The Cave of Writings. Part 5

The Weight of the Body

The elven girl who'd offered friendship didn't give Wild time to ponder. Her gestures swiftly turned to action—she seized his hand, her grip surprisingly strong for such a slight frame, and pulled him along. The other elves—the scarred one, the braided one, the ones with daggers—followed, their whispers fading, though their gazes remained icy. "Tel'vani esh'tar! (We're dragging him with us!)" one barked, and Wild felt himself hoisted under the arms and hauled deeper into the cave, where the corridor narrowed into a tight passage.

They emerged into a village—not like those in the human world, but one carved from the earth's depths, hewn from stone and roots. The houses were rough, built of dark wood and moss, lit by the same flickering lights that lined the corridor. The elves dumped him onto the ground near the center, where a fire blazed, and encircled him, their faces stern. The girl spoke—quickly, in her tongue—and the scarred elf nodded. "Sin'eshar vadis tel'quar! (This weak thing is our burden now!)" he growled, and Wild understood: they wouldn't kill him. Not yet.

They decided to make him stronger—or break him. They brought him clothing—heavy, made of hides and metal, weighing more than he did. It pressed down on his thin shoulders, dug into his bones, but he didn't resist as they forced it onto him. Then they handed him a load—sacks of stones that nearly dislocated his arms. "Nara sin'vethar! (Carry, or perish!)" the braided woman shouted, and Wild walked, his legs trembling, his back bending, but he walked. Every day was the same: carry, haul, fall, rise. The elves didn't help—they watched, sometimes prodded him with kicks, sometimes laughed when he collapsed. The girl who'd brought him didn't strike, but she observed, her silver eyes filled with curiosity rather than pity.

His body ached, muscles tore, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, they grew stronger. He didn't notice at first—only the pain, the weight, the futility gnawing at him from within. But he didn't give up. Not for the elves, not for the puppet, but for himself—and perhaps for Tekra, whose face he glimpsed in rare moments of rest.

A Year Later

A year passed. Wild had changed—not outwardly, his deformity still clung to him, but his body was sturdier, his shoulders broader, and his hands, though trembling, could bear weight without groaning. He'd learned their language—slowly, laboriously, listening to the elves, repeating their words in his raspy voice. His speech was halting, the words fractured, but he spoke, and that was a victory.

He sat by the fire with Kael'ka—the name of the elven girl who'd extended her hand that first day. He'd learned it months later when she pointed to herself and said, "Kael'ka," flashing that same hesitant smile. Now she sat beside him, her ash-pale hair gleaming in the firelight, her silver eyes watching him with curiosity. They talked—calmly, unhurried—about the world beyond the cave.

"Kwe vadis sin'tara esh'vani? (What's happening in the world outside?)" Wild asked, his voice rough, words stumbling, but Kael'ka understood. She pursed her lips, thought for a moment, then answered: "Tel'quar nara sin'vethar esh'tal. Dae'kota vadis sin'eshar tel'vani. (Much is crumbling. Dakota's grown weaker, they say.)"

Wild froze. Dakota. His family. Tekra. "Sin'tara Dae'kota? (What about Dakota?)" he rasped, his heart clenching. Kael'ka shrugged, her tone lightening. "Il'eth nara tel'quar vadis sin'eshar. Kwe sin'tara esh'vani? (Just rumors. They're losing strength, maybe. What do you know?)" She teased, nudging his shoulder. "Sin'vethar esh'tal vadis kwe? (You speak so badly, what's this?)"

He frowned, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Tel'quar sin'eshar… nara esh'tal. (I'm learning… slowly.)" he forced out, and she laughed, her laughter clear but not cruel. "Kael'ka vadis tel'vani sin'tara! (Kael'ka will help you better!)" she said, winking.

Wild looked at her, and in her curiosity, her warmth, he saw Tekra. He didn't know what had become of his sister, didn't know if the Dakota world still stood, but here, with Kael'ka, he felt a little less useless. His voice still broke, she sometimes didn't understand him and teased him for it, but he spoke—and that was a beginning.