This story is part of a series. It is recommended that you read it in order. You can find the first part in our archive here:
A group of lanky men, impossibly tall, reached their many hands towards me. They pulled me down and carried me, their frail bodies buckling under the weight. They lurched forwards through the muddy waters of the swamp, dead silent, as though unbreathing and lifeless. Their thin legs glided seamlessly through the waters and allowed them to avoid the mud. When they moved through the water their steps were so light and airy that no ripple was formed. There were no splashes. The men only seemed to communicate through furtive glances and strange hand movements. They carried me for a long while through the swamp, me drifting in and out of consciousness, until a large flame emerged in the corner of my vision.
Finally. A sign of life. The fire was surrounded by many small huts and other structures built on some stable ground. Milling about this place were many people, much smaller than the giants who had brought me here. The giants lowered me down and handed me off to these smaller people. They carried me towards the fire, and the touch of others was welcome, and the warmth of the fire doubly so.
And then I felt rope. And then I felt rope again. And then I felt my chest tighten. I was being constricted. I was being tied to some sort of wooden beam or pole. It was very warm. It was too warm. I forced my weary eyes open and the world was spinning. First towards the flames, and then upwards into the foggy sky, and then back to the fire again. I was being spitroasted by these strange people, and I was too weak to resist. I tried to yell for help. For them to stop. But my throat was too dry and I couldn’t muster a sound. Pus from my infected wounds dripped into the fire and it sizzled. The first sound outside of myself I’d heard in days. It’s just a dream, I thought. You’ll wake up soon enough.
The rotation had started to become hypnotic. I was being cooked nice and evenly. The small people had started to gather around me, and were dancing without a sound, a songless dance, a lifeless dance. They passed torches to one another along a circle, and then at a certain point they passed them back again. Their faces were pale and sunken and their forms hunched. They seemed hungry. And that’s when I heard it: the second sound. It was a small squelch. And then another. And then another, and another, and another, and another. Footsteps approaching from the mists. The loud steps parted the silent people as they ceased their dancing. A hand was laid on my head. A warm, comforting hand on my forehead. Then, all of a sudden, the small people untied me from the spitroast and threw me onto the ground. And I heard a beautiful, sonorous voice:
“Welcome to the Songless Mire. I apologise for the rude introduction. I see you are gravely injured. I can offer you healing and a warm place to rest.”