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bluegirlbooks · 6 years ago

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Reference for Writers: Choking

Based on my personal experience yesterday. More along the “food stuck in throat” variety than “someone crushing my windpipe”.

*WARNING: REAL EVENTS, TRIP TO THE HOSPITAL, SLIGHTLY DISTURBING*

So I have a throat problem called achalasia. The muscles at the bottom of my throat do not open and close properly, so food has difficulty going from my throat to my stomach. The muscles along my throat are also slackers, as they don’t really push the food down like they should. So to make sure my throat stays clear and food passes with minimal problems, I have to drink a lot of water, especially during meals.

Cut to yesterday. I am at work, eating a small lunch with my co-workers. It’s enchiladas, and the meat and cheese feel heavy in my throat. I realize I haven’t had any water all day.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, leaving my food behind as I go to the break room. One other person is sitting there, on their phone, as I fill a plastic cup with water and chug it down.

The water immediately comes back up. There’s no room in my throat.

“You okay?” The other person asks as I hack water and thick spit into the sink. I give him a thumbs up and head to the bathroom with my cup. I’ve had backups like this before, I can deal with it, but it’s going to be messy and I want some privacy.

Every sip of water rebounds on me like the first. This time bits of my lunch come back too, but not enough. My throat still feels full, and it’s getting harder to breathe. I pee myself a little, and I sit on the toilet and clean myself up before my next attempt. I try to force more water down, and then try to vomit, sticking my finger down my throat. Nothing. My throat muscles are tight, and I cough, but nothing comes out. Each breath has to be dragged down my throat.

I start feeling dizzy, my head fuzzy, and that’s when panic sets in.

Oh god, I think, what if I can’t get it clear? What if I pass out? How long will it take for them to find me?

I’m still trying to suck down any air I can get, but it’s getting harder.

What if I die here?

Oh fuck no. I am not dying in a bathroom. I am not done. There are people right there, and I need help.

Stumbling, I open the lock on the door and practically fall out of the bathroom. Even with my glasses, I can barely see the woman standing outside. My eyesight is blurry, partly from tears, partly not.

“Help,” I wheeze. “Can’t. Breathe.”

The nurse is there almost instantly, and a police officer shortly after. At first they try the Heimlich, but it doesn’t work. They sit me down as the principal comes in. He takes one look at me, then at the nurse, and they ask me if I want an ambulance. I nod.

(If I were calmer, I would have turned it down. Who can afford an ambulance? But I could barely breathe, I was clawing for each gasp of air, and I needed help. Even in that state though, I still hesitated for a second at the cost. “I can’t afford it,” I gasped out. “Your life comes first,” the nurse replied. “Worry about the money later.”)

The ambulance is on its way, the nurse and officer are calming me down and I try to focus on each breath. It hurts, forcing the breath in and out. But I can’t stop. My head is pounding. The nurse tells me my lips are less blue now, I’m doing good.

I hadn’t realized they were blue before.

Suddenly there are paramedics in front of me, five or six of them. I realized later that some were from the local fire station. They ask me so many questions, and I answer best as I can. Someone retrieves my purse and phone, and the nurse calls my husband. I don’t hear the conversation, because a paramedic is asking me about allergies. He thinks this is an allergic reaction.

“No allergies,” I choke. “I have...achalasia. Type two.”

The paramedics exchange looks. They have no idea what I’m talking about. One of them starts googling on the tiny laptop they have with them. I crawl onto the stretcher and I manage to whisper “Thank you” to the nurse, to the officer.

I keep breathing as they roll me onto the stretcher, out the door, and into the ambulance. My crowd of paramedics is reduced to two. As soon as I’m in the ambulance I finally vomit, and it spills out over the cloth they gave me and onto my chest. Some of it gets onto the buckles for the stretcher, and I apologize. The paramedics laugh. “That’s what it’s for,” one says, “for sick people.” They affix a canula to my nose, and the oxygen feels so good.

Vomiting clears my throat enough that I can talk more easily, and I am no longer terrified about taking the next breath. The headache remains in full force. I feel embarrassed rolling into the hospital covered in vomit, but more than anything I am exhausted. It’s surely only been fifteen minutes since the whole ordeal began, but I feel as though I’ve run a marathon.

The hospital is literally right next door, but my husband still beats the ambulance there. He waits while I am registered in the system and assigned a room. As soon as he is allowed in, he immediately goes to my side and grabs my hand.

“Hi honey,” I croak. Then I begin to cry.

They release me a few hours later, after I vomit some more and they give me an IV of muscle relaxers to make sure whatever’s left can ease down my throat. I have to go home with a hospital gown for a top because my vomit-covered shirt is still in a plastic bag. When I get home, I fall asleep as soon as my head his the pillow.

When I wake up, it’s 9:30 at night. My husband makes me soup, and I can eat about half of it. My headache lingers, and there’s still some nausea (possibly from the medicine at the hospital). I cough up some mucus thick with blood, to be expected after how torn up my throat was. I sleep again.

A day later, here is the evidence of my little drama:

1) Burst blood vessels all around my eyes, like dozens of red freckles.

2) Weariness; despite much needed rest, I’m just a little weaker than normal.

3) Strict all-liquid diet, at least for the next few days.

So, writers, now you have a first-hand reference for the experience of choking! I would definitely focus on the instinctual, primal need to breathe, the body rerouting other systems to the most essential one (getting air to the brain). I was very wobbly and dizzy until I got some oxygen and a clearer airway, and the headache from lack of air took a while to go away.

I personally said “thank you” a lot to all of the people that were trying to help me. And there were many, many people doing any little thing they could. It was a scary experience, but I was so grateful that I didn’t go through it alone. I think that was the reason I fell out of the bathroom more than anything; I needed other people. They did not let me down.

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to reach out if you need help!

#achalasia #trauma #hospital #the school i work at is literally next to a hospital #lucky me #good people #like mr.rogers said look for the helpers #i'm okay

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greyskywrites · 7 years ago

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Wolf’s Price

[First] [AO3]

II. In the Snow

6.2k

warning for descriptions of violence and mentions of animal death

I woke half-crushed under Todd’s weight, overheated, and with my bladder near bursting. It hadn’t taken me long after I joined Muras and Todd’s household and bed to learn that the fastest way to extricate myself from Todd’s sleeping arms was to shift around until I could put a sharp elbow in his ribs.

Todd woke with a cough and a grunt and rolled off of me, rubbing his ribs. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘sorry’ and turned over, putting his arm over Muras, so that in half an hour Muras could throw him off in pursuit of the same chamber I was on my way to.

I had a headache, and sitting on the seat over the chamber pot I rubbed at my temples, I noticed the smear of red on the inside of my thigh that signaled I was about to spend the next few days in utter misery unless I sent someone to the apothecary.

I spent a little time cleaning up by lamplight, and reemerged to find my nightdress thrown over a chair. I could at least send a maid for what I needed, and then spend the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself.

Todd was awake enough to catch the hem of my nightdress as I passed the bed. “Come back to bed,” he mumbled.

I bent, tugging on his ear. “I’ll bleed on the sheets.”

“The laundrywoman can take care of it,” Todd said, grinning sleepily.

“You’re not even awake,” I said. “I have to send the maid for my tea. I’ll come back after.”

The house was always cool in the mornings, enough to make my skin prickle. I had grown used to its quiet, the creaking boards and austere walls. I had thought that perhaps I might be able to find some small tapestry to hang, or perhaps I could embroider something that reminded me of Saren—but if we were going to Morhall, it didn’t seem that would be necessary.

The maid sent on her mission, I took a cup of lavender tea and went upstairs again. The bed was empty of Muras, and Todd laid on his back, rubbing his face. I sat on the bed and felt his hand on my hip.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked. I knew he didn’t mean my cycle.

I sipped at my tea and looked at the silver morning light peeking around the curtains. “I’ll do what I have to.” I had done what I had to since I was married, done whatever was required to stay alive. Morhall had not broken me before.

It would not break me now.

I put my tea aside and stretched out next to Todd, letting him pull me close. He kissed my forehead and brushed my hair out of my face. He looked softest in the mornings, when he wasn’t yet alert enough to look and act like a mischievous boy. Todd had the kind of face and personality that charmed women from sixteen to sixty, playful and flirtatious. Whatever affection he held for me, whatever flirtations he gave anyone, his heart belonged to Muras, and no one else—which was why I liked him so much. There was no risk of too much attachment.

“If he’d just retire we wouldn’t have to bother with any of this,” Todd muttered. “Could move back to Pardas and grow soft and fat running a winery.”

I laughed a little. Muras would never be able to content himself with vineyards and wine barrels. He needed to feel that what he was doing mattered to king and country.

I put my forehead to Todd’s chest, sighed. “I haven’t seen Saren since the war.”

Todd stroked my hair. “What scares you most?”

I thought, tracing my fingers over his ribs. “That the Saren I remember doesn’t exist, and won’t ever exist again.”

I heard the door shut and shifted to look over Todd’s shoulder. Muras scrubbed his face with one hand and looked at us both. A soft smile pulled across his face, and he went to the wardrobe for his clothes. Todd shifted onto his back, his arm still around my shoulders. “What’re you in such a hurry to get up for?”

“You’d spend your whole life in bed if I didn’t make you get up,” Muras returned. “Are you getting ready to run off with my mistress?”

I put my chin on Todd’s chest. “We were just discussing retiring to Pardas to grow old and fat while swimming in wine.”

“Were you now?” Muras pulled an undershirt over his shoulders. “I wish you well, then.”

“Muras,” Todd said, in a pitch perfect impression of a whining child, “come back to bed.”

“I have a meeting with Major Calash.” Muras ran his fingers through his hair, looking in the wardrobe for his shirt.

“Commanders are allowed to be late,” I said. “Especially ones with your reputation.” I had met Major Calash, and I disliked him. He held command of a Kressosi fort just across the River Lor, and spoke freely about how much he disdained the primitive Sarenn and their superstitions. On the occasion that I was present, he treated me with all the regard one might give a piece of furniture.

Muras laughed softly, and began to pull on his uniform. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I felt the twinge below my navel that signaled I would be in misery by the time the maid returned. “You won’t be gone long, will you?” I asked. Todd was a poor nurse, too convinced that a joke would be enough to lift my spirits when what I really needed was a hot bath and someone to stroke my hair and speak soothingly, which Muras did with attentiveness.

“No,” he said, buttoning his jacket. “Only a few hours.” He stepped to the bed, bending to kiss Todd’s cheek, and then mine. “You can both bear without me that long, I think.”

I let my eyes fall away and did not tell him about the anxieties that plagued me whenever he was too long out of my sight, how I could not sleep on the nights that kept him out until well after dark. I did not fool myself into thinking it was because of my feelings for Muras—it was the terror of what losing him might mean, how I might be set adrift in the world once more. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t even reasonable—but in my blood I knew that in Morhall, my anxieties would only be worsened, because in Saren there were a great many more things that might take Muras from me than there were in Kressos.

It was Julas who gave me the name Lya. He taught it Corvin and Tatton when they were just learning to talk, because it was easier to say than Liana. They all called me that, my brothers, and so often that even our mother began to refer to me by that name.

Only our father never called me Lya. My name, see, comes from the first of our family line. Anarin, we call ourselves. The descendants of Anar.

Anar was born to the woman Liane, on the same night that his father’s prize bitch birthed two black pups. The lord’s hounds were all red, and it was a trait that he cultivated to set his hounds apart, as he bred them to be the fiercest, fastest hounds that might be found in all of Saren. He meant to destroy the pups, as he assumed that someone else’s hound had interbred with his pack, but Liane stopped him. The pups had been born within an hour of their own son. They were meant to be Anar’s hounds.

As a boy, Anar named his pups Iarantan, Irontooth, and Svartkla, Blackclaw. Always they were at Anar’s side, and as they grew, it became evident that Iarantan and Svartkla were no mere hounds. They grew too big, too wild. They howled like wolves.

Anar, too, grew into a giant of a man, towering above even the tallest men in his father’s hall. He was a great hunter, and a greater warrior. The stories say that his hounds fought alongside him, and it could not be said whether they howled for blood, or Anar did.

There are many stories about Anar. About his mother, Liane, there are only two: that of the night Anar was born, and the night Anar died.

Anar became a wealthy man, as heroes in the old stories often do after performing great feats, and he became soft, and complacent. He boasted of his past deeds, but performed no new ones, and he neglected Iarantan and Svartkla. One night after a great feast, which Anar had spent boasting of his feats in battle, neglecting to mention the role his wolf-hounds had played, Anar went to bed drunk, and Iarantan and Svartkla tore him limb from limb, and ate his heart.

It was Liane who discovered them, and Liane who avenged her son. She took Anar’s sword and slew the wolf-hounds. She drained their blood, and gave it to Anar’s two sons to drink. She cut out their hearts, and cooked them for her grandsons to eat. She skinned them, and tanned their hides, and from them made cloaks for Anar’s sons to wear. The sons took the names of their father’s murderous hounds, Iarantan and Svartkla Anarsson, and in time, we the descendants of Anar became Anarin.

It is not just Anar’s blood we have in our veins, father told me, but that of the wolf-hounds, who to this day adorn the Anarin banner: two black hounds on a field of red. We called ourselves Anarins.

We might as justly have called ourselves Vulgasons.

The end of spring brought us to Nolsaford, a port city on the River Lor. When I had known Nolsaford, it had been small, hardly more than a fishing town, but now it boasted half a dozen ferry lines across this calm point in the river, and the town had crawled halfway up the hillside, to the Kressosi fort which now overlooked the top.

“Almost makes you miss the fort days, doesn’t it?” Todd asked, winking at Muras.

Muras scoffed, and shook his head. “It’ll be a warm midwinter day in Saren before I miss the fort,” he replied.

We had taken a rivership, a slim, shallow-bellied vessel that the Kressosi favored for inland travel. It had been close quarters, musty smelling and entirely uncomfortable. I was eager to be rid of the ship, if not so enthusiastic about setting foot once more on the Saren side of the Lor.

I took stock of the goods being shipped as we made our way into the town. Bound to leave Saren for far-flung ports were mostly things I recognized: ivory, horns, and hides from creatures like mammoth, woolly rhino, bison, walrus; timber of pine, fir, and cedar which gave off a welcome scent among the general stink of wood smoke and fish; sheep’s wool that was stuffed in bags near bursting; furs from rabbits, weasels, foxes, otters, seals, bears both white and brown, snow lions, and�� wolves.

My gaze caught on one wolf pelt in particular, as white as fresh-fallen snow, and perhaps a little larger than the average pelt. I reached out my hand as if to touch it, only just catching myself. What was a fur like that doing here?

The fur trader had caught me staring. Taking me for Kressosi, that was the language he announced himself in. “Taken with it, Madam? Fine pelt, this, slain by a Horta Hasi warrior—”

“The Horta Hasi are not a warrior people,” I said coldly. “And if a man among them were to kill a wolf in self-defense, he would keep the pelt for himself to commemorate his victory.”

The fur trader turned several shades of red, and bowed slightly. “My apologies, Madam. I did not realize—”

“How much for the pelt?” Muras interrupted, having noticed our exchange, and missed my newfound disdain for the man.

The fur trader glanced at me, trying to gauge how successful he might be at swindling us. “An ounce of silver.”

“A quarter of an ounce,” I countered, before Muras could be fool enough to agree to that price. Kressosi are piss-poor bargainers, particularly when they have money.

“Three-quarters,” The fur trader returned. “And that’s a criminally low price for a pelt as fine as this one, as any woman such as yourself ought to know.”

“A half, and I’ll take an otter pelt with it,” I said, and added in Sarenn, “or I tell the Vulgason that you are a cheat and a swindler.”

The fur trader looked sharply at Muras, at his commanders’ uniform, as if trying to decide whether or not he believed me that this, really, was the Vulgason. Perhaps the threat of being accused of cheating a Kressosi commander was enough, because he relented. “Half an ounce,” he agreed, “and a fox pelt.”

“That grey one,” I said, pointing to a promising looking fox fur displayed on his heap.

“Done,” the fur trader said, eager to be paid and rid of me.

I was pleased that my skills hadn’t been weakened by my years in Kressos, and draped the fox fur around Muras’ shoulders as we left. “For that delicate Kressosi constitution,” I teased.

He laughed softly, touching the fur. “You’re pleased with it, I hope?” He nodded at the wolf pelt.

I held it close to my breast, digging my fingers into the coarse fur. “A white wolf pelt is too important to be sold to just anyone,” I said. “I understand that things have changed since the war, but…” White wolf pelts were nearly sacred. In most of Saren, the wolves were grey or black. It was only in the far north that one found the white wolves, and even then, one had to be a very skillful hunter indeed to track them and kill one. How could a trader even think to sell such a pelt to a Kressosi, or any foreigner?

Muras put a hand on my shoulder, steering me to a waiting cart. “Let’s get ourselves to the fort and get warmed up.”

I looked up, and felt comforted to see the rhinos. Horses were rarely a favored beast on this side of the Lor, and I had missed the low grunts and steady plod of cart rhinos. They were smaller than their wild cousins, and much more docile. Herdsmen painted the horns of their woollu rhinos with distinct patterns to distinguish them from other herds, and when a rhino died or was slaughtered, the paint was gently scraped away, and the ivory sold. These rhinos were painted with swirls of yellow and blue, bright against their dull brown hair.

“I wanted to ask you,” Muras said, settling into the seat of the cart beside me, “if you would take command of our preparations to go north.”

“Everything is command, with you,” I said, laughing. “How do you mean?”

“I thought that you would have the most knowledge as to what we might need,” Muras said, looking around at the town as the cart pulled through the mud. “And… I thought it might give you time to see things for yourself.”

I looked down at the pelt in my lap. So much had changed. “First things first,” I said, “I find a reliable elk breeder—and then I get some proper riding skirts.”

“Right, elk,” Muras said, grimacing.

“Horses are too fragile for the journey, you know that.”

“Yes, you’ve made it known many times.” He gave a light tug to my braid, and smiled. “I’ll trust you to find a beast that won’t kill me.”

They gave Muras the name Vulgason after Morhall was taken. For the brutality of the taking, I’m told, and a touch of the belief that no one could have bested that winter but the Wolf’s own son.

Corasin was shot through the heart, three times, by the man then called Major Muras Emiran, who hacked off his head and carried it through the palace to show all there that the king was dead. He carried Corasin’s head by the braid, for Sarenn men keep their hair long, as the Kressosi do not. He threw it at the feet of Corasin’s first wife, and asked her where the children were.

So goes the story as it is told by those who were not there.

Muras does not like to speak of it much, but this, he does deny, and ferociously so. He killed Corasin, and did take his head off then, that much is true. The rest, he says, was Alek—for it was under his cousin Alek’s command that Morhall was taken, and it was under Alek’s command that Corasin’s children, and twelve of his wives, were slain.

Of the thirteenth wife, of Liana Anarin, all that Muras knows is that she attempted to flee the castle, and was lost in the snow. Frozen dead, it is assumed, or perhaps fallen prey to wolves or snow lions. He says he never laid eyes on her, but she haunted his dreams, a frozen blue face, icy fingers that wrapped around his heart.

I laid my hand over his heart when he told me. “She’ll haunt you no more,” I said. He tells me the dreams ceased, after that.

“I’ve some fine geldings, Miss, if that’s what you’re looking for.” The elkherd beckoned me to the high fence of a corral, gesturing a group of antler-less geldings and cows not deemed suitable for breeding. Some were quite young, not big enough to endure a journey to Morhall with grown men on their backs, as I told the man. I needed fully grown animals, still young, and even tempered because the men I was traveling with were more accustomed to horses.

He chuckled. “You’ve a keen eye, Miss. Should I just let you look, then?”

“I would appreciate it, sir.”

The elkherd walked with me through the corrals, telling me a little about any he saw me pausing at, their lineage and temperament. I selected two fully grown geldings with mild tempers for Muras and Todd, and was left to look for one for myself. The elkherd seemed to grow puzzled as nothing pleased me. I paced from circle to circle, not certain myself what I was looking for, until I laid eyes on him.

A young bull, by himself, trotting restlessly in his pen, bugling as if to raise the gods. I put my hands on the fence, and smiled.

“Oh, not him, Miss,” the elkherd said. “I’ve a mind to shoot that one, as much trouble as he is—never had a more wild beast come out of my herd. Shame, both his sire and his dam are out of good lines.”

As if to demonstrate, the bull spied the young man with the unfortunate task of bringing him hay, and charged the fence at a gallop. The boy threw the hay over and stumbled back as quickly as he could. The bull paced along that section of fence, snorting and shaking his head.

I whistled, long and low, and the bull set his eyes on me. He pranced a bit, stopped to watch me.

I whistled again, and he flicked his ears, curious. I walked slowly round the ring, and the bull watched me all the way, snorting softly. Before the elkherd could stop me, I slipped between the poles of the fence, and was inside with the bull.

“Miss!” the elkherd cried in alarm. “Miss, please get out, before—”

The bull judged me warily, pacing.

I held my hand up, and whistled softly.

Cautiously, the bull approached, and stood just short of my hand. He sniffed the air, taking up my scent, and after a moment, he stepped forward, and allowed me to touch him.

“By the ice,” the elkherd whispered.

“I’ll take this one, sir,” I said, and he did not argue with me.

I had missed the freedom of riding skirts, sitting astride in the saddle. Once I had persuaded my young bull to permit me to put a saddle on him, and then to ride—both of which took some time—I led the two geldings back to the fort, and the view of Nolsaford was much improved, framed by the velvet of my bull’s growing antlers. He would look kingly in the fall, when the velvet was shed.

He trotted through the gates of the fort while shaking his head against the reins, though he yielded when I gave a warning tug.

I heard Todd’s laugh before I saw him. “Of course,” he said, standing on the stoop of a barracks with his hands on his hips. “You would pick the biggest beast for yourself.” He shook his head, and smiled at me. “You look like some kind of wild raider queen.”

I put my hand on my hip, and stuck my tongue out at him. “Where’s Muras?” I asked.

“Oh, deep in conversation with Senior Lieutenant Coren, I’m sure. I left when they started talking about politics.” Todd tried to approach me, and my bull snorted and swung his head, and Todd took a rapid step back.

“Don’t worry,” I said, swinging out of the saddle. “Yours won’t have half the temper of this one.” I caught the reins, and pulled the bull’s head away before he could try to bite me. He made a low grumble, shifting on his hooves impatiently. “I saved this one’s life. He’ll learn to be grateful for it.”

“This from the woman who’s afraid of horses.”

“I don’t like horses, I never said I was afraid of them.” I patted my bull on the shoulder, and looking over his back, I spied someone I hadn’t expected to see in a military fort. She was Sarenn, by her dress, and heavily pregnant. Her pale blond braid hung over her shoulder as she caught the hand of a girl too old to be her own, scolding her fiercely for running off.

“That’ll be the senior lieutenant’s new wife,” Todd said, following my gaze. “He had a Kressosi wife before he was posted here, but she had no interest in leaving behind her social circles for Saren, so she stayed behind. Took a fever and died about a year ago.”

“When did he remarry?” I asked. Kressosi were expected to mourn a spouse for a full year before taking a new spouse, but the woman I saw would have become pregnant no more than a season after her husband had become a widower. And she was so young…

“Oh, he waited the proper time. She was his mistress, before.” Todd shrugged his shoulders. “Brought all his children up north when his wife died, I think she’s been caring for them ever since. Doesn’t speak a word of Kressosi, but the children are picking up Sarenn fast enough to make up for it.”

I wondered if Senior Lieutenant Coren spoke any Sarenn.

“You should talk to her,” Todd said, “I think she’s lonely, but if I spent too much effort trying to befriend her, it might cause problems with her husband.”

I nodded. “I’ll take these to the stables,” I said. “Will you tell Muras I need money to buy you both the proper gear?”

Todd said he would, and I made my way to the stables, keeping a tight grip on the reins. “Hush, now,” I said, when the bull shook his head, and resentfully, he allowed me to walk him and the two geldings inside.

A young soldier who meant to be helpful attempted to take the reins from me, and when the bull bit his arm, I told him he could handle the geldings, and I would manage my own beast.

His pride more seriously wounded than his arm, he left me be, and I led the bull into a high-walled stall where he would not be able to reach any other elk.

He spent half an hour dancing around me before he allowed me to remove the saddle and halter, and I was ever mindful of when he looked like he might kick or bite.

“Hmm,” I said, hanging the gear on the wall. “I ought to call you Bili, for your temper.”

“What’s Bili?”

I looked to find a boy of about twelve hanging from the door of the stall, and he leapt down when the bull charged, snorting and striking his hooves against the door.

“Easy, easy,” I said, coaxing my infuriated bull away from the door with a handful of sweet oats. I made sure the door was well-latched when I stepped out, and looked around to find the boy sitting on a pile of straw, looking suitably wary. “Hello,” I said. “What’s your name?”

The boy stood up, brushing straw from his trousers. “Tiran, Miss,” he said, nodding his head respectfully. “Senior Lieutenant Coren’s my father. You’re Commander Emiran’s woman.”

I cocked my head to the side. “I suppose I am. You may call me Miss Sargis, though.”

“Sorry, Miss,” Tiran said, and looked at me with curiosity. “What’s Bili?”

“Have you seen a Sarenn forge?” I asked.

Tiran nodded.

I gestured him to follow me so that we could get out of the way of the soldiers tending to the stable. “Then you’ve seen the figure carved above every forge.”

“The man and the cattle bull,” Tiran said.

“The woman and the cattle bull,” I corrected. “The goddess Thraldi was born from the heartstone of a mountain struck by lightning, and tamed fire so that folk might make use of it. She travels on the back of her great golden bull, Bili, who she shaped from the summer wildfire.”

“They don’t worship Thraldi in Kressos,” Tiran said.

“You are not in Kressos,” I pointed out. I was amused by the boy, but I had a question for him as well. “Your stepmother is Sarenn, yes?”

Tiran nodded. “She says to call her ima.” It was the word for mother.

“Will you take me to meet your ima?” I asked. “You can introduce us.”

Tiran showed me through the fort, to the modest house that he informed me was his home, where he lived with his father and stepmother and all his brothers and sisters. “Ima!” he called as he brought me through the door, and in clumsy Sarenn, “A woman here to see you!” His pronunciation was good, if his grammar still needed work.

The young woman appeared from what I guessed to be her kitchen, flour on the apron that hung perilously over her swollen middle, and I inclined my head to her. “Mistress Coren,” I said, “May the sun shine on your head. My name is Lya Sargis.”

The woman blinked in surprise, and then she smiled, whipping off her apron and reaching her hands out to me, grasping my fingers. “May your family prosper,” she said, “please, call me Branhild. It’s been so damned long since I could speak to one of my own.”

I laughed, and squeezed her hands. “I will call you Branhild if you call me Lya.”

Branhild was nineteen, she told me, pouring me a cup of hot cider as we sat in her kitchen. Her father had been killed by Kressosi soldiers when she was eight, and she had left her rural village for Nolsaford to live with her uncle, so that her mother would not have to feed her. Her uncle’s wife put her to work dyeing thread and fabric, and when she was eleven, the war began.

When the Kressosi came across the river in Nolsaford, she and her aunt had taken all the food they could carry and hid in the hills for weeks. They came back when there were fewer soldiers, which was when they learned that Branhild’s uncle had been killed.

She and her aunt made enough money to get by after the war, but it was hard, and they often went hungry, so when the fort was finished and a new commanding officer took a shine to the sixteen-year-old girl charged with making the dye for new Kressosi uniforms, Branhild leapt at the chance for a more comfortable life. “My aunt has a new apprentice now,” she said, “and my husband sends her enough money that she can make do even when prices are bad.”

Branhild’s smile had a faint sorrow to it. “I don’t see her much, anymore.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“It’s not safe for me to go into town,” Branhild said. “Because they think I’m a traitor and a whore.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Branhild waved a dismissive hand. “They can think what they like. I’m better off now. You haven’t had any trouble?”

“No,” I said, “but I think that’s because no one knows who I am or why I’m here.”

Branhild nodded. “Best not tell them.”

She had gained five children, since the death of Coren’s first wife. She managed well enough, she said, though I didn’t miss the tired half moons under her eyes. “Will the baby be your first?” I asked.

Branhild shook her head. “There was one other, but… he died.” She shrugged her shoulders, in the way of women who have already endured much hardship, and chosen to put it behind them. “This one, I hope, will do better.”

“I will pray that it’s so,” I said, and that made her smile.

“Do you have any children?” she asked.

It took me a moment, to summon the ability to smile. “Yes,” I said softly. “Two sons. But I had to give them up.”

Branhild grasped my hand, and gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry.”

For a few days, I was content to spend time in the fort, taking to the saddle once more and persuading Bili that he would greatly benefit from not attempting to trample every person who wasn’t myself. The soldiers talked about me, though not where I could hear. It was Todd, who recounted with great amusement that I had been declared a mad Sarenn witch, to have any mastery over such a wild creature.

“I thought Kressosi didn’t believe in witchcraft,” I said.

“Of course not,” Todd agreed, “but they’re not stupid enough to be unafraid of it.”

I visited Branhild in the afternoons, and asked her questions. Only once did I grow brave enough to say that I had relations in Arborhall, and wonder how they were doing. She told me that Julas was Lord Anarin, now. He had a Kressosi wife, she heard from the rumors (port cities are always full of gossip) but that was all she knew.

There was Tiran, too, who had taken to shadowing me wherever I went. I spoke to him only in Sarenn, and gently corrected his grammar where I could. “You have the chance to understand Saren better than any other Kressosi,” I told him. “Don’t waste it.”

He was a very serious child. It was three days before he came to me, and told me his father wanted to meet me.

I had not met Tomtes Coren directly. I supposed it was not a priority for officers to meet each other’s mistresses, but it was curious to me that he went through his son, rather than Muras.

I understood better when Tiran brought me to his father, and Coren spied me and said, “Ah, so you’re the woman my son’s fallen so in love with.”

Tiran went red-faced and protested, but his father only laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, telling him to go help his stepmother. Coren waited until his son was gone, and looked at me again, in a way that I thought was meant to be friendly. “I understand you’ve befriended my wife.”

I gazed back at him. “I know how lonely it can be,” I said, “to be companion to a Kressosi man.”

That was not the answer he had expected. I sat at a chair in front of his desk, since he had not asked me to sit. “You should consider yourself blessed to have such a curious son,” I said. “Tiran will excel at whatever he chooses to pursue.”

“Yes, he’s quite enchanted with you,” Coren said. “Tells me you named your elk after some sort of… magic bull.”

I smiled thinly. “That’s one thing to call it, I suppose.”

He looked at me much more shrewdly than I had anticipated from a man of his age who had not advanced to a higher rank than ‘senior lieutenant.’ “You seem like a cunning woman, Miss Sargis,” he said. “What are your thoughts on your man’s new post?”

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Men did not usually discuss this sort of thing with women like me. “Prince Andon himself asked him to come.”

“Have you asked yourself why?” Coren poured himself a drink, and made a gesture to offer me one, which I declined. Were he Sarenn, I might have accepted, but this was a test. Kressosi men did not drink alone with women with whom they were not involved. “Why send such an honored man all the way out to Morhall?” he asked. “Godforsaken frigid hellhole that it is.”

I had pondered that, and none of the possible conclusions I had found made me feel at ease. Alek had been honored, too. “All due respect, Senior Lieutenant, but how is it any concern of yours?” I asked.

Coren smiled, shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I’m comfortable where I am. This is as soft a post as one can get, with the forts. I’ve my wife, my children—and I’m not so popular as to draw attention to myself. It should be of concern to you, though.” He raised his glass to me, leaning against his desk. “Your man is popular. Very popular. And now the Heir Apparent personally asks him to get as far away from Kressos as he can? Gives one pause.”

“And what would you suggest I do?”

“Run,” he said simply. “While you still can. It’s what I’d tell my wife to do, if I were suddenly asked by the prince himself to go to Morhall.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I replied frostily. “If that’s all then, Senior Lieutenant—”

He held up a hand. “Of course, don’t let me keep you. And if you see my son, Miss Sargis—I’d thank you to stop telling him Sarenn fairy stories.”

I don’t need anyone to tell me how Corasin died.

I was in the room when Muras Emiran killed him.

The only kindness my husband ever did me was to show me where to hide in his chambers, a passage that would take me to the outer walls of the castle. I don’t know if he truly expected me to survive the taking of Morhall, if he thought I was mad enough to make an attempt to escape, or if he simply didn’t want to witness whatever the Kressosi would do when they found me.

What I remember of the first time I laid eyes on Muras Emiran was the splash of blood across his face. His cheeks were flushed, from the cold outside, from whatever blood lust had taken hold of him, I didn’t know.

None of the stories will tell you about the moment of silence between them—the king staring down the young officer who had come to kill him. It felt like centuries to me, watching from the dark. I saw the fear in Corasin’s face, and I saw too how he refused to cower. He must have thought, then, what many Sarenn think when faced with their deaths: when they reached the halls of the dead, they would not allow it to be said that they died a coward.

The first shot struck him just north of the heart, and as Corasin staggered, blood blossomed across his white shirt like the center of a dawnstar flower. The second and third shot, Muras took at a closer range, and the king of Saren’s body thudded to the floor like so much dead meat.

I only fled when I saw the Kressosi officer take the knife from his belt, and drag Corasin’s head up by the hair, and begin to saw.

I was not dressed for the snowstorm I knew awaited me outside. I was in thin red silk, no shoes on my feet, and I knew that to flee Morhall was to die.

It was to die on my own terms. I would not let my family wonder at what horrors I suffered at the hands of Kressosi soldiers.

Plunging out into the snow, fleeing as quickly as I could into the storm, not caring which way I went so long as it took me far away from that place, my tears froze my lashes together, so that I could not see.

It was my fault that this had happened.

Because of me, the king was dead.

Because of me, the children would die.

Because of me, Róana would die.

I tripped, and fell into the snow. I swore I could feel the life draining from me, and I was glad of it. I deserved to die this way: alone, bearing the weight of what I had done, all the blood that was on my hands.

That was when the Wolf found me, and took me away.

#original fiction #prose #wolf's price

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