Today, I decided to write a little flash fiction for you guys instead of one of my regular posts on disability. This takes place in a universe I’ve been building for a future project. Enjoy!
Pull. Back. Forward.
You feel the cold, salty sting of the sea air as your shackled hands, raw and blistered, grip the oar tighter. You’re not as young as you once were, and the aching in your muscles and bones extends beyond your rowing.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
You thought you no longer had the energy to keep up with the rhythmic beating of the drum, but you’re no longer you. You’re just a shell of a person, strapped to the oar of a Faaral raiding ship.
The drum beats faster and faster, signaling an attack. Already? You just left port what feels like hours ago. How has it already been the three days to Surring? You shake your head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear it. It doesn’t matter. Each pull of the oar is what matters.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
The whip cracks and you hear someone grunt in pain.
“Faster, thrall!” the quartermaster shouts. You grimace; you don’t want to be the subject of his attention. Or his whip.
Looking up through the cracks to the deck, you see the warriors ready themselves. This far out from shore? Something must be wrong.
“Hard to port!” the quartermaster shouts again, cracking his whip at any who don’t obey. You pull even harder, determined to stay out of his focus.
“Arrows!” The command comes from up on the deck. Arrows? You know that’s not the Faaral way to storm the shore. You know they’re proud warriors, who will charge fearlessly with their spears and axes and shields. Everyone else seems just as confused as you are, and there’s a momentary lapse in the rhythm. The quartermaster cracks his whip again and again, trying to get everyone back to rowing. You feel the sharp pain of it on your back. He cracks it again and again until you are all back in rhythm with the drum.
Pull.
Back.
Forward,
And then you hear it. Two short blasts, followed by three long blasts. A horn you’ve heard before. It’s been decades, but you’d recognize that sound anywhere. After all, you grew up hearing it every day in Anandale.
The war horn of Naedyria. For a moment, you’re hopeful. Perhaps you haven’t made it to Surring. Maybe the Naedyrian vessel spotted the wolfshead bowpiece and were interceding. Maybe you would be saved. It was a long shot, but still. You haven’t had all the hope stripped from you. A part of you has always believed one day you’d be rescued.
Pull.
Back.
Forward.
You know it isn’t likely—after all, the Faaral are fearsome warriors and cunning seamen. But you’ve heard the rumors that have been spreading like wildfire among the Faaral about your people. Secret armies composed solely of magic-users.
You’ve never quite believed these rumors. Magic users are the lowest rung of society, and the use of magic has been all but outlawed by the Crown. But you don’t know for sure. And it sounds oddly chaotic on deck. Perhaps these rumors are true.
All wondering is brought to a halt immediately as suddenly, a hole twice as big as a man is blasted through the side of the hull. Half a dozen men are sent flying across the compartment. Icy cold water instantly floods the interior of the ship. Even though you grew up in the warm and sunny ports of Anandale, you never learned to swim.
Panic immediately grips you as you struggle to keep your head above the ever-rising water. It’s cold enough that it would be difficult for someone who did know how to swim, even if they weren’t shackled to the bench you had been sitting on just a moment ago. As your head slips below the waves, you think to yourself that the rumors must be true. No weapon forged could cause such damage. The Naedyrians have weaponized magic-users after over two centuries of all use of magic being illegal.
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Work Through It: It’s Okay if You Can’t