhood and learned to resist the pull of pain when it tried to make him wake. Sometimes he still had to go, when something really really hurt him, like when his fingers had been cut off, but otherwise if he willed it he could stay.
He stayed most days.
He had been given a guard and was questioned daily on his emotional and physical state, usually by one of the Ancients themselves but sometimes by one of their disciples. Quio had told them everything they needed to know about him because there was no point in lying; he had told them that he had been born from a traitorous bloodline, and of his generally traitorous life. This was why he had been put under watch day and night. In case the men ever tried to pry information out of him in earnest.
He surmised the guard had been told to kill him should he indeed betray his people. That was why Yanaqi had not been allowed near him, except during certain hours of the day.
In the last seventeen days he had done little but keep himself locked away in solitary. This was his own choice, something the Ancients especially Qadazih didn't approve of, but Quio felt exceptionally tired from everything that had happened. His trial had been postponed until he was no longer under duress, but that didn't stop him from remaining in the meditation chambers for hours, even days on end. Sometimes he laid in one of the chambers or sat himself under the light of the Mother and went into something almost like a trance or sleep, though he was never able to give into rest entirely. He knew what nightmare awaited him if he did.
Despite it all there were times when the pain became unavoidable, and he suspected that the others were waiting for him to shatter under the pressure; that, or turn into a nulliem and be gone entirely.
Most of the Ancients thought he would not live, and even Qadazih had her doubts. She had seen this happen before; they all had. "There is little chance," she had told him. Yanaqi had said she would never give up on freeing him, but Quio would have preferred her to get on a ship and sail far far away from Ne'haer. Death's Door, it was called.
The Yludih people still called him the Wanderer, but now when they thought he couldn't hear they also called him the Tortured One.
"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"
