Jill Sorrel (jillsorrel) wrote in thedas, @ 2010-08-26 22:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, & 9:45 (5) molioris, @ jill sorrel |
Narrative: Oh, save the horse.
Where: The road to Denerim
When: 20th of Molieris
Summary: In which Jill saves the horse, looses a friend and rides on.
Rating: M
Jill had always tried to be a team player.
But when ones group is under attack and you're trying to keep your horse alive, and yourself alive, and fumble after bow and arrows...
Well, it's difficult to mind anybody else.
It was the witching hour, a pale moon shining a little light on them, but not enough for her to distinguish clearly what was happening. Jill was weary from the ride, but even though her thoughts were sluggish and her muscles even more so, she knew, with the kind of instinct that is more animal than human, that something was happening. Fionn and Duane had been some way ahead of her, but she could no longer see them clearly, the dark and the exhaustion and the trees hiding things from her.
She shifted her seat in the saddle, back straight, balance perfect, ready for anything. At least she hoped, for anything. She steered Salma into a small clearing and all hell broke loose.
Suddenly there were sounds, and smells and chaos and confusion.
She could hear the sounds now, and by that alone she knew they were under attack from darkspawn. No other creatures she had ever met made sounds like that. Having once heard it, it was impossible to forget. Salma reacted to it too, or to the combination of her array of keener senses. She started to sweat, and only with a clear assertion of will could Jill stop her from turning and fleeing.
The night turned into a flurry of indistinct movement, shapes moving through the darkness. Cold dread filled Jill, but she drove it away, when Salma was with her she could never waste time on worry. She had to think, to plan, to act for both of them. But even if her focus was largely on Salma, Jill could not help but hear the sounds. Horses neighing and screaming. The sound of Duane cursing hoarsely and Fionn’s laboured breathing. Swords and knifes sliding through flesh or hitting metal. Soft grunts and pained yelps. Salma was shivering under her, still not quite used to the smell of darkspawn, but clearly overriding her instinctual panic to obey Jill.
The reins slid out of her hand as she reached for an arrow. Releasing it, she made Salma turn quickly with a sharp nudge of her heels. From the corner of her eye, she dimly registered that it had found its prey in one of the snarling, indistinct forms.
Through the blood drumming in her ears, Jill could hear yelps turning into screams, and filled with the desperate conviction that she had to save Salma, she spurred the horse away from the battle, into the dark night.
The wind hitting her face was like the crack of a whip. She could hear no pursuers, only the thunder of Salma's hooves, the horse spurred to a desperate gallop. Salma was still half wild with panic, and Jill let her choose the frantic pace she wanted, Salma’s powerful muscles working and her neck stretched.
She was trying to harden her determination, forget that Duane and Duane were left behind.
But it didn't work. Even as she put distance between herself and the scene of battle, she could feel the claws of bitter guilt taking hold of her soul. Her stomach felt full of ice, which was slowly melting into the rest of her body. There was an awful taste in her mouth, as if the stench from the deformed monsters had settled there. It was a nightmare. She shouldn’t have left.
For how long had she been riding? Where had they been when the attack occurred? Her sense of direction seemed to have abandoned her. It was dark all around, no wind no sound. They galloped through the night, horse and rider nothing more than an indistinct shadow passing by in a rush. Slowly, oh so slowly Salma started to slow down, panic abating.
The horse was safe, they lived still.
Climbing down from the saddle, Jill found she was so stiff her legs would not bear her. As her feet touched the ground she crumbled noiselessly into a heap next to Salma.
She couldn’t breath, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. She just existed, laying there, legs bent under her, eyes staring unseeingly at the heavens.
She had abandoned her friends, cowardly turning her back on them. Her fellow riders, men who she had ridden with through fire and ice.
The deep, panicky sorrow overwhelmed her and even though she wanted to scream and cry and pull her hair out by the roots, she did nothing.
She just lay there, unmoving.
At first light, she rose, pulled Salma from her restive nipping at tufts of grass, and turned back the way she had come.
She followed her own haphazard trail through the deserted woodland. Finally, unexpectedly, she came up on the scene of the ambush. The dead body of a horse, lying in the sparse grass, made it impossible to miss. The stench of darkspawn was somehow still heavy in the air, a corpse laying a bit to the side, arrow sticking out of its chest. It was clear she was the only one that had survived.
Salma almost reared at the sight, tensing and lifting her head, before Jill forced it down with the reins, quickly starting to talk soothing nonsense to the horse. She slid out of the saddle, feeling a sudden detached surprise at how stiff she was. Walking to Salma’s head, she continued to caress her face, and croon at her, trying to hide her own panic.
Salma finally calmed down, and Jill turned her away slightly from the scene, and picked a handful of fresh, green grass for her. Watching the horse chewing it slowly, Jill only wished she herself was as easy to divert.
Giving Salma a final pat, to steel herself, she then turned back.
The air was still, a cloud of flies starting to assemble over the stiff corpse of the horse. The ground clearly showed that a fight had taken place, footmarks, hoofmarks, bloodstains and signs of struggle.
There was however, no sign of any bodies…
Horror, deep, black horror started in her stomach, and then welled up, making her tremble and shake.
Wild tales she had heard about darkspawn, about ghouls, about death and worse, returned to her mind. Her stomach rebelled and she stumbled two steps towards a tree and emptied it of its contents. For a moment she stood there, one hand leaning on the rough wood of the tree, trembling, shudders running through her body.
Finally, she realised the futility of it all; she straightened, dragged a trembling hand through her hair, wiped her other hand over her mouth and adjusted her belt.
She had survived because she had been too cowardly to stay and fight together with the other riders. The duty of searching the battlefield clearly fell on her shoulder.
Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, Jill looked around, pushing away emotion and calling forth practicality.
The horse was the only visible corpse, examining the ground, she tried to find an answer to where the other…bodies…would be, but the tracks were too scuffed and she couldn’t tell. As long as she could make herself, she continued the search. Just as she was about to give up, she found something. Kicked under a bush, with a large bloodstain marring it, was a messenger bag, just like her own. Picking it up, she turned it in her hand, recognizing the wine stain on the back. Duane’s bag. For a moment her knuckles turned white around the supple leather, before she could make herself look in it. The letters were still there. Not even stained, parchment still pristine and untouched.
Damn Duane, so like him to sacrifice his life for two scrolls of paper.
The thought stunned her for a moment. Wouldn’t she, just days ago have been ready to do the same? Wouldn’t she, even now, do the same?
Suddenly memories overwhelmed her and made her smile through the blackness. Duane, so faithful to the Couslands, always keeping this bag so close, never letting it out of his sight. She had once seen him crossing a stream, carrying it on his head, letting the rest of his saddle packs get drenched. To him, this bag represented his oath to the teyrn.
So like Duane to keep his early treasures in the bag he treasured and guarded the most.
There was a lock of brown hair, tied closely with a string. Golden brown, with a slight curl, most probably from his sweetheart.
Then, an old, tarnished brooch. Jill had seen it before, and knew it had belonged to his mother. The only memory of a beloved parent, kept by a lonely orphan boy.
And finally, a soft, worn leather pouch, feeling like it was full with jingling coin and gleaming gold when she pried it open.
She had known that Duane had saved most of his salary, but this…this was not a year’s earnings. Weighing it in her hand Jill guessed that it had to be years and years worth of gold. Every salary, every extra reward given in recognition of work well done. All of it must have gone into this pouch, meant for this one journey. To show the girl he wanted to marry that he could support her.
Another moment, sorrow too wild and too painful held her in its grip, locking her breath in her lungs and freezing her limbs. When her mind cleared she found that she was gripping the leather pouch so hard her knuckles were white.
Turning back to the corpse of the poor horse who had shared the destiny of its rider (most probably, the lack of bodies was something that Jill did not want to consider too closely), Jill walked closer. Recognizing the white sock and the gleaming fur she swallowed a sob.
Tamara.
Fionn’s beautiful mare. Jill had loved the horse in a way she had never warmed up to it’s master. Tamara had not lead an easy life with Fionn, and her death had been in the same vein.
Momentarily Jill considered the clearing. At a glance there was maybe enough wood for a hearty fire, but hardly sufficient for a funeral pyre for such a large animal. Indeed, would the chantry even admit to the Maker welcoming such a proud creature in death? This place, this scene of battle, would be Tamara’s final resting place and the wild animals would pick her bones clear.
She deserved better, Jill thought bitterly before steeling her heart and turning away.
Jumping down from Salma’s back, Jill took out Duane’s bag. The letter she moved to her own satchel. For a moment she stood holding the heavy money pouch. What would her merry friend with the twinkling eyes have wanted? Surely not that his meticulously collected savings would be left buried and forgotten like some ancient dragon treasure?
Deciding to bring it back to Highever to ask
Kneeling, she dug a shallow hole with her hands. Placing the worn leather bag, the lock of hair and the brooch in it, she gazed down on the items for a second.
She felt the need to say something, anything, to assure Duane that she would never forget him. But that didn’t make any sense. He was dead after all, partly due to her. Her promises came too late.
Quickly pushing the soil into a little mound to cover the hollow, she rose, cleaned her hands on her trousers and was back in the saddle.
She had messages to deliver.