Oswin breathed in the crisp fall air, once again relishing in this moment of reprieve he'd been given. Under the breezy golden oak with cerulean eyes staring off into the heavens, it was as close to perfect as one could get. The ache in his feet had finally dulled, there was naught a soul around to disturb this peaceful quiet, he was scheduled to arrive at the next major city by morrow’s end… Everything was going according to plan.
So why did he feel as if a weighty ingot sought refuge in the pits of his stomach?
Oswin frowned, wiggling down his bedroll so as to lie flat with his paws acting as a makeshift pillow. Truthfully, it wasn’t such a hard question to answer. The reality was that the boy had only left home some weeks prior, and with every passing day he was reminded of how much he missed it. By now the autumn markets would be in full bloom with the blended scent of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg wafting through its stalls. He’d attend with his parents and listen silently while they bantered ceaselessly about prices and goods. It was amusing, really. The way his father sighed in mock exasperation as his mother puffed her chest out with a winning smile, obvious to all who had “won” the debate, never failed to warm Oswin’s heart. Those moments were etched upon his memory, and he was grateful they were in times like this.
But as comforting as that may be, the one thing Oswin relished most when the leaves began to turn was wrapping himself in his thickest cloaks and nestling comfortably in his study’s window nook. He could easily imagine himself perusing through a newly acquired tome without a care to the happenings around him, save for the sweet, earthy flavours of warmed cider.
The thought alone was enough to make him parched, yearning for what he knew he wouldn’t have for some time. Never this season, that was for certain, but what of the next? Where would his soul be come next year, or the year after? It aggravated the harengon to no end as to how little he knew of this journey’s timeline. He just wanted to be home, to be himself again, whole again, free of…
Tick…Tick…Tick…Tick…
He sighed, rolling on his side and curling stubbornly into his cloak. No, he could not afford to dwell on such questions that only brought torment and misery to his psyche. He needed to stay focused on the here and now, on what could be answered. It was useless to do otherwise.
But by the gods if it wasn’t so damn near impossible to.
Suddenly, a brisk breeze tumbled through the clearing, causing Oswin to furrow his head reflexively into the darkened pits of his cloak. He wasn’t quite aware he had done so, not until it was already done, and by then, he could feel the darkness rapidly envelop him like an old friend.
But this was no friend.
This was a tormentor.
The sickening truth that always forced its way to the forefront of his mind was just how temporary these moments of peaceful existence were. That they were to be cherished and not wasted, lest he truly succumb to despair. After all, just like the journey laid before him, it was impossible to fathom how long he’d have in them.
Not even a breath later did Oswin feel the thick fog of his mind numb his senses. It invaded his every orifice without fail, leaving him to choke as he was forcefully thrust from this current reality. It was always the same, really. He’d float weightlessly, unaware of his surroundings for what felt like years, until the fog relented in a sick form of mercy. He always hoped it would spare him, just once out of the countless times he was caught in its grasp, but he was never so fortunate. Instead, he’d be back there again, reminding him of all he wished could be erased from his memory;
The musty, coppery-smelling cabin that oozed mold and slime from every crack and crevice…
The flickering of candlelight strewn about with no discernible pattern, highlighting shapes that Oswin could never trust to be true or fiction…
The draft whose comings and goings were as fickle as a teething babe, always raising the hairs on his body with every gust…
How his mouth tasted of iron and was always as dry as sawdust no matter how much he drank the viscous liquid allowed to him…
The heavy, daunting shackles attached to each wrist and ankle…
The rugged metal that was just a hair’s breadth away from cutting off blood supply…
And yet… none of these were the worst.
No, it was always worse when he could hear the cracking.
Bones snapping and crushing under the weight of some unholy tool as easily as they would pick fresh wild flowers.
At first, it would start slow and methodical, nearly surgical in its precision. It wouldn't be until the newly lit candle sticks wanted to three-quarters mast that such activity would become feral & manic. What accompanied such noise never failed to make its appearance in this hellish orchestral performance.
The screams.
Sometimes it performed solo, others as a dissonant duet. But there was one aspect to this piece that Oswin had grown to expect as he worked to keep sickness at bay: it always ended as it started with the one voice, and always long after its harmony had ceased.
The unfortunate truth was that Oswin bore witness with no succor or pause, even after darkness swallowed this suffocating box in its cruel abyss. It was sheer will power alone that allowed him to endure. That, and in some twisted rationale would Titania allow him to retain a meager amount of sanity, enough to not completely lose himself.
Of course, even that would eventually be stripped from him too.
It was at that realization where Oswin felt the panic truly rise in his throat as his head snapped up towards an even darker shadow beginning to loom over him.
With what strength he’d have left, he would shrink into the far corner of his cage, shaking his head over and over again with eyes that never tore themselves away from that twisted grin. He knew what was going to happen, it always happened, there would be no stopping it, of course there wouldn’t, it always ended up like this, why did it have to be him, why couldn’t he have just stayed put, why couldn’t he list–
whywhywhywhywhywhywhnonoonononononononoNONONONONONONONOO!
Oswin screamed, sitting up with a start as he threw his cloak with such force that he fell flat once more. He blinked away the misty gold from his eyes in an attempt to remember where he was once more. Of course, through his hazy consciousness, it felt impossible. Landing back to reality was never easy and always accompanied by such disorientation and rapid breaths. So while he could do nothing immediately for the former, he fell into the automatic yet familiar mantra for controlling the latter:
1… 2… 3… 4… 1… 2… 3… 4…
1… 2… 3… 4…
Tick… Tick… Tick… Tick…
Oswin’s paw grasped at the fabric on his chest as he continued his attempts to relax. The sharp, rhythmic ticking continued to reverberate through his entire being in time with his chanting.
Or was it the other way around?
His consciousness becoming clearer, Oswin let out a low, frustrated growl, his free hand coming to roughly tug at the fur on his face. He could never decide if this mechanical contraption was a blessing or a curse with regards to his circumstances. While it gave concrete proof he was alive and well, its mere existence meant that his nightmares were not just that. It terrified him to no end that now, years after the fact, his uncertainty in the answer remained.
Not willing to fall down that particular rabbit hole, Oswin stretched his back and limbs with a groan. He scanned what few belongings he had, thankful that at the very least naught a soul took advantage of his precarious state. Only the gods knew that the last thing he needed in this moment was to be kicked while already down. Instead, his anxieties continued easing with every repeated number until finally he felt his breath begin normalizing.
It was then that Oswin decided to set up a proper fire for the night while he could feel his wits return. He needed a proper distraction so his mind wouldn’t ignite the embers of what just occurred. Why did the gods wish to remind him of his torture just as he started to feel content? Was it not enough that he suffered so every night? What sick, perverse enjoyment did they extract from his misery?
Before long, thoughts lost to the usual loop of self-pity, crackling could be heard followed by a comforting smokey smell. They were the last pieces he needed to finally snap back to the here and now. It was also then that he noticed the soft grass in which he sat upon with legs curled expertly to his chest. He couldn’t help but stare beside himself, absently fingering velvety blades in mild shock. How peculiar it felt to become tethered to the earth once more.
As time ticked by, Oswin continued on in his curled state, staring blankly at the flames. Their eternal dance helped to anchor him in place when he felt the fog edge at his mind. In a way, it was the only one who knew how to protect him. At the very least it was a ward that kept him safe.
Unfortunately, like all things, the fire would be snuffed out as he’d collapse from exhaustion. He would be thrust back into the hands of his demons not a moment after, and while he could feel the bile rise in his throat just at the thought, he was resigned to it. But until then, with his chin resting comfortably atop his knees and eyes boring into the small inferno, he was determined to take hold of the present once more.
