Day 25 & 27: Hide & Seek; I’m fine, I Prom…

CW: graphic violence, monsters, blood, death

Word count: 873

Summary: Day Two of Eleven’s trip by jail carriage plays out quite differently than the first.

The next night, Eleven was prepared for the same treatment as the night before. They had traveled all day, the carriage rocking a lot, and Eleven only had a little window through which to see the world. He kept close tabs on it, hoping to be able to identify the region where they walked.

It had started to get warmer out, at least. What a blessing.

That night, El had been falling asleep, too exhausted to keep his eyes open, when the sounds came.

Sounds of tearing and ripping… and men’s screams. Blood-curdling things, to be sure, filled with terror and fright.

It got Eleven’s blood pumping, and he jerked to his feet, but the cell was too low to allow him to stand completely so he compromised with a low slouch, peering through the hole in front of him. He saw darkness, and shadows moving, then the sound of shouting among roars and chewing— sounds that made his stomach curdle.

Eleven jerked back when something hit the cell and he flinched away. Claws tried to grab him, but they couldn’t reach, so they settled on slicing against the bars. They were hairy, bloodied claws, dull gray in the moonlight.

A man’s voice rose among the scratches. “Get the darkspawn! Release the Darkspawn!”

He heard men scrambling, he heard shouts, grunts, inhuman screeches. His heart pounded in his chest and his eyes widened, staring at the little peep hole in front of him. Then he heard keys in the lock, and the door swung open.

Just as it opened, a man fell into Eleven’s cage and gripped at his ankles.

“Help us! Monsters!” He shouted.

Eleven’s eyes already adjusted to the darkness, but he wished they hadn’t.

Because in front of him there was carnage. There were men battling against monsters with their swords held aloft, swinging and missing as the beasts dodged. Some of the scarewolves had already crouched in front of fallen allies, sinking teeth into flesh.

Eleven couldn’t cast, he couldn’t swing a sword. He could only shake his head when the soldier in front of him once again begged for mercy, keeping his back novicely turned on the scarewolf leaping toward them.

The monster grabbed the soldier by the legs and ripped him from the lip of the cell, the man screaming in terror.

Eleven backed away, stumbling back into his cell, and the scarewolf advanced after him. Eleven’s eyes were blown wide, staring into the yellow irises of the creature that was about to tear him apart. His hands were still in shackles, and he needed them off if he had any chance of surviving this.

He did it without thinking. It was reflex, the way he watched the scarewolf move and raise its claws.

Eleven rose his wrists to meet the scarewolf’s claws.

And immediately felt hotrunning down his face, the pain tempered by adrenaline.

More importantly, the chains broke with a sharp shink! And Eleven immediately ducked — collapsed, really — onto the ground before the scarewolf could swipe at him again.

There was no time to think. Only run.

Eleven turned around and darted into the darkness. Anything was better than having to stay behind and deal with that. Hopefully those rotten guards would understand, or, more likely, they soon wouldn’t be alive to.

The ground crunched under Eleven’s feet as he ran. He kept going and going, throwing his head back often to confirm that the recent carnage was not following him.

He’d started to feel faint, his vision hazy and his feet staggering, hot blood dribbling down his chin and fingers, once he landed on a trail.

He’d just seen what could happen to people who were unaware while out camping — you got hacked to pieces by monsters. As much as Eleven wanted to rest and have a full supply of energy for tomorrow, he couldn’t. He had to keep going.

He moved at a snail’s pace, but he’d started to recognize the area around him. The bushes, the rocks, even the sound of running water.

He could think of little else than the comforting visage of a Saint’s Statue by the time the moon rose to its pinnacle and he saw a silhouette in the distance. It was not one of skin but of stone, which at this point in time was much more preferable.

A Saint’s Statue, something the guards should have been camping nearby to begin with, but one completely vacant. There was barely the hint of a campfire nearby and no bedrolls or other belongings left behind, but Eleven didn’t care.

He was free. He’d made it. He could feel the fresh air on his skin again and he could rest in peace.

Eleven muttered off exhausted gratitudes as he slumped against Her robes and gripped the back of his hand where the claws had sliced his skin. He felt it on his face, too— a needle-hot pain signifying that he had been attacked. That although his plan to be freed of his cuffs had worked, he hadn’t escaped without a few fair scrapes to his person.

But he would live. He always lived, trusting that, as he lost consciousness, he was not dying but merely fainting.