Broken World: Liars

Broken World: Liars (Chapter 7)

Jarl

When Jarl woke up, he was in pain. He had been in pain for a while now, although he could not remember why that was. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was in a room with grey walls. Metal. A spaceship, perhaps, but why would he be on such a vessel? Had he been called away from Brol?

He felt weak. Numb. He tried to stand up, but his arms were weak and shaky as he used them to move from his back into a crouching position, and when he tried to stand up, his legs gave in after a second or two, and he fell back to the ground. His breath was strained, and the air felt strangely viscous. As he inhaled, it felt like it was sticking to his lungs, causing him to force it out almost immediately.

"Calm down, Jarl." A voice. He did not recognize it, at least not consciously. "It's going to be alright. I am here. I am with you.Calm down. What you are feeling are the after effects of the narcotic. Breath slowly, Jarl, please. You're hyperventilating."

The voice was correct, he noticed. He forced himself to take another breath, not too deep, and then to keep it in for a few seconds before exhaling. And another. And another.

"Just like that. Good job, Jarl. It's going to be alright, do you hear me?"

There was something wrong with the voice. He couldn't put it into words yet, but that little realization found his way through the veil of mental fog that was clouding his mind. With one of his breaths,the Tarifel tried to speak, but all he could do was mumble something before coughing for a while.

"Don't push yourself, alright? Your condition is not critical,however it is unwise to exhaust a body as drained as yours."

He tried again, but this time he was more careful. Slow, drawn out syllables escaped his mouth as he exhaled, forming a single sentence over the course of several breaths:

"Who are you?"

The voice did not respond for several moments.

"Try to remember, Jarl. I need to know if you can remember my name.I do hope so, but it is possible that someone made a mistake and we gave you too much of the narcotic. You might have memory loss. Brain damage, even, though that is highly unlikely. At least as far as I am told."

Another series of breaths, now getting faster, but also more painful,produced another sentence:

"You never gave me your name."

"Yes, I did. Try to remember."

What was it that was off with this voice? As the effects of the drug wore off, Jarl could think more clearly, but at the same time, the pain seemed to grow stronger, and more clearly focused: It stemmed from his right hand. When did he hurt-

It is a translator!

Abruptly, it all came back to him, memories pouring into his mind as if someone had opened floodgates within his subconscious. The humans. Pratur! My people! They took my people! No, not they.They had done the dirty work, but the one who gave the order was... was...

"Ishmael."

A high, disharmonious sound pierced his ears. Jarl turned around.

"I don't even speak your language, but I think I detected some mild aggression just now, didn't I? I don't know all that much about your people yet, but I think I once heard that priests like you are not supposed to be aggressive." There she stood: Pale, almost hairless,and her purple eyes staring right into his own. She was correct.Regardless of how much pain she had caused him, he had sworn an oath,those many, many years ago, and one woman would not be enough to make him break it! Besides, There was a barrier between them, some transparent material. Perhaps a sort of glass, or plastic. Her voice,or rather the translator's voice, carried through numerous small holes in that wall.