Colt spent the first day of their journey watching them smoke his tobacco. They would roll a smoke, do a piss-poor job of it, and light it with the spent remains of the previous one. The mangled remains of the dead cigarettes were always snuffed out on his bare skin. The same spot every time. He would neither clench his teeth nor make a sound. All he would give them was frustration at not feeling in control.

The knights had stripped him of all his dressings and his weapons, save for his pants. Everything he owned had been passed around and traded amongst his captors as trophies. Colt knew they would cherish these keepsakes to remember the time they caught the Bear of Corvallia. So, rain or shine, night or day, he’d suffer through the whole ride to Vendara half-naked. He’d been through much worse.

The company didn’t fear pursuit, so they camped early. The sun was still a few hours from hiding behind the mountains and they had already started pitching tents and building fires. Soon the smells of smoke and roasting meat mingled with that of his tobacco, all things that made Colts senses dance.

The cage wasn’t tall enough to stand in, and he was chained in such a way that prevented him from sitting or lying down. His arms were shackled high to the top of the cage, and he almost hung there. Even so, Colt refused to show his exhaustion. He’d die kneeling in this cage before he begged for relief. He’d show them the strength of his resolve, and it would hold them captive with awe.

On the rare occasions where he wasn’t being burned, poked with swords through the bars, or spat on, he’d be allowed to his thoughts. Mostly his mind ran through his options for escape. When would he do it? How would he do it? Important questions, no answers. His biggest obstacle was Leon Groyce. That man had been a thorn in his side for far too long. Something would have to be done about him. Again, when and how were what first popped into his tired mind.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Leon approached the far side of Colt's mobile cage. His armor rattled and clanked as he walked. The man practically lived in his armor and was seldom without it. He peered in at him through the hastily smithed iron bars, the diminishing sunlight casting a hatch of shadows upon the captain’s face.

“Well, well. It’s been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on you, old friend.” He showed Colt a set of teeth that seemed to have their own hunger. It had been years since Colt had considered this monster a friend. Leon’s use of the word to his face was an insult, and Groyce knew it. The Knight Captain was trying to shake the tree. He would be more than disappointed when nothing fell from the branches.

“Leon,” Colt greeted dryly with a subtle nod. “Still the King’s dog, I see.” He added a smirk to the tail end of the remark.

“You’re going to rot in a cell, Colt.” Leon slowly walked around the cage. “Rot without eyes. Eyes that I’ll rip from your skull.” He walked beyond Colts' left side and was passing behind him. “Rot without hands.” He leaned in and spoke softly. “Hands that I’ll hack away at until you have nothing but stumps.” Leon appeared around Colts' other side in his peripheral vision. “You deserve worse.” Leon stopped, once again in front of the cage. “I’ll make sure you get your dues.” He smiled again. “As a traitor, you’ve earned it.”

Colt uttered the faintest of chuckles. “You’ve always been one for dramatics. I was hoping that habit would have died by now. Some things never change, I guess.”

Leon stared hotly at the caged giant. He maintained a cool composure, but his eyes told a different story. They blazed with hatred. “You threw away greatness for your weak ideals and a child! Greatness, Colt!”

Colt merely scoffed and held the man’s stare. The tension between them could have set the air itself on fire. They hated each other, and only a set of iron bars prevented them from showing just how much. The cage not only confined The Bear but kept the peace in the little camp as well. There was no telling what would happen if the knights could get at him with more than sword tips and cigarette butts.

Groyce raised a hand, a beckoning gesture. A young knight came running over. “Yes, Sir?” The man spoke as rigidly as he had bowed. He looked nervous, shaken. His brethren, on the other hand, were calm and enjoying their downtime. It was as if they hadn’t just massacred a town of their own countrymen.

“You are to oversee the prisoner. He is to be given only enough food and water to survive, no more.” With that, Colt’s new guard bowed, voiced his understanding, then nervously bowed again as his captain left.

Colt immediately smelled opportunity all over this man. He gave the tiniest of grins. “Boy,” Colt croaked. The knight looked startled, having been caught off guard. “Listen to your captain and fetch me some food and drink, then you can get back to sharing stories of your glorious battle with the mighty villagers of Yalum with your fellows over there.” Colt pitched his head in the direction of the other knights gathered around the fires. There was no sarcasm in his voice, but Colt knew it would sting worse that way, and he knew this man would feel that sting. It was all over his face.

The young man didn’t reply but Colt swore he saw a look in his eyes. Was that guilt? Regret? Sadness? He’d have to dig into the boy. Colt had never known a Holy Knight with a conscience. This one was already turning out to be very interesting, and Colt had only just begun.

The young knight wandered off hastily, a sour look about him and a clank to each footfall. It wasn’t long before he returned. He carried a small piece of bread and a bucket of water from a nearby stream. He dropped the bucket at the foot of the cage without much care, causing some of its contents to slosh out and wet the dirt.

He alternated feeding Colt the bread through the bars and spooning him water from a large wooden ladle. The burly man ate and drank greedily as if the sustenance were his first in many days. It was all to gain sympathy, of course.

“I don’t suppose you could roll me a smoke, too? Could you, lad?”

The knight ignored him, dropped the spoon back into the bucket, and walked back to the campfires that were casting flickering shadows off his companions in the spreading darkness. He didn’t join in their conversations.

Colt saw this as a win. Even though he hadn’t spoken a word to his captive, Colt had learned much about the young man Captain Groyce had put in charge of him. He would use his newfound knowledge to his advantage. He just had to have patience, and Colt was teeming with patience.

. . .

Thomas sat in the shade of the mighty tree on the hill, a cool breeze caressing his skin. His senses ate up the world around him. The soft rustle of the tall grass in the fields at the base of the little knoll where he rested was a soothing chorus. He smelled a subtle fragrance from wildflowers that made his body sigh in pleasure with every breath. He was calm and at peace.

He felt wonderful. So much so, he feared he could get used to it. With his head back against the tree, and his eyes closed against the warmth of the sun, he allowed a smile to grow on his face. Nothing was missing in this perfect moment.

A sweet duet from a pair of birds overhead invited him to open his eyes. He spotted them high up, perched on a branch. They tweeted and cooed, dipping their heads at one another and giving their mate all the attention they could spare. Thomas’s smile turned into a toothy grin as they took flight and began to dance and spiral around one another against the blue sky.

Thomas wanted so desperately to join them up there, but he couldn’t. His smile faded as he pondered the shackles that bound him to the ground. His seemingly cruel lack of freedom was a harsh jab dealt by the being known as reality. Would he let that stop him from making the best out of what he had, though?

No, he told himself.

His smile returned as the magic of the scenery about him sunk in once more. Its infectious sounds, vibrant colors, and wonderful scents permeated all that he was and soothed him to his soul. Washed away were any doubts, troubling thoughts, and bad memories.

Were there any bad memories? He couldn’t seem to find a single one looming in even the most remote corners of his mind. Now that he thought about it, life had always been kind to him. He’d never known fear, heartache, misery, or loss. A pleasant life is all he’d ever had.

For some reason that was far beyond him, the thought didn’t sit right. It rolled around in his head as an unwelcome enigma, never really gaining traction and acceptance. Thomas began to feel mentally disorganized, the puzzle pieces in his mind not quite fitting together the way they should.

Something was missing. Something was off.

He sat up away from the tree, the bark of which no longer felt as comfortable as it had before. Thomas looked around, looked up. The birds were gone. Not far away or moved on; gone. The sounds conducted by the landscape ceased to hold him delicately with comfort.

Thomas stood with a sudden sense of urgency. The world around him felt off, he felt off. His hands fidgeted with the folds on his trousers nervously as he turned this way and that. The daylight seemed to lose its intensity. It didn’t grow dark. It was like the light from the sun had become filtered, distorted, like a muffled scream.

He began to walk down the hill back to the road, his nerves on edge for no discernible reason. The feeling of claws creeping up in the back of his mind unsettled him and caused his heart to race. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t see what.

Thomas reached the road and began to walk home. His feet almost stuttered across the dirt, and the jitteriness in his stride kicked up dust. He held one hand in the other, rubbing them together with worry as his anxiety grew. His eyes started to dart from left to right, searching for the cause of his unrest, but he found none.

The walk home took what seemed a lifetime, yet no time at all. His perception felt dulled, muted. He noticed the tall grass by the side of the road swayed with the push of the wind but made no sound. Soon the wind stopped altogether, and the world around him seemed to die in his ears, robbing his senses of input. He couldn’t feel his hands upon one another, couldn’t feel the sweat he knew was rolling down his brow.

Darkness fell so suddenly, yet so gradually that he didn’t notice the transition. He looked skyward but saw no stars to compliment the night. Only the moon looked down upon him, lighting his way, but the light from it made him sick and gave the man a sense of looming horror. He could feel a rising panic churning in his chest that beat on his heart like a drum.

Home at last, Thomas quickly shuffled up the path to his front door and stood there, staring at the brass handle, great hesitation pulling at him. He heard a voice within him shouting to run, to get away and hide. Deeper inside, though, he also heard an equally enticing one that urged him to enter, that everything was fine.

He reached out his hand and touched the cold metal handle. The moment he did, Thomas felt a crushing pressure upon him that made his mind scream. Chilling panic rushed in and swirled around in his depths like a violent wind. His heartbeat intensified and he could feel its thump in his chest, hear it in his head. It was the only sound left. Even his erratic breaths failed to find his ears.

Thomas pushed open the door, it swung slowly and silently inward, and all that he was, froze. His eyes widened with fear as he tried to pick apart what he was seeing. Across the room, deep in the dark bowels of his house, stood a black silhouette of unnatural height. Its arms and legs were thin, back arched in a sickly way. It faced away from him, each pump from Thomas’s frantic heart caused it to twitch.

He could smell death in the air. Not rotting flesh or blood, but the potential of death. Its inevitability was palpable and filled the room like thick, musty air. It was hard to breathe, adding to his panic and already fragmented thoughts.

In the blink of an eye, Thomas found he was inside the house, halfway to the thing that seemed to embody fear, with the door closed tight behind him. He watched as the creature bent backward, almost folding over, and placed its slender, jagged hands on the floor behind it. The room about him began to pulsate, ebbing and vibrating, as the figure crawled its way to him. Each time it moved it seemed to slow down and speed up, creating a terrifying unpredictability.

Thomas saw its face, or where one should be. All he saw were two haunting eyes. They held no detail, like holes in its head. He felt like he’d fall and disappear into those pits if he let it get closer, but he couldn’t move. His body refused and his mind denied.

Despite its inconsistent approach, it was upon him in a second, standing to full height and bending over him as he gazed up at it in shocked horror. It reached up a gnarled, clawed hand to Thomas’s face and dug the tips into his skin. Thomas screamed, but he made no sound. It was lost to the void that was the surrounding blackness.

A mouth formed out of nothingness upon the things face and opened wide in a deathly maw that stole his breath and a black, bloody tongue snaked out and whipped around in front of Thomas’s face. A sound came from it like a low rumble that shook his core.

The sharp talon-like fingers raked down his face and across his eyes slowly, stealing his sight and soaking him in warm blood that gushed from his punctured orbs and open, ragged flesh. The pain was excruciating and far outweighed anything he had felt before. Tines of searing heat coursed through his whole body and the shock left him twitching and convulsing. He screamed as the blood flowed, but still, no sound left his mouth.

The blackened tongue searched across Thomas’s face until it found his gory sockets, and the length of gruesome muscle plunged deep inside one. He could feel the thing probing around inside his skull, gathering what meat was held within then scooping out its findings as Thomas choked and gagged on his own fluids.

“You’re mine,” he heard the thing of death whisper in a voice so terrifyingly familiar it sent what was left of his mind reeling.

He felt a desperate weight upon his soul as the horror bent down and took Thomas’s mutilated head into that gaping mouth.

Thomas’s eyes shot open, and he violently tore at his sheets as he sat bolt upright in his bed screaming, drenched in sweat. His body ached all over as he shook and shivered and he knew the wounds on his back had reopened, the trickle of blood down his skin an obvious indication. He sat there in the darkness of his room, breathing heavily.

What was that? He asked himself. It felt like more than just a nightmare.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus on the blackness around him, but soon he could see in muted blacks and greys as his eyes adjusted. It was dead silent, save for the groaning of the house as the wind outside pushed against it.

Thomas looked to the window. It was still dark outside, a gentle glow of moonbeams piercing the opening and providing a small amount of silvery light. He wondered if he got up and looked outside to the sky if he’d see stars accompanying the moon. Thomas didn’t feel like feeding his curiosity. He knew they were there.

With a wince of pain as his body yelled at him from head to toe, he swung his legs out of bed and began dressing. He didn’t dare fall asleep again. Strangely enough, he’d never had a nightmare before and wasn’t eager to have another. Thomas threw on a fresh set of clothes from his dresser. He knew they’d be red-stained soon but couldn't care less.

He grabbed the oil lamp on his nightstand and struck a match to light it. The small flame grew to its peak and bathed the small room in a soft, yellow glow. His eyes corrected again. The washed-out greys and blacks took on slight color as the light was introduced to the room.

Shadows grew to life on the walls and floor from the lamps' tiny brilliance and Thomas’s heart skipped a beat. Immediately, his blood grew cold as a spike of adrenaline hit him. His thoughts were flooded with images from the nightmare. Flashes of the horror his sleeping mind had created streaked across his memories and he felt his breath catch in his throat, but nothing happened.

He began to calm as the shadows did nothing more than dance and sway to the flicker of the little flame in the oil lamp. Thomas brought a hand up to his head and wiped the sweat from his skin.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said in a whisper, trying to assure himself.

He heard footsteps coming down the hall towards his door and he felt that spike again, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He waited, staring at the door. Soon enough, he heard a knock and a hushed voice.

“Thomas? Thomas, are you alright?”

He didn’t reply. He was still on edge and subconsciously distrusted everything. He waited and the person outside his door persisted.

“Thomas? I heard a scream. Don’t make me kick this door down.”

At that, Thomas’s anxiety was put somewhat in check. He moved for the door, unlocked it, and gently pulled it open. Sonya stood on the other side, donned in a scarce amount of clothing that Thomas guessed passed as nightwear for her. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, and she wore a mix of worry and curiosity on her face. Her eyes blazed with alertness as they searched the room over his shoulder.

No doubt she was ready to fight something if it came to it. He hadn’t known her for long, but already was coming to find her mannerisms were predictable. If something threatened her or a friend, she’d be ready.

The one exception to this, he supposed, was the ordeal in town the other day. Everyone was susceptible to crippling breakdowns from trauma. He was coming to see that firsthand. He knew his suffering had just begun, too. Would he ever be alright again? Sonya still had her struggles with her past terrors, so he supposed the answer was no, probably not.

“What’s wrong?” She asked him as she squinted against the glow from the lamp in his hand.

“Just a nightmare. It was horrible…” He didn’t have much more to say on the topic. He didn’t want to revisit it.

Sonya looked him up and down, probably noticing his slight trembling. She smiled and looked back up at him. “Come on. I know what you need.” She walked back down the hall and Thomas followed. Goosebumps populated her skin from the bite the cold offered her minimally covered body, so she grabbed a blanket along the way as well as her trusty pouch of tobacco and headed for the front door.

They both stepped outside into the chilled night air. The moon was a shining crescent high in the sky joined by a vast company of stars finished off with a beautiful, milky strip of blotchy whites, blacks, and faded blues that stretched from horizon to horizon. Thomas was so relieved to see it all that he let out a big sigh and his shoulders sunk and relaxed.

Sonya sat on the steps and wrapped the blanket around the exposed skin of her body and slender legs to ward off any further pecks from the night air. She untied the leather strap of her pouch and began rolling two cigarettes.

“Sit your ass down,” she said looking up at him after the first was done.

“Is this your answer for everything?” Thomas asked as he accepted the smoke and, with a groan, lowered himself down next to her.

“Mostly,” she replied. “It’s at least a comfort.”

Thomas nodded. “You’re right. It helped calm me down last time.”

Sonya finished with the second and held the lamp up for Thomas so he could light his, then did the same for herself. After a few sharp puffs, their cigarettes were lit, and they breathed deeply of the delicious smoke.

“So,” Sonya began, “tell me about this nightmare.”

Thomas shuddered at its mention. He took a heavy drag off his smoke and exhaled, bouncing his leg up and down nervously as he thought about the dream again.

“It felt so real…” He started. “So…vivid.” He turned to her and saw that she wasn’t staring off into the night, as he assumed she’d be. She was looking directly at him, waiting.

“Dreams…nightmares,” she corrected, “should be taken seriously. They can mean nothing, but they can also mean everything. I won’t take it lightly, Thomas, I promise.” She held her cigarette to her lips and pulled deeply from it.

He said nothing for a while, just averted his eyes and soaked up the darkness stretching out before him. “You know how when you wake up, it all starts to fade, the sections become disjointed and nothing that made sense in the dream makes sense anymore?”

“Yeah,” Sonya said, “I do.”

“Well, that’s not what happened. It’s all so clear, like the images are burned into my mind. They won’t go away. Every time I close my eyes, I see…” Thomas didn’t finish. His mind was in a fog, and he kept losing his thoughts.

“See what?” Sonya asked.

Thomas just shook his head. “I miss…” He didn’t say what, just lost himself once again.

“Aimee?” Sonya suggested. The mention of her name caused a noticeable reaction in the man. His body tensed and the grip on his smoke tightened.

“Yeah…” Thomas confirmed with a tremble to his voice. Moisture began to build in his vision, and he sniffled.

There was no more to be said. With the conversation done, they smoked their cigarettes in silence until they were nothing more than short, smoldering nubs of their former selves. They pitched them into the night and remained sitting on the porch. It wasn’t long before Thomas began to sob, the shadow looming over his mind drank up the sorrow and grinned as its voraciousness was satiated with each delectable drop of pain from the broken man.

. . .

It crawled across the floor, ragged wounds tearing open further from the rough wood. Its direction was aimless, not knowing where it was, what it was, or its purpose. It struck a wall with one gnarled, bloody hand as it swung it forward. The bent, misshapen fingers scraped across and down a wall, searching for purchase, leaving flaps of skin and flesh behind embedded in the chips and knots of the wood.

The thing couldn’t see. Its eyes were horrid, jellied balls of oozing puss that hung down and dangled from its sockets against its pale, boney cheeks. It continued to claw and drag itself along and it left a trail of blood in its wake as it went, smearing the mess around as it kicked out its legs to progress.

The arms of the horror flailed as it moved along the floor. Its belly ripped open from a protruding nail and it flopped around madly in confusion while its entrails spilled out onto the floor. Eventually, it found its way again and continued going nowhere specific, fingernails raking.

The skin on its body was rotted to the point its bones showed through here and there and blood constantly found a way out, dripping and seeping. The stretched leather that was its face was so diminished it revealed an endless grin. The teeth were blackened over a darting, wiggling tongue.

Unknown to this thing, as everything was, its spilled blood began to follow it. Chunks of bone and gore slithered and rolled end over end or formed strings of coagulated webbing that clung to the creatures’ body and dragged behind.

Then one of the masses of bloody threads crept beyond the crawl of its host, latched onto some distant object, and pulled the writhing body to it. Others of the swirling clots and lumps of trialing ooze started snaking around the decaying and festering flesh of the thing, creating a pulsating second skin.

More web-like arms of formless gore came forth, this time flinging themselves across the small space the thing lurked in. They caught on distant, unknown objects and dragged the thing along, wet sliding noises made by its passage.

Suddenly, it sensed movement. With a snapping of bones and cracking of cartilage, it arched its body in that direction. All its activity froze, and its empty sockets stared blankly into the darkness, waiting, feeling.

The movement came again, and without a seconds’ delay, the half-living terror issued forth a dozen bloody tendrils towards the source of movement that wrapped around any manner of body and limb they could find. With hidden strength, the thing launched itself through the air towards something that was bound and thrashing and screaming. The thing tried to scream too through gritted teeth, but no sound came out. Only blood, bile, and horror squeezed like pulp through its clenched, toothy grin.

It opened its mouth and bit down, tearing at warm flesh and fresh bone. It was bathed in splashes of hot, thick blood as it consumed meat, tooth, and bone alike. The creature continued, ripping out the eye of the panicked victim with its gnashing teeth. More bloodcurdling screams came.

Its prey fell to the floor and flailed and clawed for life less and less with every bite. Soon, its screams of terror and sobs of desperation became gargles that did nothing but take in and expel crimson instead of gasps of air.

The movements ceased and the squirming mass enveloped the fresh kill. It throbbed. It ebbed. It ate. A slurping of juices and crunching of bone sounded alone in the darkness.