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The arrow’s attached to rope. They’re reeling me in like a fucking fish.
Before my face sinks under water, I catch a glimpse of a tall grinning man atop a dark horse, holding a crossbow outfitted with the wheel he’s using to drag me through the river. He’s being encouraged by an entourage: five or six men and women, all clapping, jumping, shouting his name.
Urthel.
I brand it into my mind. Fuck him so hard. I'll remember that name, now joining Junis on the short list of men whose cocks I wouldn't mind grinding into dust.
Then I’m under the surface, battling to get back to my feet in the much deeper river.
I can’t let him get me on the other side. I can’t. Whatever it takes.
I bring my hands to the arrow, and wince in preparation, before trying to pull it out. I expected pain, but what I feel is far beyond that. There’s no name for the burn, the fear, the powerless, helpless conviction that this is the end, this is how I die, simply because I can’t possibly take anymore. Sobs rip through my throat, bringing water into my mouth and throat. But I have to finish this.
How is it so fucking painful? Twisting, turning, pulling seems to make things so much worse.But it needs to come out. I’m already more than halfway through the river. Another moment, and I’ll be out of the water. At the mercy of my shooter.
I grit my teeth and pull the ashwood bolt with all my strength.
It gives. By the gods, it gives, and I'm no longer dragged backward. But the pain doesn't recede.
One glance at my shoulder and I see blood pouring out of the gaping wound. Except it's not actual blood, is it? Because it's not red. I know I bleed red, I've seen it before. But the viscous liquid dripping out is ink black.
I can tell there's still something stuffed in there, andI don’t let myself imagine how much getting it out is going to fucking hurt.
I just make myself get move toward the relative safety of the unoccupied shore.
My vision, my senses, my thoughts—all fold and withdraw, overcome by sheer pain, but I push through.
I can't help glancing again; now my shoulder is darkening. Bruised. Fuck. I need to get whatever's in there out, now.
It's awkward, but I twist and dig into the open flesh, preventing myself heaving by looking away.
I feel it the moment my fingers come in contact with it: hard, burning white-hot, toxic. I don't let myself chicken out: I bring my thumb and index to the foreign body, and I pull.
It comes easy, cutting any flesh along the way. Whatever it is, it's highly corrosive.
My pain level's reached an all-time high. I could honestly pass out in the river. I credit my adrenaline for keeping me on the move.
But then, it's already over. After what seems to be a heartbeat, most of the blinding pain disappears from my shoulder, replaced by a weaker ache.
The only place where I still feel that deadly acid burn is my left hand.
I’m now holding a simple, unassuming arrowhead. But it's digging through my palm, burning flesh away. I want to toss it as far as I can, but after touching it long enough to get it out, my hand’s lost its mobility. It only shakes, refusing to obey my command.
Am I going to lose it?
The burning ache is a living thing, traveling under flesh.
I don’t have any choice but to use my one good hand to dig it out. Just by the fingertip, and nails. I ready to throw it, and then think better of it. Instead, I slide it in one of the pockets of my leather jacket.
It's a weapon, clearly. In this world, who knows when I’ll need it. It’s about time I grow some thorns.
I swim to the shore with one hand, side crawling, dragging my weak shoulder and useless hand along.
Another arrow zips overhead, and I sink underwater, as deep as I can, only emerging when I’m on the other side.
I’d love to have a second to take a breath. To cry. To look at the blood gushing out of me and wonder why it’s black.
But I don’t. So I stumble to my feet, and I keep running.
