A Story

Drip.

"Hey... Hey, pick me up!" The annoying, nasally voice keeps pestering Osric. His mind hesitates, but his body doesn’t, instinctively reaching out for the book.

"Don’t touch that book." A new voice — no, a voice he recognizes, deep and raspy — floods his ears. His hand recoils.

>>>

Drip.
How many days has it been? he wonders, as the executioner demon opens a small door beside the lockbox on the bars and tosses in a tray of indistinct brown mush, most of it spilling onto the ground.

Drip.

He crawls over and licks it off the floor. He has no idea what they’re feeding him. It tastes horrible, but it’s all he has — and he’s starving.

"Hey, come on." The book's voice is ever-present in his cell.

Drip.
The dripping won't stop. This book won't stop. The pain won't stop... My mind won't stop. I can't take it. Osric squeezes his knee, wanting the pain to get worse, hoping it would drown out everything else.

"Why don't I heal that knee for you? You can't relax with all that pain, can you?"

Osric perks up. He can barely make out the book in the darkness. "You can do that?"

"Yes. Pick. Me. Up."

***

"Stop with the wild swings!" Alec’s sword clashes against Elayne’s, her wide strike aimed at his side.

The impact knocks Elayne off balance. She drops her sword and falls onto her butt, winded

"Come on, Elayne. You've got it!" Helen sits against a tree, cheering her on.

"Why do we have to do this? Let's go rescue Osric," Elayne asks between heavy breaths.

"In your current state, Anne wouldn't take you." Alec sheaths his sword. "You have potential, but you can't fight. You'd only slow us down. I'm starting to doubt that Randolf trained you."

"Huh!?" Elayne springs up, snarling. "Don't say that about Randolf!" She charges Alec.

She bounds into the air with another wide swing. Alec stops the blade with only two fingers.

"Randolf should have told you not to let anger lead your sword." Alec tosses the blade aside, sending Elayne tumbling with it.

"Caden!" Alec calls.

The hooded boy drops from a tree with a bow and quiver.

"If you really want to come with us, you’ll need to be able to fight a soldier while demon mages cast spells from a distance. Pretend Caden’s arrows are spells."

Caden strings a blunt-tipped arrow on the bow.

"Come at me!" Alec shouts, spreading his arms wide.

Elayne digs her feet into the grass. With a battle cry, she blasts forward. Out the corner of her eye, she catches an arrow flying toward her and deflects it; it clangs against her sword as she closes in.

Pow!
Alec smacks her on the shoulder, and she rolls through the grass.

"You took your eyes off me for too long." Alec walks over. "You're a half-beastkin. Use your ears." He kneels, reaching for the handkerchief on her head.

"I'll do it." She swats his hands away and unties it herself.

"Use your ears to hear the arrow. Use your nose to smell your opponent's sweat. Use your strength to overpower them." Alec paces as he speaks. "The only warriors who've ever kept up with me were demons and half-beastkin. You have what it takes. You need to think and use your senses."

"I am thinking! You don't know anything about me." Elayne barks.

"I do. I know that half-beastkin can be formidable foes."

"You don't know that!" she snaps back.

"I do. I trained him." Alec points to Caden.

Caden pulls back his hood, atop his pale skin and black hair are cat ears. He turns, and a slender tail pops out from under his coat.

Elayne's mouth drops open in surprise.

"Get up and charge me again! Use your ears to locate the arrow, and don't telegraph your swing!" Alec orders.

Elayne exhales sharply, steadies her stance, and bolts at him.

***

Drip.

Osric stretches an arm out, about to touch the leather spine — Suddenly the book is gone. The stone floor is gone.

He's lying on a beige carpet. In front of him sits an antique desk. Bookshelves line the walls on either side, packed with more books than he can count.

Behind the desk, an office chair squeals as it turns around, revealing a man with silver hair and eyes in a green bomber jacket.

"Hello there." The man’s deep, raspy voice grumbles as he rests his elbows on the desk. He clears his throat. "Sorry — hello there." His voice jumps higher, more peppy.

Osric scrambles to his feet — his knee doesn’t hurt. He does a double-take at his attire: heart-print boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He tugs at a strand of hair. It’s brown, not blonde. He’s taller, too.

"Why do I look like this?" he blurts.

"That's what you wanted it to look like. That's how you see yourself," the silver-haired man replies.

"What does that mean?"

"It means what I just said. What don't you understand?" The man rests his head on his interlaced fingers.

Now standing, Osric notices papers strewn across the desk and, in the corner, a drinking bird. The plastic toy dips toward a glass of water.

"Where am I?"

The man flicks the bird’s head. Its beak dunks into the water, then rises back up. A droplet falls.

DRIP.

"You're not really anywhere, but to make it simple, let's say you're in my office."

"But... why?" Osric scans the room again.

"Well, I had to stop you. You were about to touch that book."

"What's so bad about that book?"

"Let's not get into it. Just don't touch it. When I snap my fingers, you'll be back. And just remember: don't touch that book." The man raises his hand, about to snap.

"Wait!" Osric shouts. The man lowers his hand. "You expect me to go back there? Back to that filthy jail cell with a broken knee? I don’t want to go back."

The man chuckles. "You certainly can't stay here." He raises his hand again.

"If I go back, I'm gonna touch the book." Osric glares at him.

The man sighs. "What could I do to convince you?"

Osric exhales sharply, and crosses his arms. "Nothing."

"Let me tell you a story, then."

DRIP.
The bird dunks its beak into the cup again.