I drop my gaze to the camp—
A wave of nausea rolls over me.
I can’t fight the singe of a slight burp bubbling up my chest. It is soft as it comes from my lips, and I half-expected sick to come up with it.
Note to self, no more sudden movements.
If my wrists were free from the hook, I would cross my arms over my face and curl up into a ball. I would hide from the blinding glares of the campfires angled at me from all directions, and the stares of the dark fae that I’m sure come with it.
I can’t see, though.
Not through the blur, the sick brewing in me, the dizziness of my head.
So if they do stare at me, I don’t look back.
I sag against my restraints.
And a while passes.
A while of nothing.
No one approaches me, snarls at me, takes a bite out of me, speaks to me, daggers me. I just sag against the side of the cart, waiting for my sight to clear, to ease, and that takes too long.
Finally, when I can make out more than the dirt at my boots and beyond the nearest campfire, I squint up at the throne.
The leader is up there, her back to me, and she pores over old parchments that are spread out over a table. The guy in the silver crown is beside her, pointing his finger from parchment to parchment, his mouth moving, but no words reach me.
I shift my gaze to the human…
At first, I think it’s the one from the cart. The one I saw bloodied and torn. But this one is different, younger, and not shredded.
He’s tied to a thick, sturdy post. It’s plain old wood, but bolstered with black hooks, not unlike the one my wrists are tied to.
The post holds my dull gaze for only a heartbeat before I notice it. The table behind him. A table just out of his reach, but in front of him in terms of obvious fate.
I don’t need to be the sharpest around here to suspect that those whips, razored and edges with what looks like shark teeth, are going to be used on him.
I swallow back a burn of nausea, not certain if the sickliness is for him, for me, for all of it, or just that my head is still fucking thumping away.
I look at the black bloody stain on the frosted earth, just a bit away from the leaders, from the throne, from the human who’s sure as hell going to die.
The steed is gone, and that bloodstain is all that’s left.
I stare at the dark patch for too long.
The warrior, before he ripped out that beast’s throat, seemed to regret it before he even did it. He stroked the steed’s neck, and his mouth moved around words I couldn’t hear, and even if I could, it’s a language I don’t understand. But I understand enough to know he was offering some kind of reassurance or regret.
He was comforting the beast before he killed it.
More than any dark fae has ever given us humans.
I wonder if he loved the steed or was at least fond of it enough that it hurts him now that he’s killed it.
I hope it hurts him.
Even if those creatures are horrifying with their hairless grey skin and razored-whip-like tails, I don’t relish in the death of any animal.
Fuck, I was vegetarian as far back as I can remember, and vegan for my adult life. Once I watched the videos, there was no going back.
