Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Fading

The world tilted, careening out of control, spinning in an everlasting cycle of chaos. Darkness blending with light. Centuries of lost time slipping through cold, lifeless fingers. The aches and pains, once great, now trivial next to the suffering of a thousand lifetimes. The horrors of time kept at bay only by the memory of a singing stream, alive with the music of days carefree when the sun shone and the land whispered stories older, more precious, than time.

The world stopped spinning and slowed until each second throbbed, ready to burst back into chaos. Darkness consumed the light.

A chunk of molding bread smacked Zaharias across the temple. He barely stirred. Icy water was splashed over him and he came to life, only to sink back into blackness, curled protectively over the precious vial pressed against his chest. More water was thrown over him. He moved to the back of his hanging cage to avoid another dousing.

"He ain't doin' nothin'."

"Jus' give 'im his food. Bloody elf'll be dead in a few days anyhow. Don' waste yer time."

Another chunk of food was tossed roughly at Zaharias. The goblins left, grumbling and quarreling at each other. Zaharias waited until they were long gone before he sat up, groaning with each tiny movement. He halfheartedly brushed the filth off the bread. There had been a time when he would not have been able to bring himself to eat half rotten food. Now he rejoiced in the tiniest morsel of it. He barely remembered the taste of food not rotten or fruit picked from the gardens. He could only recall, from distant memory, the taste of honey, sweet and heavy on his tongue.

He was halfway through his meager meal when his stomach rebelled against him. Crying out in pain and fear, he collapsed in the center of his cage, too weak to hold himself up. He shivered uncontrollably while his skin glistened with sweat. With trembling hands he reached for the vial and brought to his lips.

No sooner had the liquid touched his tongue than he threw it aside in disgust. The thick, brownish liquid pumped steadily out of the upturned bottle onto the floor.

"Hurry, Illeandir, please," he whispered.