The Call of Nys #5 (Waverly Stump and The 7 Realms)

18 - J U D S O N

When his eyes dragged open, he became conscious of overpowering noise, like one from a quarrel. The ground felt uncomfortable under him, and he subsequently realized that it was because he had been asleep in water.

His throat burned as did his wrists.

After a few thorough blinks, he became aware of two things; the first was that he was surrounded by the supposed noisemakers – a large number of them. The second was that he was bound by ugly ropes. One was in a tight loop around his neck, thus bringing about a lingering irritation. The other shackled his hands. Examining himself, he noticed his wet clothes that were also covered in brown dirt. A mudpuddle was right under him, soaking into his trousers. His face felt just as wet and he wondered if he had been roused back to consciousness with water. The back of his head ached, and as a result of the blinding daylight, made it difficult to focus on everything at once.

Instead, he chose to concentrate on the conversation even though it was mainly consistent of defiant shouts.

"Murderer!"

"Pillager!"

"Kill him!"

"Chop his bloody head off!"

"That thing is evil. He deserves to rot in a dungeon."

Voices – both male and female – belted accusations and harsh insults from all corners, filling his head with a kind of pain that was different from the bugging headache. He felt crestfallen for he understood very well why he was being punished. He understood that as much as there were people who would be willing to forgive his past mistakes, there were those who wanted him eliminated. He believed he had just bumped into the latter yet again.

It was not his first time being mistaken for evil.

In fact, it had become a recurring scenario, except that he had no idea when or where the reoccurrence would take place. More often than not, people who had suffered during The Great Unrest still assumed that he hosted Oculmus – the Elemental godhead of Chaos, although in a different context because they seemed to think he alone had tortured them. None believed he had just been playing the part of an unwilling host and victim, and after a while, trying to explain proved fruitless.

Yet, in spite of their obvious anger, he sorely wished to make amends.

Whether or not evil was executed by his own will, people had been hurt; lives were lost, homes were destroyed and families separated because of him. Though there was no possible way to rectify such things, he yearned to compensate some other way.

But from what he could see, permission to speak was an impossibility.

His eyes stayed on the angry crowd as they brandished shovels, pitchforks, axes, and firebrands whilst being held back by a trail of men.

His attention was soon taken to a woman in the corner, squeezing her way to the front. Her black hair dangled around her like a shield and the frown she sported was frightening. It was Deira, but she looked nothing like the unconscious woman he saw atop a bed the night before.

"Let him go! He's done nothing wrong, you bloody blockhead bastard!" She boldly shoved at a man dressed in pieces of armor.

"He's a killer!" He shouted.

"He saved my life, you idiot!" Deira shouted back. For someone who just put to birth, she appeared stronger than she looked. "You're not even from here. He's living in our village therefore under our laws and our protection, and we say, let him go!"

Again, she pushed. And the man attempted to hit her, but was restrained by Graybeard, who intervened just in time.

"Stop! You don't want blood on your hands this morning, my lad." He cautioned, grappling with the fellow. "She's just had a baby. She's fragile."