64

You can't explain it, as usual, but you're pretty sure following the sound would be a bad idea. You have no clue what you might find in the middle of a wheat field that would be so bad, but the shivers running up and down your spine are telling you that you don't really want to find out.

You turn around anxiously, ready to bolt—and then you hear the sharp whizzing of something airborne coming your way.

Before you have the chance to turn around and dodge, a sharp pain spears your skull, clouding your vision and bringing you to your knees. The basket you were holding falls from your nerveless fingers, and you land face-first on the warm earth.

You try to move, but your muscles aren't listening to you. Nothing is listening to you—not even your own thoughts. A mucus-like viscousness is spreading through your brain, obliterating everything in its path.

You are cold. You cannot move. You cannot speak. What is happening?

Then your confusion is cleared for you. Someone's massive body lands on top of yours with enough force to steal the air from your lungs. You can smell their fetid breath as it hits you from behind, reeking with alcohol. The body on top of your back pushes against you, and you realize it's a man.

"Got you," he whispers gleefully.

You know that voice. You know it. If only you could think more clearly…

The man settles himself more firmly on top of you, cutting off any way of escape—not that you have any chance of that in your state. You can barely breathe, your sluggish mind struggling to comprehend. Why? How? Was he here waiting for you?

Then it hits you—it's Bain. The merchant's son. Your ever-so-persistent nemesis. He was lying in wait for you. The thought chills you to the bone, leeching all the warmth from your body even as the sun burns down on you and Bain's stifling heat immobilizes you.

No longer can you hear the cicadas—all you can hear is his panting breath. No longer can you smell the earth—all you can smell is stale rye. No longer can you see fields of gold…there's nothing but him.

Then a familiar sound cuts through the numbness that is assaulting your brain, stealing your voice and your reason.

"Lambert Aldmin?"

Father? Father, please.

"No!"

~*~

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