Alkadia part 12

Phoenix trotted swiftly through the forest. Kryspin sat leaning forward in the saddle. He wanted to feel the rush of wind in his hair, true freedom. He'd missed it these past months, days... He missed the touch of Alkadia's hand around his waist. He missed her voice, her very soothing presence... Without her, it felt strange... awful... empty... downright terrifying. He was afraid for her. He thought about her constantly. She was his little angel, his best friend. And she wasn't there when he needed her most. When he needed someone to hold him, to take him in, to whisper warm words in his ear. At that moment, he was probably the loneliest man in the world.

He didn't love her, strictly speaking. He didn't love her the way his mother loved his father. He didn't love her the way his brother loved his fiancée. But now they were gone... Not his mother, not his father, not his brother and his fiancée. Not Alkadia. That hurt the most.

The boy sighed deeply and decided to find a place to stay in the forest. To his surprise, he saw a small, abandoned hunting cabin. He dismounted and approached the building. He peered through the window and saw a single, neglected room. He turned the handle. Surprisingly, the door was open. The hinges creaked warningly, and as the boy stepped inside, he was enveloped in the musty smell of antiquity and something else... Something so mysterious, intriguing, and so... so... strange...

Kryspin looked around for the source of the smell, but saw nothing unusual.

A large fireplace took up one entire wall, its hearth lined with dry leaves. A breeze blew through the chimney, and those tiny, dried particles danced in the air along with the swirling dust and dirt. Was it a captivating sight?

Under the window, or rather, under a hole in the wall covered by two shutters—one of which was somehow holding together, the other barely hanging on a single hinge—well, under that "window" stood a small wooden table, and beside it, worm-eaten chairs. In the center of the table stood an old, half-burnt candle in a rusty candlestick.

The wall opposite was occupied by a rickety bed, which, despite appearances, didn't look very inviting. Next to the door were shelves filled with old jars of spoiled jam and other unnecessary junk.

The room didn't look cozy. Quite the opposite. There was something repulsive, terrifying about it. Like the air he breathed, the air that filled his lungs. Nevertheless, he entered and, with a sigh, sat down on one of the chairs, which crumbled under his weight. The boy fell to the ground, driving a long splinter into his hand. He let out a heartbreaking cry and jumped to his feet. He bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. He waved his hand erratically. Finally, he calmed down and looked at his hand. The piece of wood reached deep, digging painfully into his tendons with every movement.

It was dark. An unsettling gloom had imperceptibly spread across the forest.

Crispin didn't know what to do. Should he pull out the splinter or leave it? Somewhere deep in his mind, his mother's warning echoed, spoken too long ago to leave a clear mark. The boy gently grasped the edge of the stick (the urge to rid himself of the pain and the unwanted "guest" proved too strong) and pulled hard. Blood spilled down his arm, running down the thick shaft and staining his shirt.

The boy looked around frantically. He had to clean and bind the wound with something! He quickly ran outside and approached the horse. Blood was dripping from his elbow. He turned strangely pale, and his hands were shaking. He barely managed to pull a water bottle from his bag. He unscrewed it and poured its contents into his hand.

He cried out in pain, but tried to hold on. It didn't matter that his vision blurred; tears welled up in his eyes. After a moment of agony, the wound healed. It was a nasty, jagged cut. Blood continued to flow from it, but not as profusely as before.

Now all he had to do was wrap his hand in something: the triangular linen scarf tied around his neck was perfect for the job.

Kryspin felt strangely drained. Why had the whole world suddenly begun to sway in all directions? He barely made it to the cottage, dragging his feet behind him. Miraculously, he lit a candle. Its smoke irritated his strangely sensitive nostrils unpleasantly. He lacked the strength to light the fireplace: clearing the hearth and fetching wood seemed beyond his capabilities.

He felt for the bed with his good hand. It seemed stable enough that he curled up on it and fell asleep... Or rather, tried to fall asleep...

After several hours, when the candle in the candlestick tilted alarmingly, and the hot wax doused the burning wick, which extinguished with a loud hiss, Kryspin was asleep. Before the narrow circle of light dissipated into the darkness, one could study the boy's face. It was beaded with sweat, his eyes darted back and forth beneath closed lids, and his half-open mouth drew in large gulps of air. It was a deeply disturbing sight...

Finally, Kryspin awoke. His dream was still fresh in his mind. The same one as before. He was running through the forest, but was it a different forest? It seemed the same, yet there was something truly terrifying about it. The trees were shedding their leaves, and the birds weren't chirping so eagerly anymore. There was a distinct smell of burning in the air. In this dream, the same laughing girl was running beside him... But was there sadness in her? Her clothes were soiled, torn and tattered in places, and that joyful laughter sounded forced, occasionally breaking, and a soft sob could be heard. The clearing they had entered was no longer as beautiful. The flowers withered, leaving only bare stems, and the grass turned yellow.

The remnants of sleep vanished the moment Crispin stirred in his bed. His numb limbs burned with a sharp pain, and his injured arm ached as if scorched by fire and dipped alternately in hot tar. He felt utterly miserable. His head was spinning, and his legs seemed to have a life of their own; they tangle and buckle repeatedly.

The boy went outside. It was still pitch dark. He swayed and almost fell. But a Phoenix appeared before him and supported him.

"Oh gods!" he whispered through chapped lips. "I completely forgot about you! I only lay down for a moment! It's not my fault I fell asleep. I'm so tired... I don't know what's wrong with me!"

The horse blew on its master's neck and snorted, as if to say, "Easy! I understand! Don't worry about a thing!"

Crispin smiled and turned toward the cottage. He shook his head, but it wasn't one of his best ideas, because a moment later his head exploded with a dull, throbbing, overwhelming pain. But he saw someone's face in the window! Impossible. It must have seemed so... Especially since it was dark outside...

He struggled to climb into the saddle and gripped the reins tightly.

"Please, little one..." he whispered to Phoenix, who moved slowly. "Not too fast, please, or I won't be able to stand it... Ow!" he cried as he gripped his injured hand too tightly. "I'm sorry, Phoenix, you had to stay saddled all night. You didn't even eat or rest..." The horse snorted soothingly.

The mount stepped as gently as he could. It took them some time to reach the road. They walked a little further, and in the darkness they saw the dark silhouette of a rider on a horse. It was Kestor.

"Hey, old man!" he shouted from the distance. "Didn't I say I'd be there for sure? I didn't even go to bed!

" "Please..." Kryspin said weakly. "Don't say anything. Every word you say stabs me in the head like a thin dagger.

" "I can see it. You look a bit weak today. Did something happen?

" "A little accident...

" "What? Tell me?

" "Nothing out of the ordinary...

" "Okay? So, are we off?

" "Are you still asking?" Kryspin's eyes lit up with amusement. "I wouldn't dream of anything else!

" "Then let's go!"

And so Kestor set off at a trot, leaving his disoriented companion in his tracks.

"But...! Wait..." he wanted to shout, but it came out weakly.

Phoenix began to walk, as slowly and gently as he could.

Kestor realized he'd lost something after a while. He waited a moment, but when no one appeared, he sighed and turned back.

"Hey, come on!" Why are you dragging your feet? At this pace, we won't even reach the nearest village in a week! He shouted upon seeing Kryspin

. "I asked you to speak quietly, or I'll blow my head off..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I forgot." Kryspin took a breath to answer, but a violent cough shook him. The boy coughed and coughed, trying to control himself, but nothing helped. He felt that if he didn't stop, he would spit out his lungs. It all made him cry; tears flowed uninterrupted down his cheeks.

"Hey, man?!" Kestor called softly. "What's wrong with you?"

The attack passed. Instead, the boy felt cold and began to shiver.

"I-I think I'm sick..." he whispered with difficulty through his tight, aching throat. He raised a hand to his eyes and wiped away the tears from his face. "I have to lie down...

" "Well... but where?

" "I don't know...

" "But you don't want to...

" "Go back to your farm? Don't worry, we're not going back. We're going on. Despite everything."

"But you're too weak..."

"So what? Should I delay the expedition again? Over my dead body." I just need a good night's sleep," he said quietly.

"You know you don't look your best."

"I realize that, but thanks for the comment."

Kestor stopped arguing. He realized he wasn't going to get anywhere anyway. Kryspin sank into thought and tried to ignore the terrible pain in his head.

They rode in silence. In the afternoon, unmolested, they reached Elmar. They should have gotten there much faster; it was only an hour and a half's brisk walk from the farm, but because of Kryspin's poor health, they had to stop often for long periods. The boy was coughing mercilessly, and his injured arm was bleeding constantly. Kestor began to fear that the wound had become infected. He wanted to get to town as quickly as possible to find a medic who could help him.

The first buildings of Elmar appeared on the horizon. People also appeared. They looked at the new arrivals with surprise, and perhaps even fear. One woman stepped boldly toward them. She was about thirty, with sharp features, strong eyes, a full mouth, and a figure to match. Yet, her presence radiated warmth and security. Kestor felt that this woman could be trusted.

"Greetings, gentlemen," she said in a calm, soothing voice. Kestor bowed and returned the greeting. Kryspin, however, remained silent, unable to utter a word.

"I immediately noticed that something was wrong with your companion," she remarked, looking at the boy. "Perhaps you need help?"

"And how much would this... help cost?" Kestor asked hesitantly.

"Oh, nothing, my boy!" the woman laughed. "I'd be happy to help you. It's my pleasure."

Kestor smiled gratefully and nodded in agreement. After a moment, he said,

"Thank you. You seem to have fallen from the sky. I don't know how I can repay you."

"You're welcome, dear child. Come, I'll take you to my house."

Kryspin staggered in the saddle. His whole body ached, every fiber of his being. In flashes of greater awareness, he wanted to die, to be free from this unimaginable suffering. When they reached the city, he was completely exhausted. He heard his companion talking to someone, heard voices, but couldn't make out the words.

The woman led the boys to her homestead. There was a small house in front of which small children were playing.

"Come, dear boy, jump off that horse," she told Kryspin, then stood beside him to help him. The boy lurched dangerously to one side. He felt himself losing consciousness. He couldn't stop it... He fell like a log to the ground...