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ola
Author of 13 Stories |
Memories II
by Ola
“Who are you you you you?” The echo batted away at Sindarin’s mind like a butterfly against the inside of a glass jar. Slowly, very slowly, feeling came back into his body, but his mind shied away from any deep thoughts; and anyway, it swam too much for any coherent thoughts. Thus, he just lay there, his mind drifting, buoyed by a current of pleasant warm air that ruffled the little hairs on his arms. Ah, yes, he was lying down. Something soft and springy met his shoulder blades as he tried a wriggle and for a while he didn’t make any more moves. A deep weariness tugged at him, as if someone had sprawled on him to keep him from moving. Or maybe he was just tired. Why? His mind refused to go down that particular pathway and he didn’t push it. He really was too exhausted to deal with his recalcitrant head at the moment.
He may have drifted back into sleep, or unconsciousness, he wasn't sure, but the quality of the air seemed to have changed slightly since the last time he had been awake. It had become slightly cooler. Not enough so to be uncomfortable, but enough to jar his mind and to remind him of an altogether different sort of cold that had recently seeped into his limbs, passing effortlessly through skin and muscles, right into his bones and heart. With a force that left him breathless, his memories all rushed back at him, and he sat up in bed with a half choked gasp that had him coughing and squeezing his ribs to keep them from hurting so much. His head whirled with the sudden movement, and the whole world was thrown off kilter.
The palace, Marillin, the gate, the void, the coldness. And Lan. Where was Lan? She was supposed to be here! Where is she?
“Lan.” His first attempt at words came out as a painful croak, barely audible. It hurt to talk, but it was no impediment to him. He tried again and again, each time his little cry becoming a little louder, until it sounded like a proper word. All the while, he had been swinging his legs to the side of the bed and unsuccessfully trying to get up.
Ah, damn it, what was wrong with him? Had he caught the plague, to feel such weakness? His lungs burned impossibly, and he longed for a sip of cool water. No, make that a whole barrel of it. Finally, he fought off the soft blankets and rushed to his feet, only to sway alarmingly and crash headlong into the wooden floor. That hurt. Just as much as did his wounded pride at feeling so week and ineffective. How was he to rescue his Lan if he couldn’t even stand up?
With a deep breath through teeth clenched with the frustration of impotence that served as much to get some much needed air back into his abused lungs as to try and relax, the young guard rolled onto his back and finally took stoke of where he was. From his prone position, he saw a mound of pale, colored blankets on a low wooden dais which he assumed was the bed from which he had just fallen. He tentatively reached his hand toward the corner of a green one that trailed down on the floor due to his hasty –and unsuccessful- attempt at escape. It was remarkably soft; definitely his bed then. A slight glance to the side revealed … well, his mind couldn’t quite grasp the concept of green leaves fluttering in such patterns, like a waterfall of green, so he decided that it must be another cloth, painted or stitched with leaves. It hung over what may have been a doorway. So he was in a room. And he could seemingly leave whenever he wanted to, since there was no discernible physical door blocking his leave. A soft sigh escaped him, and he was surprised that he had not been previously aware of how much his new environment –and the possible prospect of subsequent imprisonment- had alarmed him. His mind really must have been quite muddled if he could not even realize his own thoughts and feelings. But there were just so many of those latter ones that he didn’t even want to adventure near them, for to start sifting through them, he would open the whole gate and be flooded with memories and repressed emotions. And right now, he didn’t have time for that.
He rolled his head to his other side to continue his inspection. There was a wall there, made of clean, light colored wooden planks, and a few long shelves curving along its length. They held a few books, some sort of box, a green vase with a single yellow flower, and a stack of folded cloth. And then, the wall just…ended, and was replaced by what he could only think of as bark. Tree bark.
And during his whole examination, he couldn’t stop the feeling of swaying. He wasn't sure whether it was him or the ceiling, or the whole room. Not that it mattered much. He must have hit his head pretty badly not so long ago, or he wouldn’t feel so nauseous.
But… that tree bark was tingling a memory at the back of his head. Where had he heard of rooms with tree bark? When the right thought finally came to him, he would have hit himself on the head if he wasn't already lying on the floor with a pounding headache. The Hawkbrothers, of course. He had been going to see them after all. Dear goddess, he really was a befuddled idiot. Well, at least now the swaying made sense. They lived in tree houses. And that’s where he was. With a rather impressive roll of his eyes at his own lack of mental capacity, Sindarin rolled himself onto his side, and ignoring the stitch right below his ribs, got as far as his hands and knees before he had to pause for breath. It must be the swaying of the tree. It’s not possible for me to feel so week, damn it. His memories of the passage between Valdemar’s capital and the Hawkbrother’s forest were rather vague, and he didn’t mind that too much. If possible he would prefer not to dwell on the void in between. But that also meant that he wasn't sure what had happened to him there, and why he was so damn weak. He was an accomplished guard, for haven’s sake. He was physically strong enough to climb over mountains and fight with groups of bandits. And he couldn’t even stand up on his own two feet? That was laughable. Not to mention that at the back of his head, the memory that blinked with warm light, the memory of Lan, propelled him ever forward to find her. And how was he supposed to do that by sitting on the floor?
With an angry growl at himself, he lunged upright in one heave, staggered backwards a few step under his momentum, and tottered for a few precious moments before his legs gave out again. At least, the second time he hit the floor he was moderately prepared for it. It still hurt quite a bit, as his elbow connected with the wood. This was definitely not his day. Someone else thought just as much, for Sindarin heard from behind him an:
“Are you quite finished?” There was no need to add ‘making a fool of yourself’ to that sentence. That was quite well implied in the tone of voice. But the fact that there was someone there in the first place and that the guard’s senses were so dulled as to have been unaware of it was quite more frightening than the mere prospect of being laughed at.
With a quick jerk of the head that left him reeling, he looked behind his shoulder at, well, a Hawkbrother. There really was no mistaking the man for anyone else, what with the shoulder length hair dyed with a very realistic leaf pattern, the high, defined cheekbones, and the strange, form fitting clothing. Not to mention the little smirk that played on the stranger’s lips. But the Hawkbrother didn’t seem to be waiting for a response from Sindarin. He just stood up with a fluidity that made the guard envious and extended a hand to help him up. With the help, the young Valdemaran was able to sit back down on the bed, exhausted, but with no more unnecessary bruises. While he was catching up his breath –and thinking of which question to ask first- he felt compelled to thank his guest. At that, the Hawkbrother laughed.
“I am called Moonwind, and you are welcome friend, although I know you not, nor your story. Please enlighten me for I am a curious man.” All that was said with that same little knowing smile. Obviously, the man knew more than he let on, but Sindarin was past trying to play mind games with his host. He wanted answers, and the quicker he responded to what was asked of him, the faster he would know what he wanted as well. And he was just too damn tired to think overly much anyway. So his story was brief, with the usual entrety that now seemed to end all his conversations:
“Where is Lan? I was told she was brought here for healing. Please help me find her.”
At this, Moonwind sobered visibly and lost all his sunny disposition. This sudden change in expression helped clarify why he was called after the cool night elements instead of the exuberant ones of the day.
“I am afraid seeing her now would be a mistake.” Sindarin’s mouth opened up, but no sound came out. He had traveled through the countryside after her, tracked her to the capital, and followed her through a gate that almost robbed him of his life force. And now, a mere few minutes away from her, he was banned from finally taking her in his arms?
“The isolation need not be permanent my friend. Nevertheless, as you mentioned, she is here to heal, and to do so, she cannot perceive you. To do so would be dangerous for her current mental health, and precipitate her frail constitution into painful turbulence. It would either undo the work we had helped her start toward recovery, or hurry the process into a blinding and quite unnecessary pain.”
“She is not the frail damsel you paint her to be,” the guard gritted out, his emotions too tender to withhold at such a preposterous notion. His Lan had been strong enough to leave her family and reach for her goal. She had weathered the highs and lows of the guards’ training camp. She had even survived –thank goddess- the landslide that everyone had thought fatal. She was anything but frail.
“I did not mean to cause you grief by the phrasing of my declaration. I mainly wished to protect her from further anguish. She is a strong woman, and will health. In time. But that is what she need, time, and despite our clan’s exceptional healers, there are things only the body itself can do. We understand your plight and you are a free guest here to walk as you wish, but if you love that woman as you said you do, I ask of you not to seek her out.” And with those final words, the Hawkbrother quietly left the room to leave a stunned Sindarin contemplating his choices: to stew restlessly in the shadows and allow Lan the time to heal, or to fling all cautions to the wind and find her, when he was so close to his goal. Ah, the torment of indecision. It made his head and heart hurt.
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