DotW: Fever Dreams

Fire.

Red tinges the corners of his vision, and the rocky walls of the den shimmer and dance like a distant mirage on a sweltering summer day. Hemlock lies on a bed of leaves, too weak to lift his head, much less seek out the source of the flame. Once so proud of his eloquence, the Steward's drooling mouth opens and closes silently with the question he cannot seem to form into words: is Highvalley burning?

No- that's not it. It's not fire that plagues the mountains. It's water. Vaguely he recalls the flood, the aftermath, the mud and the muck and the slime. Standing in it. Swimming in it. Hemlock snorts; since when does he ever decide to go for a swim? Not unless- there was a job he had to do. Wolves. He was supposed to be looking for wolves. Wolves had gotten lost because of the water. Nothing to do with fire at all.

Why, then, is it so hot?

The fire is inside of him.

Hemlock doesn't remember it ever being this difficult to breathe.

A wolf brings him food. It's Alyan, and the Highblood's voice sounds reassuring. Hemlock isn't very hungry, but he's not one to refuse an order. The deer haunch has been laced with some kind of medicine. He barely gets in a couple of bites on the thing before exhaustion sets in. He sinks back onto the leaves and the world goes dark.

He dreams for the first time in months. Hemlock is wading through the dirty water again. His missing packmates are still nowhere to be found as the sun goes down. Instead of turning and heading back to the den, Hemlock keeps going until the mountains of Highvalley are lost to sight and there is nothing but the flood in every direction. He'll never be able to find his way back now. He has never felt more alone.

A wolf brings him herbs. It's one of the Meisters, but try as he might he can't remember her name. Her voice sounds compassionate. Take it easy. Get some rest. What she doesn't understand is that no matter how much he sleeps, he doesn't feel any better when he wakes up.

Hemlock is frightened. He's never been ill in his life, not like this.

What use is he to the Wolvenking now?

A wolf brings him herbs. It's Alyan again. Hemlock can hardly stand to meet his eye, as pathetic as he must look right now. A cripple, an invalid, damaged goods to be discarded. Since when does a noble care for his servant? He thinks he can detect concern in his master's voice this time. Hemlock's response is automatic. Even when he can hardly breathe, he can always fake a smile.

He dreams. The Wolvenking is commending him for his faithful service to the royal family in front of the entire pack. As Hemlock bows to accept the honor, someone whispers behind his back. They're blaming him for the disappearance of Firth. They're planning to do away with him. They never liked him to begin with. Is it his fault that Poppy and Nightingale left, too?

A wolf brings him water and Hemlock can only stare dumbly. It's Vanya, his old matriarch. Her voice sounds comforting, just as he remembers it, more than a year ago in Blackfang, more than a year since her death. There, there, she says, you look so tired, poor pet. I always liked you best, Hemlock. You were... a special one. Before he can say anything, the old grey wolf disappears.

No matter how much he coughs, the weight on his chest never seems to lessen. He hasn't left the den in days and the bed of leaves is rank with his feverish scent. It suddenly dawns on Hemlock that the herbs are having no effect. He's no Meister, no healer, but in that moment he realizes one thing: he will either recover on his own, or not at all.

He thinks that this new revelation should probably frighten him more than it does.

Food again. It's Alyan. Is there worry in the Highblood's voice? Hemlock isn't hungry at all.

Now that the past has broken through he can't keep it out. He dreams again. Hemlock has served six masters in his lifetime and he remembers them all whether he wants to or not. He remembers the thralls who have served alongside him, the ones he'd just as soon forget. The world chews them up and spits them out like old bones.  Blackfang pays the weak no mind. Why should he?

Pick it up, maggot. The red wolf gestures to the rabbit carcass lying in the dirt and Hemlock obeys, rolling his tongue around the grit and stones that stick to the bloodied fur. This meal is not meant for him. He doesn't get to eat until he's caught enough for the lieutenant's whole family.

A wolf brings him herbs. It's his sister. Hemlock has no knowledge of what she looks like, and no proof that she even still lives to this day, but instinctively he knows it's her.

She says nothing.

It's been so long- nearly seven years since the wolves of Blackfang forever marked him as a slave. Hemlock has never been one to dwell on what might have been. He has never yearned for fatherhood; in his experience, pups are some of the most demanding masters of all. There is no point in shame or regret now, no missing what was never had, but he remembers the terror on that day so long ago. He remembers the sensation.

The color of memory is red.

Vanya smiles at him knowingly.

Wolves bring him food and water. Sometimes he turns up his nose. Other times he nibbles, only to hork up the meat when a coughing fit goes too far. He doesn't remember it ever being this difficult to breathe. The world dances in front of his eyes. Hemlock lies on the bed of leaves and tries to sleep. He burns. The fire is inside of him, and all the floodwaters of Highvalley cannot hope to put it out.

All he can do is wait.