Holding Up

A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

An impossibly tight fist smashes against the nearby wall. A spasming foot twists and drives into the floor. The creak of strained bones and muscles stretched near the point of breaking fills the room; but not another sound, beyond labored breathing, thumps, and crashes. Eyes wide but unseeing, and mouth distended in a scream that never leaves the throat, his body wars against itself, determined to tear itself asunder for some imagined slight. Or, perhaps, to fight against foes only he can see, but none the less deadly for it.

In their ways, both are true.

Three men stand at the crest of the hill, their cottage sitting just behind them. Tall, knee-high grass covers the land as it rolls down from the hillock and slowly curves back up to meet the edges of a wood, thorny trees clawing at the clouded sky. The tallest of the three knocks an arrow to the longbow in his hands just as the low peal of thunder splits the humid air. Hunting leathers creak as he draws it partially back, glancing off to his left, at one of his brothers.

"Sure?"

"North. North", the shorter one replies, one hand clutching his head. The man winces, ducking his head to his shoulder in silent pain. "Trust me. Too loud to not be north." The words die away, only replaced by the sigh of the wind and the rustle of dry grass.

The bowman slowly swings his head towards the right, the smallest of his two brothers scanning the treeline with his sharp green eyes. "Anythin' a' all?"

"Look, I'd let you know if there was. These constant queries ar--There!"

An arrow hisses from the bow immediately, following the slim finger that points to the Woods, cutting across the distance. Something black and indistinct falls rolling in the grass, merely a few feet from where it left the shelter of the ominous forest. Poet shudders again in pain. "Two score more. At least."

"Here they come."

Scholar's eyes dart from the boles of the benighted trees, and soon enough: "Two, on the left. Spindly little tree."

Two black streaks fly from the bow, the beasts dropped in their tracks almost side by side.

"The 'fore, one."

Woodsman grunts, eying the shadowy corpse rolling down the far slope of the hill with a grim satisfaction. "Kee' at it."

"Three."

More arrows cut the air, and Poet drops to his knees, holding his head tightly in both hands.

"Two more, in the grass, there!"

Thunder booms, and even as Woodsman carries out the creatures' death sentence, more boil from the Woods.

Countless minutes pass, finally the last arrow strikes it's mark, the beast rolling over onto it's side and slowly coming apart like grey smoke. And the sky is clear, almost painfully bright sunlight pouring down from the blue over the lush grass. Not one sign of the things from the forest remain on the slope. One minute, then two pass, before Woodsman sighs wearily and returns his arrow to the quiver.

"Over and done with. I'll get back to business, shall I?", Scholar said, robes swishing quietly as he walks back to the cottage door, even as Woodsman offers a hand to Poet, curled up tightly on the ground. They too turn and walk towards home, the bowman supporting his wracked brother along the way as Scholar slips in the door.

Slowly, he stills. The boy lies motionless for many minutes, eyes gradually focusing on the ceiling as his fingers unclench from bloody, nail-marked palms. He can feel the bruises, and he can feel the sore and twisted muscles. It's almost an hour before he recalls his name, and minutes more before he notes the time. With a pained groan he crawls to his stave, leaned against the wall, and is out the door. He has an appointment to keep, and is already long late. The cripple's mind buzzes with blurred thoughts of his love and her venomous mentor, while somewhere, three men sit, write, rest--and wait. Wait for the sky to cloud, thunder to sound, and for the battle to be joined anew.