Blackbird

The ground was cold against his heated skin. Shivering, he tried to push himself off of the ground. Pain shot through his body, coursing through every nerve ending; branching out from his spine. He couldn’t hold in the cry of pain that came, a whimper following as he fell heavily back to the dirty floor. Blinking slowly, he opened his eyes. Black locks of hair blocked his vision partly but he could tell that he was in a stone cell. Breathing heavily, he watched as dust from the ground was blown away from him.
Lips cracked and mouth dry, he tried to speak but no words came. Only a hoarse croaking noise was managed. Blinking again, he shifted his head, hair falling out of his line of sight. Footsteps were echoing in the distance. He saw a pair of boots block out the faint light coming from the crack under the door of his cell. The creaking sound of rusted bolts being unlocked felt retched in his ears, the hinges squeal making him cringe. The boots walked in. He felt a satisfied sounding grunt from about him though, he could only see to the boot’s owner’s chest. They were male. They looked familiar.
“Stand Lonàn.” Boot’s commanded. When he didn’t respond, the boots moved. The sound of movement echoed in his ears and then pain erupted in his side as he was kicked. Coughing, he curled up, shaking some. “Stand.” The voice commanded once again. Lonàn moved, silent hatred echoing in his shadowed eyes. Uncurling, he moved until he was on all fours. There was no pain this time; no sharp pain that made him immobile.
He was shaky as he got his feet underneath of him. There was a shackle on his left ankle, the noise of the chain moving indicating it was attached to the wall somewhere. There was dried blood where it had bitten into his naked flesh. Straightening his back, he looked up, meeting the man’s gaze. He was middle aged with greying brown hair. One eye was a dull brown and the other milky white; a scar going vertical across the left socket. He had no beard and was dressed in military garb of red and brown, silver sword on his hip.
What was his name? Hil-Hor-Harthgard. That was it. Lonàn’s head felt fogged clouded. His memories were misty and he found it hard to even form coherent thoughts. His attention was pulled back when his face began stinging, head now turned towards the wall. He had just been slapped, that was what must have happened. Blinking, he turned his head back, feeling a warm beading of blood on the corner of his mouth. His dark green eyes locked back onto Harthdard’s brown one. His tongue glided over to his fresh injury, the blood tasting of iron and salt.
Annoyance was just on the surface of the military man’s face. Anger was what echoed in his eyes; a burning furious hatred for the one that stood before him. “You are nothing but a dirty beast.” He hissed out, face contorted in disgust. “How dare you lock eyes with me?” He grabbed Lonàn’s chin hard and forcefully turned his head to the side. “You have no right to even look at me.” His hands were gloved otherwise nail marks would have been left. Instead, red pressure marks formed when Hrothgard let go. “Filthy.” He muttered and wiped his glove off on the side of his pants. Lonàn kept his gaze adverted, the calm, aloof look on his face meaning nothing as a searing heat formed in his chest. He hated the man in front of him. He wanted his blood to be spilt until there was no more life in the old man’s body. Lonàn shivered at the thought.
“What-“ He tried to speak but instead he only croaked. He cleared his throat, painful as it was, and tried again. “What are you going to do with me?” He questioned, though it was a whisper, barely audible. He was dehydrated; he chalked that up to his dry mouth and lips that looked like pale cracking mud. A laugh echoed in the small cell, bouncing off the walls with no mirth or humor in it.
“How many people do you think you have bled? How many do you think you have killed in this war? You are a monster, a disgrace to anyone who shares your blood or your race. You have murdered and lied and committed treason beyond anyone’s comprehension. “ Hrothgard sneered and stepped up close to the black haired prisoner. “We are going to make you pay.” It was a whisper and Lonàn could feel the man’s breath on his cheek. The apathetic look he had been wearing broke out into the boiling emotion he was feeling inside. A sick anger spilt from his face as he turned his head and glared at the man. No words came from his mouth, Hrothgard’s expression seeming shocked until he covered it up. Anger was obviously not the emotion he had been expecting. Lonàn was sure that fear was what the brown haired man wanted. He would not give him such a sweet reward.
A smirk formed on Hrothgard’s lips. “Guards!” He shouted, taking a few steps back from Lonàn. Four men entered the cell, nearly filling it up completely. They all were larger than Lonàn; at least when it came to width. He was grabbed and forced down onto his knees, the cracked stone floor digging into his flesh. He was naked but for a thin sheet of cloth hanging from his frame. Hands were in his hair, gripping the black strands at the skull. Pulling back, his head was forced to be tilted up, neck exposed and the pain in his scalp causing his eyes to water. Another set of hands pried his mouth open, their fingers painfully gripping his jaw. Green eyes watched as a vial of pale fluid was waved tauntingly in front of him. There was still no fear, only anger.
The fluid was poured into his mouth. Lonàn tried to spit it out but the men handling him seemed to have experience. His mouth was clamped back together and nose plugged. He struggled then. The fourth guard came in and pinned him. He tried to hold his breath. He tried to face swallow, but that had no effect. His vision grew hazy and black dots sparked across his eyes. Lonàn held on for as long as he could but, his body’s need for air drove the involuntary impulse to swallow and then take in a breath. The acidic yet deadly sweet liquid slid down his throat and Hrothgard laughed with a satisfied smile on his face. “I can’t wait to watch you suffer.” He said so softly that Lonàn almost didn’t hear it. His act of uncaring was over and he tried to lunge at the man. Unfortunately, the guards still had hold of him and they pinned him to the ground. His body was weak from dehydration. He could feel the liquid working its way through his body. It must have been some kind of poison.
His arms and legs were jerked away from his body and spread. Panting, Lonàn tried to get out of the guard’s grips. It was no use. His body was too weak and they were too strong. Heavy manacles were clamped to his wrists and he remaining ankle. The guards released their grip and still Lonàn tried to go after them and Hrothgard. When he did, the chains attached to his bindings were pulled tight, as if acting on their own. He slammed back into the ground, his head making an ugly thwack when it hit. An involuntary moan came from him, much to Hrothgard’s satisfaction.
“Strip him. Beat him. Cut him.” Was the command that Hrothgard gave the four men. Lonàn sneered as his green eyes glared at the hated man standing over him. “Have fun.” The sadistic man said before turning on his heels and leaving; the door closed with an echoing bang behind him. There was nothing but the sound of shuffling feet for a moment. The waiting was what was most unbearable. He flinched a few times when one of the guards came close to him. A few chuckles came from the guards each time.
Then it came. A torrential downpour of kicks started in. Ever part of him was a subject to be abused with force. He was stomped on, spit on, hit, and cursed. Lonàn tried to keep quiet; his tongue even began to bleed while biting it to stop screaming. That didn’t last long. The sounds of pain made his tormentor’s beatings grow more frenzied. He passed out at one point. They didn’t stop.
When he came to, they were standing over him. He was sore, pain coursing throughout his body. His vision was blurring and he could taste blood. His stomach felt retched, he assumed from the poison mixed with the beatings. The scent of urine came strong to his nose. Lonàn wasn’t sure if it was his own or if one of them had decided to degrade him further. The man with the blade knelt over him, Lonàn’s body too broken to even react. The sheet of cloth that they called his clothing was ripped off. The tip of sharp bade was pressed into his chest. Hissing at the pain, Lonàn’s body reacted by trying to get away at the guard proceeded to carve into his body. It wasn’t deep enough to hit anything necessary but, deep enough to cause the Lonàn to bleed hard.
His face was next, a long cut across his cheek. They took turns making marks and little cuts as shallow as paper cuts across Lonàn’s body until he passed out again. That was when they had enough fun and left him to his own torment. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His skin was paling and when he woke he found that he had vomited up bile tinged with blood.
He coughed at the taste in his mouth. The chains were looser around him and he managed to roll onto his side. It was a mistake that he wouldn’t repeat for a while as his bruised ribs screamed at him when his weight was put on top of them. He fell back onto his back, Lonàn shivering as the air around him seemed to grow colder. Wait, it wasn’t the air-it was him. That was okay, he didn’t mind the cold.
His cell grew darker with the passing moments. He continued to cough, occasionally spiting up blood. His body burned from the inside out and his skin prickled and stung with the cuts. Blood caked his chest and he felt it crack every time he took a breath. It was painful and agonizing and it felt like it had been days since his beating but it had only been a few hours.
His eyes grew heavy and his breathing shakier when there was no more light in his cell. He was alone, cold, and dying. Why did he feel so calm? Blinking slowly, Lonàn couldn’t help when they fell closed and he drifted into a sleep that felt permanent. The dreams told him that it wasn’t.
It started as a foggy mist, swirling around his vision. It was dark but by the soft orange glow in the distance, Lonàn guessed that the sun was rising. Blinking, the mist cleared and he found himself staring at what he thought was a reflection. He realized it couldn’t be as this version of him still had clothing, still had the fight in his eyes. What looked like a rain of black feathers was falling from behind his double though, when he looked up there were no birds in the sky.
The scent of carrion and death reached his nose then. He recoiled, the taste of bile present in his mouth. His dream-self began moving forward, not stopping even right in front of his real self. He passed through him as if he wasn’t there; the sound of armor clinking coming to his ears; the sound of shouting men and of screams. His vision twirled around, disorientating him until he was facing the way his double had been. No, he wasn’t facing. He was himself now.
Flickers of memories shot back into his head. He was on the battle filed. Looking left and right, he saw piles of dead soldiers with only a few remaining. There was a lull in the fight it seemed. Why was he here? What was he fighting for?

The thought shot its way into his mind and his eyes narrowed in bloodthirsty rage. He wanted him dead; he wanted his blood on his hands. Why? He didn’t know, he was just so angry-so much hate burning his insides. He charged forward, screaming a battle cry. He could see the castle off in the distance and a small set of Calvary in front of it, guarding. Suddenly he was there, as though he had skipped something; the falling black feathers were back. He felt like they were announcing his presence.
The horses eyes rolled and their feet stomped, his presence unnerving them. The only one that kept a firm control over their horse was Hrothdar, his steed a creamy white-blood streaked on its side that was not its own. The anger that raged in Lonàn’s chest was echoed in Hrothgard’s eyes. “You dare come back here?” The middle aged man shouted, the men at his back looking as though they would ride behind their leader if it meant death. I he responded, Lonàn wasn’t sure. “You traitorous fool.” It was a hiss and the words set Lonàn off for reasons he was unsure of. The boiling hatred and anger and lust for blood toppled over and he released it in a shout as he lunged towards Hrothgard.
The fight that ensued was long. Lonàn only got glimpses of it, here and there. The clash of metal and the scent of blood permeated the majority of his senses. Screams and the crunch of bones came as well. He killed men, severing them from their life. One-two-three. Then he felt a jolt to his body, like lighting was coursing through his very being. Falling to the ground, he saw the feathers turn into a black wispy mist that blew away. There was a heavy boot pressed onto his back, his face in the dirt. He felt a tingling around his heart and his head. Had he been hit?
“You did not stand a chance.” A rough voice said from above him. The sharp point of a sword dug into the back of Lonàn’s neck. His arms were roughly pulled behind him and bound, his energy seeming to just flow out of him; he felt weak. He was pulled up in a rough manner and turned to face Hrothgard. He had a gash on his arm that was bleeding. A small bit of satisfaction formed in the pit of Lonàn’s belly. He had gotten closer to his goal. The man sneered and spit on him. He leaned forward, grabbing Lonàn’s black hair and pulling it painfully to the side. “You can never beat me.” He whispered into the prisoner’s ear. It enraged Lonàn more and he tried to lunge, earning him a back handed slap and a yank backwards. “Take this trash where he belongs.” Hrothgard shouted and gave Lonàn a smile of victory. The image began to fade out a single remaining though in Lonàn’s mind- ‘You will pay.’
Shaking, Lonàn woke from his dream. Sweat beaded across his flesh; his body was slick. He felt feverish and completely ill. Holding his hand up, he looked at it in the dim light. It felt heavy as the manacle added extra weight; digging into his arm. His fingernails were bloody.
The dream was crystal clear in his memory, meaning that it was something that had actually happened. If that was how he had gotten here. Lonàn wanted to remember what caused it. He wanted his mind back.