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Though it was against all their traditions, he couldn’t hold back. He wasn’t supposed to see it – the child he’d sired with the priestess – not until the child’s coming of age. But he could not wait that long. A warrior like him, in a time of war... who knew if he’d survive that long? Who knew if his child would survive the training? It was an uncertain life, and he wished to see his child once, just once... so he’d sneaked into the temple after the last bell had clanged, waited patiently until the acolytes had left the nursing room, and had carefully slipped in on the dim-lit room.
Even though there were six bassinets with six different children, he knew at once which was his. It was instinct that drove him to the one with his flesh and blood, that little baby sleeping soundly huddled in a blanket. A boy. A black, hardened nail ran gently over the child’s pointed ear – a sign of affection for their kind, to have something so sharp that could easily take a life touching so gently such sensitive part of the ear. In reward, the baby leaned to the caress, wriggling slightly, but sleeping on.
For the briefest of moments he thought he could steal him away, take him far, spare the child from all this war, but what kind of honor was in that for a warlord? What kind of life awaited this little child, if he ripped him from all they both knew? Could a better fate await them beyond these lands?
He might have had second thoughts about it all, in fact he’d been about to reach in for the child, but something distracted him. Something – a sound, like a chant. Not the priestesses, at this time even the acolytes would be asleep, and the voice sounded almost like a man’s. Men were not allowed in the temple, at least no man over thirteen were, and this was not the voice of children either. He turned his head to the source of the sound and, before he could reconsider his choice, followed it. If someone had breached the temple, he reasoned, someone besides himself, then he had to capture them. But there was something else guiding his feet to the dark, empty room across the hall. There was a sort of compulsion. He couldn’t stop himself from moving that way, even when every fiber of his body was telling him this was wrong. At the doorway, he stopped for a moment – it was about all he managed to do before his feet were carrying him again, but this time, he’d thought better of it. Even if someone else had breached the temple, even if he captured them, how would he explain his own presence? There was no way that would end well for him, and yet... his feet moved.
Mustering up all his will power, he reached up to grasp to the threshold. A warrior, arms ripe with strong muscles, yet his hold held only for a mere second. His feet carried him on, his fingers lost purchase. And then there was a flash of bright light. For a split second, he thought he’d been caught by one of the priestesses, but no one called his name. There was no scream of alarm, no sound of distress. There was only the blinding light that made him cover his face, and then he was sinking. Sinking, sinking deep into something like muddy water, into something like blood. He couldn’t breathe, he felt a strong pressure all over his body, unbearable pain as if he were both being pushed from all angles and at the same time torn to pieces.
With his next heartbeat, the light before him flashed again, and he screamed, the pain too strong.
With the next one, the light flashed once more, the pressure and pain lessening.
With the next, the light flashed again, and he could once more breathe fully.
His feet touched solid ground. He curled up on himself, arms still protecting his form, his face. His eyes blinked, each time blinded by the brightness of the light surrounding him. Each time his eyes adjusted a little more. Each time he felt a little less sore.
First it was blurs, then the forms took clearer shapes until, after blinking a few times, his eyes could focus on the form before him. Young, pale skin, long, almost white hair, and a piercing blue gaze trained on him. He held a staff in one hand; energy still pulsated from the other. His aura flowed around him, blue, strong and full of power.
Still pained, he hissed a threat. He knew not what had happened, though there were stories... stories of their people sometimes disappearing, never to be seen again, except for the occasional one or two. One or two every many years, something rare, something caused only by humans. They called it The Summoning.
In the most ancient of tongues, he said “Human,” and the word came out as if he’d not spoken in centuries, cavernous and rustic, full of pain and bitterness. “Why have you summoned me?”
Yet the wizard before him only smiled. A self-satisfied little smirk. If he’d been a runt from his clan, he would have smacked the smirk right off his face, but this thing, this human, he was unsure on what to do.
Before he could decide if he’d even attempt a hit, a loud sound directed his attention elsewhere. His gaze turned to find a set of double doors bursting open. Older, wiser humans burst in; they yelled and demanded in a language he did not understand. It sounded angry, it felt threatening. The blonde man before him said something to them, in response they split up, some of the men grasping at his arms held him back, while some of the others raised a heavy crystal. The blond man yelled. Was he trying to help him? It looked like it, but he was still in a daze, his mind still a tad foggy, his reaction time slow. He did not know just what they were trying to do, but he knew it wasn’t good. He let a cry of war and lunged, only to have his body hit an invisible barrier. He started feeling once again like he was sinking and cried out in anger, looking down, finally noticing the glowing symbols within the circle.
That sinking, painful feeling swallowed him whole again, but different this time – he felt heavy, tired, he was before those men, and then he was surrounded by darkness, enveloping, cold, in a constant state of mild awareness: never awake enough to escape, but awake enough to feel.
It was torture.
