Miyar could still feel the aftereffects of the poison when he woke. It raged around his head, throwing his thoughts into disorder- the pain was back again. Yet this time it stung a little less. A cut on the upon his side, rather than a knife to the gut. Though he'd never been stabbed to the gut, and had been cut plenty on the side, not that he fancied to remember the feeling. And then he did remember. He remembered the gratitude he felt. Why had he ever thought of them as being on his side? Perhaps the desire for food and water had pushed him to it. Perhaps desperation. Perhaps hope that somebody out there still held out a little sympathy for him. Frustration. Madness like a raging demon. Why? What he done to deserve it. The thoughts echoed around his head as he lay on the floor, waiting for the poison to wear off.
___
The sand in the hourglass fell at a creep, as the leader sat in his wagon, waiting, thinking. It was a whim of the moment sort of thing, stabbing the bastard. A bit more of an accident than not, but then again, a deserving accident. They had it coming their way. It was fucked, all of it. The whole expedition was madness; Capturing dwarven children for the lord's experiments; nothing screamed mad more than this. Apparently the 'band' was already used to this, what with their tight knit sense of community and one-ness and all that. Probably just one step short from sleeping with each other. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that some of the more sadistic bastards he had ended up bringing in probably did. But as the saying went 'some things are better with a broken nose'. And that bastard Clay had it coming.
He didn't do any of it out of sympathy for the dwarven runts. Fuck no, listening to their naive blathering as he'd lured a dozen of them out of the slums seemed nothing short of stupid. But then again, they couldn't afford to loot and pillage, not with the the supposed truce between the New Citadel and the mad king. The hell was it with madmen and being in power? Balthazar, the damned Knight Captains and even his majesty himself. Hell, as a former knight captain himself, he wished them the worst. Damned bunch of bastards going on about chivalry and ethics and whatnot. Think of all the mothers and wives cleaning up the ethics they left behind. He'd seen it once, after a raid upon a village. The orders were simple. Quell the rebellion. He wasn't sure if killing everybody who objected to the Captain's interpretation of it counted, but hell it was the Captain. He did it anyway. And that was about it for the villagers.
There was a look in their eyes. Sadness. Hatred. Pure condensed rage. In the name of the law of the land they slaughtered freely. Uncaringly. There was a certain addictiveness to that feeling. People fell like flies at your every move. It gave you a sense of power. You controlled their fate. A single flick of your blade, and their lives would end. It made you feel like a god. He would know. He killed the most. And he resigned. Every day afterwards he could see it in all their eyes. That fool Buck? He was out to get him. Fuck it, they were all mad. That bastard Fjird? It was definite. Mutiny was brewing in his eyes. Just looking at the leader was apparently enough to bring his spirits to the boil. Most of his men looked at him with that hate. If they'd known what he'd done, it'd be ten times worse.
The dark wagon he'd been sitting in became darker, and his thoughts turned even darker and more brooding. Perhaps he ought to just put an end to it all. Perhaps he ought to just kill himself. Maybe he himself was mad. But he threw that thought out of his mind just as soon as it came to him. In a world so mad, perhaps sanity was just being madder than them all. Maybe he could use the money from this expedition to buy a nice little country house in a country village so some knight band could come and kill him. A fitting end perhaps. He shuddered and forced himself out of the dark wagon compartment. It took a strong Dwarven beer to steady his nerves, and he felt the fire return to his belly, and his head clear. Whatever thoughts remained were ignored in favor of looking for something to do.
A quick jaunt through the ranks ,ordering the men to quit slacking. A few instructions to Buck to shut them all up. Mort to take care of whatever else. Anything. Past the burdened wagon that was his. Past the much lighter and heavily damaged supply wagon. Past some of the cavalry- weary looking horses ridden by wearier men. Past the the cook's wagon. Past the cargo wagon. And something caught his eye. Amidst the stench, the near dead bodies that consisted of his heavily damaged cargo, amidst it all, he noticed a single weary looking head moving about in confusion. What damaged soul was trying to resist Fjird's poison? Whatever the bastard used was strong, strong stuff.
The Leader marched over, curious. And then he found himself looking at that bastard Fjird. He too was staring rather interested at the writhing… thing. It was damn near impossible to identify it as a dwarven child. Hell, he doubted it would ever recover from the scarring across its body. Sad fate really, but then again, probably better than being dead. Clay was madder than them all to be fair. A glare and a quick few words sent Fjird packing. Living to plot another day. Bah. He looked at the writhing boy, and then he saw the pair of eyes staring at him.
It was another one of those runts, from the wagon. But he recognized this one somewhat. It was the very same face that had looked at him before, with respect and a certain sense of fear. That self-proclaimed leader punk. He was intrigued. The eyes followed him, seemingly haunted by his presence. Fear. What an emotion. It had been a long time since he'd seen it. Most of his men didn't fear him, no, their eyes were dominated by rage. A garish smile donned his face. The eyes seemed to recoil at that, and quickly looked away. But there was no escape. They'd been spotted. The Leader hopped onto the side of the cart, ignoring the smell of blood and entrails, focusing instead on the face the eyes were mounted upon.
It was a narrow face, a sickly shade of brown, though it was hard to tell it's original shade with all the dirt and grime. A hooked nose upon a nascent beard, and a thick well built frame. Then again, all dwarves were thick, just not as well built. He was abnormally tall for a dwarf, though still short by human standards. His mouth was fixed in a seeming state of paralysis, as was his slow breathing. A layer of dirt coated the boy. Unlike the thing that rolled around in the next cart, he was more identifiably… dwarven. The Leader caught himself before he let that thought slip. Most definitely not human.
But what caught his attention had been the black, black eyes. That fear, that misery, and the somewhat unexpected respect- it was all there- and conveyed simply by that one look. He'd seen these eyes once before, in a clear pond, and he saw them again now, perhaps because it was a reflection of his own. There goes the morbidity again. He looked at the boy, and then he spoke. It was rare to get a silent listener, let alone one forced to listen to him, without objection.
A quick glance around told the Leader that the men were minding their own business. And he began to talk. The direwolves. The pent up frustration. He released it all. The wolves had them. Within the grass, they lay. They were dead, all of them. And that's not even considering the madmen around him. Saving the cargo, imagine that. And the whole botched up thing. Balthazar and his specific requirements for dwarven children of specific ages and heights. The mad king, the He talked, letting more than a few unnecessary secrets slip. But why did it matter? Nothing did.
___
The Eldest's mind was calm. Was. He had learned by now, not to think. Thoughts meant pain, and pain was not what he needed. He waited silently since he had woken, for the drug to take effect again, for that painless stupor to take him captive so he wouldn't have to be tempted by the possibility of thought. But today was the day the drug would have to fail him. And he had to learn. A sleepless night spent staring at the sky, with every stray thought burning him like a brand. And he learnt. It took time. It took pain. And by the end, it happened. A state of being where he didn't think yet felt. He could see the starry night sky, and hear the howling breeze. He could taste the dirt in his mouth and smell the stench of rotting flesh. He felt and heard and saw but he couldn't comprehend any of it. Occasionally a stray thought might cross his mind, and he would have to focus all over again. And he would have gone on trying to master the art of putting himself into a coma, had it not for the Leader. The man sat above him, looming over him, and that dominating presence ended his penance. Like a stone thrown into a pond, it went into disarray. The thoughtless smoothness of his mind came crashing down upon him.
He couldn't understand much of what the man was saying, not through the blinding pain at least. Was the man even talking to him? He doubted it. Why were humans so terrible? What led to that innate sadism? They seemed to not care about the pain they caused others. They couldn't acknowledge that he existed. Everything he'd said, his journey to Valk'in, the pursuit of adventure, all of it, it was just a joke to them. Yet at the same time, he had seen that look in the Leader's eyes, that look of complete and utter superiority, the apathetic efficiency of all his actions, the dominion he held over others, he could understand it's appeal too. Was he not the same in a way? Searching for a path through this madness. Searching for escape.
He heard those broken words then, those words that he wouldn't forget for the rest of his life. There are wolves within us. That hadn't been really what the Leader had said, and he knew it, and it mattered little to him. Whatever had been lost in communication, had likely been for the better. And those words spoke to him through the pain. An answer to his questions. There were wolves in all of them, and how large he was willing to let that wolf become, how much of himself he would let it consume, perhaps that was what decided who lorded over who. And with that wise acknowledgement, the Eldest let the pain consume him again.
___
It was cathartic in a way, telling someone all of it. Liberating. As the Leader told the runt everything he knew, he felt some of that frustration seep away, and like a sponge squeezed dry, he slowly began to soak up the atmosphere around him. For the first time in months, he felt at peace. He sighed to himself. How long had it been since the madness had wrapped around him? In his struggle to resist it, to prevent it from making him the same as them all around him, he had almost been swept away. Perhaps his struggle was futile in the end. Maybe he was fated to be as mad as them all. He smarted at their gazes. Their peering prodding eyes. Bah, since when had he begun to dabble in philosophy? Fucking mad they all were, and that was that. It was going to be wolves, the madness or mutiny. Pick your poison eh? And with renewed paranoia, the Leader hopped off the cart, and gazed at the long blade-like stalks of grass that had slowly risen up against the caravan. Time to get serious.