The Survivor

Valadel

HE DIDN'T KNOW how long it had been, how many days had past, how many nights. He didn't know if his arm would ever heal, or if the throbbing pain that came with the infection would ever relent. It was stupid he let the beast get the best of him. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to see again in his left eye, only dark grey was visible from it. It was marked with a scar from where she burned him. He didn't know where that stupid beast was, if it was following him, sleeping, or feeding from corpses. He didn't know when they left, but they did, and without him. He didn't know exactly what had happened to him, what she did to him, but she left him there. And he didn't know if he'd ever escape this nightmare.

But there was something he did know, among all the darkness and hopelessness: he was not going to die. Not here, and not by that beasts hand.

They left most of their supplies behind, clearly in a rush to escape to whomever rescued them. It was good for him, it meant more food, more time. But that was awhile ago. He had dragged the knapsacks of food and skins of water to his respite, an old, dark room, save for a few burning torches he had lit, on the second floor. He wore no steel, only leather. He valued speed more than protection. If he could outrun the beast, he needed not the steel.

His arm throbbed worse and worse with each passing minute. The wound was a deep gash in his left arm, a deep red of dried crusty blood, and the gashes oozed pus. In the early days of the injury, he could see the bone of his forearm. Black edged the gashes, and spread up to his elbow. His arm was sore to the touch, and nearly useless, he could scarcely move his fingers. He cursed himself for letting the beast get the better of him.

He pulled out a piece of bread and topped it with some jerky, the animal unknown to him. He took a bite, and chewed for a good few minutes. The bread was stale, and the meat was hard, but it would keep him fed, which was enough. When he finally swallowed, he took a deep drink of the warm water from his canteen.

He heard a loud thud from down the hallway, and grabbed his sword from the floor. The room glowed a faint orange, but beyond was black as the night. He heard sporadic movement and quick footsteps, to light to have been the beast.

Hmph...cursed ones...

They had merely become an inconvenience to him, as he slayed them with ease. They had grown weak, and fewer in number, and he knew how to kill them. The same could not be said for the beast. It was the beast that truly scared him. The monster was unpredictable, the monster could speak, the monster grew larger and stronger. The movement died down, and the light, patter of footsteps faded away. He sighed graciously, and set his sword down. His eyes felt heavy, and his muscles ached.

He leaned against the stone wall and sank to his bottom, pulling his legs close to his chest. He noticed the markings in the wall, the lines he scratched in with a dagger to keep track of the days he had spent in the dark, alone. There were sixteen marks in total since he lost the dagger. After that, he stopped counting.

He didn't expect them to send him help. Why would they? They thought he was dead. Why would she tell them the truth, what she did to him? They'd only kill her. He remembered waking up, his face and chest burning, not how a fire or hot iron burns, but the cold, searing pain of water far too hot. He remembered the panic he had when he discovered his left eye was blind, when he discovered they had left, and the fear when he realized the beast didn't. He didn't know how it went so wrong, but it did.

And now, to his anguish, Valadel had become his home. But it would not be his tomb. Of that he was certain.

The Gods will not take me today