Watching Shadows (Open)

[Lisenet]

Fàsail Tate
App Here

When I opened my eyes I was fresh, I was new, and I was empty. There was nothing in my world that preceded me. There was no beginning, no day before this one, no night before it. When a bird flitted across my unending, scorching sky, it had never existed before I saw it. The stones in my back were as new as I was. My body grew only as I became aware of different pieces of it as they lay beneath me. Crisp-feeling face; throbbing head, with wind blowing across tiny hairs over the back of it; aching neck; sore shoulder and loose arm, with a light shoulder and no arm opposite it; a torso below that felt almost numb, it hadn’t moved in so long; two legs and two feet; supposedly all of my toes. I was wearing a single piece of clothing—it felt soft with age, worn and dry. It felt like a sleeveless dress, but unfitted, shapeless, ending at about my knees. But I couldn’t sit up to see it. I was too tired. Or too….something else. I couldn’t remember.

It wasn’t like I had a name. Or an age. For some reason I knew I ought to have those things. I wasn’t thinking in sentences or clear thoughts. It was all an unhinged, frothing mass of vague emotions and impersonal perceptions, as though a copy of myself was standing above me, beside me, looking down and reciting the thoughts I ought to have.

I had nothing to do but to lay there. The sun tracked a gold-silver blaze across the blue-white sky and I watched it. I watched the shadows around my nose grow and mold and writhe as the sun edged sideways. Every now and then I caught a shadow from one of my eyelashes. The wind blew dust across my face and the flecks of dirt and grit caught in the skin of my chapped lips. Every now and then I thought my hand might have stirred, but then I saw that a snake slid gently up my wrist, over my arm and the soft crease in my elbow, its cool scales rippling over my throat as it rested its head on my chin to stare down at me. Its eyes were dark brown-orange, flecked with gold, the pupil lined and reflecting with silver.

I didn’t know there was anything else I was supposed to do. I must have blinked, must have slept, but mostly I just watched. Listened. I could smell the spiced musk of plant life but couldn’t see it from my motionless place on my back. Every now and then a bird squawked. Sometimes I thought I understood and other times I wondered why. Finally, I heard a sound that didn’t belong, something caused by a voice coming from no animal, but a creature similar to myself, whatever I might be. After staring so long in one repose, I blinked, and my eyes slid sideways. For the first time I was conscious that I breathed, so whatever I was, I must be living. Did this person know that? Did it matter? If I didn’t know what or who I was, would they?

Deciding that whoever this was might not realize I was indeed alive, I moved--finally, muscles feeling dry and strained, like smoked meat--and rose unevenly, as my right hand slipped when my missing left hand failed to lift my left side. A small puff of dust clouded out of my mouth when I coughed, and I took as much time as I dared to sit up, resting my forehead on my scraped, callused knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that something was written on my right arm, but the characters seemed to shimmer in my gritty vision. I couldn't read them.

[phrostphyre]

“She looks human, or elfish, I suppose, but her pointed ears are gone if she is an elf, and I don’t think an elf’d let themselves be caught and tortured like that, Agibert, sir. If she’s even a she,” Olaf adds darkly, shooting the figure in the distance a scowl.

“True, Olaf, true. Olaf, take ten of these gentlemen here and circle around, approach from the left. Harold, take another ten, circle around, and approach from the right. I’ll take the remaining ten and we’ll go straight up the middle. Swords sheathed, gentlemen, and turn your spears upside down. We’re not making war on the girly, gentlemen, we’re simply Broddring’s noble defenders, riding far afield to find the enemy and give him our swords in his gut.” The spear reference stemmed from before humans came to Alagaesia, as far as I know. The old warbands would carry upright spears when they went to make war, and then when they rode to make peace, they’d carry them spear-point aimed downwards, at the ground.

I watch Olaf and Harold separate from the group, leaving me my band of men, and then they spurred their horses into a light gallop, eating up the short distance they needed to. With a nod back at my group, I start my horse trotting forward, before ostensibly reaching to scratch myself, but really loosening my sword in its sheath. The men, not quite so compunctious, visibly tightened straps, grips, loosened swords, and shifted in their saddles. I sighed, placed one hand on my face, sighed again, and returned my attention to the slow, inexorable trot, bearing even closer to the figure, which we assumed to be female. A thought strikes me. It probably looks pretty bad for me to be flanking them, and with far, far greater numbers. I jerk the glove off my hand and pull the greathelm off my head, looping it back onto the thong at the side of my horse’s saddle.

We really all are outfitted for a bad fight, I realize, when I look down and see I’m only sporting leather boots and gloves, and even then, I can feel the iron strips in my boots, designed to protect my ankles while fighting in a shield wall. With a scowl and a raised fist, I bring the miniature column behind me to a halt, before sending a piercing whistle through the air, signaling the other two to a halt, as well. I pull my feet out of the saddle’s stirrups, and slide off the side of my horse, landing with a metallic thud, courtesy of the chainmail haubergon I’ve got underneath my red surcoat, a uniform shared by the twenty-nine men with me. Cursing, I plant my spear into the sand beside my horse, and wrap the reins around it, before starting my walk the rest of the way to the figure.

I figure a dark red surcoat with snarling black wolf on the front and back aren’t exactly the most friendly clothing to greet someone in, but they were the ones that decided to be out here all alone, not me. As I approach, I see Olaf’s initial suspicions were correct. The figure’s female, but with only one arm. Interesting. Well, nothing for it then, old lad, I tell myself, and raise my still ungloved right hand in greeting, before striking myself in the face. If they’re out here all alone, with no mode of transportation, what does that probably mean? They were dumped out here and meant to die. Keeping the scowl I want to plaster on my face -off- , I reach down and undo the leather keeping my canteen attached to my belt, and close the distance. I speak, doing my best to keep my tone of voice friendly and unsuspicious, but I can’t help but wonder who she is, and what she’s doing out here. “Can I offer you some water, friend? ‘tis a long way from any roads out here, and you shouldn’t be alone, what with all the Urgals coming out of the Desert and Spine, aiming for trouble.”

[Lisenet]

I managed to sit up, and my eyes catch on the man dismounting a slight distance from me, and like I’ve watched everything else I watch him walk closer. The grate of his boots on the sand is very distinct. To contrast it is the sound of the wind combing through the horses’ manes and tails. Mounted men entirely surround me, at a safe distance. But safe for which one of us? Surely I am not dangerous, am I? If so, how do they know? Will they tell me?

The man approaching, bearing a sigil I feel I ought to recognize, is carrying what I identify as a canteen, and my tired eyes quickly latch onto it instead of him. Apprehensive at his height as he walks closer, I make my way to my feet, stumbling. The ground wants to move beneath me. And I am used to having two hands to help me up. I don’t know where the other one went. Finally he stops walking and watches me as I warily watch him. ”Can I offer you some water, friend?” His voice is wary as well as he warns me of the dangers—I know of the dangers—but careful, casual. A part of me says his voice is sculpted, but I don’t understand that part, and I ignore it.

”You know me?” I asked hopefully, taking an uneven step toward him. I couldn’t be sure if the many men surrounding us—surrounding me—shifted in their saddles or I was imagining it. It was possible all of this could be a dream, wasn’t it? Dreams didn’t have memories, which would explain why I had none. The only memories I had I was creating now. When I took the canteen he offered I nearly dropped it as I tried to take it with two hands. But then I can’t open it. Frustrated, instead of letting him do it I kneel, wedging the canteen between my knees and wresting the cork out with my right, and only, hand. I drink it there on my knees, wishing I didn’t have to be, and when I stand I give it back to him open, because I didn’t remember to close it before getting back off the ground. I felt so small on the ground, and strange words filled my head when I thought about that. I didn’t understand the words but I knew what they said.

”I don’t know who I am,” I admitted. A sharp, thick pain filled my skull and pressed my hand into my brow, wishing I could reach in and tear out whatever creature felt like it was in there tearing at me. All of those men were still surrounding me, watching impassively, openly carrying weapons, just staring at me, and something about the way they did so made my stomach ache too. What was it about me that made them so worried? What made them think they needed so much steel to protect themselves, and the man they had chosen to talk to me? In every direction I turned, there they were, turned in like the numbers on a sundial, waiting for the shadows to move. And so quiet. Waiting.

I rubbed at the sharp stubble on my head, the scarred lump of my left shoulder, the warped line across the left side of my brow. ”Please,” I begged quietly, as the talons in my head abated. I still felt ill, agitated. My every breath ached. my ribs seemed to be vibrating with the strength of my heart's voice and I realized I was afraid of them all. ”I don’t understand. I don’t remember….anything. Why….” I looked out again at the silent watchers. ”Why so many? What’s wrong?” With me? With everything? Why do I feel like a feral animal you’ve come to put down as easy as you can? I am not an animal. I am only frightened. You would be, too.

[phrostphyre]

I wince internally as she asks if I know her. I shake my head mutely, unwilling to break such a denial of knowledge into words. If I’m reading between the lines correctly, then she doesn’t remember who she is and that is a bad way to be. I wince again as she struggles with the canteen, and once I get it back, I absentmindedly stick the stopper back in the mouth, rehang it on my belt, and, for lack of something to do with my hands, clasp them in front of me.

My men, I notice, have settled back to watch the interplay between the woman- a girl, I’d guess, really, judging from how thin she was- and myself with the air of those who’ve seen just about everything. I relax, slightly, but listen with concern when she admits she doesn’t know who she is. When her hand goes up to her brow, the group of men behind me tense slightly, but relax when they see she’s only in pain. Only in pain, I scoff to myself. Such is life in Alagaesia, mate.

I figure she’s scared of something, and I sympathize, so it stands to my luck that when I go to lift a hand and motion the men forming a clumped up semi-circle around us, she starts losing it. Keeping my voice calm, I try again. ”I don’t know who you are either, but you’re safe with us. We’re from the Duchy of the Plains March, and we’re patrolling this portion of the desert and border in order to show the flag,” here I gesture to a piece of cloth attached to one of the men’s spears, black wolf prominent, then continue.

”Safety in numbers. Any fewer men in a patrol, and we’re liable to set upon by too many for us to survive. I’m talking Urgals of course, but the elves- they’re more than willing to send across a cavalry troop to shoot at us with their arrows. We’re good with spear, sword, and shield- good enough to take an elf, if we surprise ‘em. But arrows? They use that gods-damned armor penetrating tip, and we haven’t figured out how to stop it.” I spit the last part out bitterly, and turn to stare across the tract of desert separating where I am now and where I’d like to be- leading an army into the damned forest, armed with torches and axes, and burning and hacking it to the ground.

[Lisenet]

When he shakes his head to my first question, my ribcage feels as though it has closed too far, it has surpassed the intended breadth of its hinges, it is crushing me inside its protective gates. I wish that it would not try so hard to keep me inside; it only makes the rattling pieces hidden there wish even stronger to burst forth and shatter on the ground. A lovely, most pleasant image to be forced to imagine, but I’ve done it to myself. I bite my lips together to give myself some other hurt to focus on than the one behind my ribs that cannot be assuaged. A person’s identity is defined by their experiences and memories. Without those, do I no longer exist? If I cannot name myself, will I even be a true participant in this world? Everything has a name, doesn’t it? Without one, I am nothing.

”I don’t know who you are either,” he says aloud, after a pause. ”But you’re safe with us.” You are, not you will be or you would be. There is significance in the way he organizes his promises, not that he has promised in so many words. ”We’re patrolling this portion of the desert—“ The desert. ”Fàsail,” I murmur distractedly to myself, rubbing at my aching head again. There is something about that word that is familiar as no other words have been, and all the words that he speaks echo multiple times over once inside my ears, as though different voices are saying them, or perhaps my own. The meaning remains the same although the sounds change. As he explains my other questions, the answers somewhat comforting to me in that I am not the target against which they are protecting themselves, I realize that his words echo because I know more than one language. I must. Those other words have meaning to me. I taste two others*, ”Sardvoraz. Tulahk.” Dwarvish. Urgalgran. I wonder if these words mean anything to him. ”Fàsail.” That word….it does not have particular meaning to me, precisely, but the sound of it…. It sounds so very familiar. The palm against my brow turns into a fist as I try to remember. I taste the word several more times trying to understand it. I even glance at the characters on my arm again, wondering at their significance.

Something about the arrows he mentions, and reviles, stirs something else in my memory, the part that still exists apparently, somewhere beside the languages. These arrows are known to me, though I don’t understand quite how. Or….the relevance of this awareness, or much of anything else distinctive. They just sound….familiar. Like the languages my foreign mind provides me with without my asking.

I inhale deeply, fighting to quell the disorganized panic I can feel begging me to free it. I will not. ”What,” I say finally, slowly returning my gaze to his, ”is your intention in regards to me?” I look around myself, at all the men raggedly encircling me. There is a slight gap at my back, and I wonder if I would be able to escape through it if I don’t like his answer. Possibly, but I wouldn’t stay free for long. And the ground still seems to tilt, although I can see from looking at it that, here, it is perfectly flat. At my feet, a little ways behind me, I can see the misshapen outline of where I lay for an indeterminate amount of time before he came, and only my wobbling footsteps surround it. No others. ”Army camps are not designed for extraneous persons, particularly not females. I won’t come unless I can be useful.” Although how I would manage either the use or to escape if he wanted me to come with him and I didn’t want to go, I had no idea. ”Please, don’t let me be a burden.”

My roving hand—intent, apparently, on fulfilling the additional role of the hand that is gone—goes up to my head again, and in its journey finds the rim of my ear, ending before it ought to, in a jagged, rippled line. I quickly reach around and find the other in the same condition. My arm, the scar on my forehead, the scars on my ribcage—which I can feel without touching them—all could easily be the result of damage caused in a fight. The removal of the tops of my ears had nothing to do with an attack, it was an intentional abuse, meant not to defeat, but to maim. At that knowledge my brow crumples into deep lines and again the fear and panic well up, this time accompanied by a sort of desperate fury. What else might my attackers have done that I haven’t noticed? Not all scars are visible. Perhaps I don’t want to know. Either way, I turn away from the man standing calmly before me, ashamed to be so weak as to have been so defeated, left a half-formed mess of parts and pieces that don’t even feel as though they were all put back in the right places by whoever left me here, as someone must have. With the shame comes a terrible feeling of humiliation. I am a being torn in half—an entire limb and an entire lifetime lost and I can’t even attribute how. I stand before men wearing nothing but what looks like a burlap sack once meant for grain or potatoes. Perhaps I was right after all. Without a name, I am nothing. I have been reduced to property.



*I could not find the Dwarvish or Urgal words for desert, so I made them up.

[phrostphyre]

I eye the girl warily while she mutters through my explanation, not sure she understands my words, but that proves a false fear. She understands well enough- must have been recalling her name, and in different languages. According to my father, damn his soul, mine means sword-bright, but what the three hells sense does that make? None at all. What is your intention in regards to me? I spit again, swear softly so the girl can’t hear me, then think through her question. No doubt if I wanted, I could let my men use her for sport, then just leave her here again. But I’ve already promised her safety, and I won’t be oath-breaking scum like the Queen is, and there’s a little niggling in the back of my mind telling me I shouldn’t, so I nod. ”We’ll take you with us. You can ride double with me, or I can walk and you can have the horse.”

Army camps aren’t designed for extra people, eh? It’s a damned good thing we’re neither an army, and we’re heading home, then. I say as much-”Army camps are huge. More often than not there’re more camp followers than actual soldiers, and we’re headed home. This is the farthest out we’re able to ride without needing to take water with us.” When I notice her discomfort, I swear again, this time a little loudly. With a sigh, I undo the straps on my belts- sword belt first, then the actual belt helping hold up my surcoat and mail. As soon as they both hit the sand, I can feel the full weight of both of them on my shoulders. I grunt, then bend all the way over, and try to touch my toes, wriggling my arms to get them out of the sleeves of both garments.

They hit the ground with a solid rattle, and I’m left wearing boots, trousers, and a tight -tight for me, that is- shirt. I straighten, flash the girl a grin, and take off the shirt. Bundling it in my arms, I step over my mail and surcoat, and hold out the shirt in one hand. ”Now that I’m half-naked,”, I grin at her again, ”My name’s Agibert, Lady of the Desert, and it’s an honor to meet you.”

[Lisenet]

I hear him mutter a short curse and wonder at it. Does he not want me to ask questions? "We'll take you with us."

He's done it again. 'We will,' not 'we could.' He's a man accustomed to making decisions for others, likely many others; does that make him the commander of this particular group or perhaps the entire camp? I wouldn't be surprised to hear that it does. The men at the top of the chain tend to be high enough so to overlook those of little precedence, particularly individuals. I hope, at least, that his disregard for my opinion is born out of his habit of command and not out of a display of power. What need would he have to advertise how much more powerful he and his men are than me? Any fool can see that even if I managed to escape their circle, my steps wouldn't take me far out of it. I would have to move as they wouldn't expect me to in order to evade their ring in the first place, to slip between the sharp teeth of their spears. If I spun and ran without warning I could slide under the belly of the larger horse behind me, there's room enough, and if I did that quick enough the man atop the horse wouldn't be able to reach me with his weapon. After that, however, the horses would run me down in seconds.

He disagrees with my opinion of army camps, and explains why. I suppose it is a reasonable opportunity for trade on behalf of both the soldiers and the civilians. "How many of the followers are women?" I asked next. I would not want to be the only one. That arrangement seems....precarious.

I rub tiredly at my eyes, though my body aches more than feels weariness, and flinch when I hear his belt buckle rattle. I watch him with a sparkling concern as he pulls off various armaments, resisting the urge to either attempt my foolhardy escape or to retreat further. Neither action would accomplish anything more than an illusory sense of separation. His first grin threads suspicion through my shoulder blades, but by the second, and his gesture of extending his own shirt for me to take, the suspicion wanes back into the initial layer of caution I woke shrouded in. Stepping forward, I carefully take the shirt, and drag it awkwardly over my head. It has no more holes than those it was woven with, and hangs past my knees. Some of the rigidity in my back eases. "Thank you."

His nudge at humor heartens me. Then he gives his name, with a small flourish in his tone when he references my tenuous connection to the place I was found, the only connection I have to anything in this world. I tentatively smile and wish I could give my own in return. The word for 'desert' sounds so familiar to me in one language but none of the others, and I wonder if it has similar cadences to the name I have lost. Fàsail.

I inhale quietly and sigh, as though doing so will give me the momentum to leave the only place I know. "I will not make you walk." I have no particular desire to put myself in the immediate vicinity of any of the men I see here, but I doubt their camp is close enough for me to prefer walking, and I would rather not inconvenience them by my lacking pace. I could run. I believe I was accustomed to doing so before... But I hold to no illusions about the present state of my health; I am well for someone who has been left in the desert for an indeterminate length of time. But my body is not ready for any lengthy form of exertion.

Some horses are very particular about where they want strangers--far away, for the fussy ones. The commander's horse doesn't seem to overly mind my presence, though he seemed displeased by my initial approach. I lightly rub the long bones of his cheek and breathe into his nose so he will know me better. I must be familiar with horses to some degree--I'm not at all wary of this handsome fellow. "Where do you want me to sit?" I ask the commander, eyeing the saddle and weighing the benefits for each of us depending on if I'm in front of or behind him.

I have to give myself an extra jump to haul myself onto the tall beast, again feeling a breath of shame for my weakness. I don't think I needed much help in my previous life--I feel....beholden at the thought of asking for something I would normally be able to do for myself. Another question murmurs from the empty caverns of my mind as I hold my feet out of the way and lean forward for him to mount. "How far is your camp from the three nearest towns? I would like to know where I am going." The map stands clear and resolute, detailed and fully textured in my mind. I must know this world quite well. If only I could remember more of my own.

[phrostphyre]

She has a nice smile I note, then shake myself a little to cut that thought off. No time to be attempting to flirt. Now that she’s at least semi-dressed, I lift my gaze from her face to the desert beyond her. The hair on my arms is standing up, and I can feel the hair on the back of my neck tingling. There’s something in the air, and it isn’t love. Taking one last long glace at the desert, I realize she’s asked questions, said things- I missed it all for a moment of clarity; something’s going to happen, and I won’t like it. Acting on autopilot, I pick up and wad my mail and surcoat into a bundle, then strap it to my saddle with the extra belt, but buckle the sword belt on my waist again.

Kneeling, I scuff the sand with a boot- it’s not too soft, and it’ll start to harden and turn into dirt about a half day’s ride west from here. Good enough, then. ”You’ll ride in front of me,”, I command, slipping into a tone of voice designed to imply threats and violence if my orders aren’t followed. I stand again, scuff the ground once more, then spit and swear. I purse my lips and utter a sharp whistle, and when they hear it, my men start their horses forward, and I turn.

”I suspect, milady, we’re about to embark upon a chase. Camp’s on the edge of the desert, next to a watering hole. There’s the men’s wives and children, and a detachment I left to guard them. After that, assuming we survive whatever’s coming, I’ll be riding for the castle being raised to ensure peace on the Plains. You can ride with us there, or I’ll give you an escort where you wish from the camp.” I walk to my horse, unimaginatively named Rednose, pat his nose, and swing myself into the saddle behind the girl, and wrap my left arm around her waist, picking up the reins as I do so. Slipping my feet into the stirrups, I loosen my sword in its scabbard.

In the time it’s taken for me to mount and glare at the desert one last time, my men have arrived and arrayed themselves in a loose line formation, slightly behind myself and the girl. Nodding a greeting back at the men, I shift Rednose to the side, so I can converse with Olaf. ”We’ll be escorting the lass to camp, my dear Olaf, and from there, we shall either offer her the hospitality of Castle Richards and the Duchy, or we’ll escort her wherever she wishes. But- Olaf? There’s an itch between my shoulder blades.” Olaf nods, spits, and swears softly. He loosens his own sword in its scabbard, then nods for the men to do so as well, then turns and stares at the horizon, broken by rolling hills of sand and the odd scrub here and there. With one last curse, he spits again, and then begins addressing the men.

”Right, you bastards! You heard the commander! Tighten straps, check yer bleedin’ horses! Alfred, if your gods damned horse goes lame again because you didn’t check his shoes, I’ll flay the bleeding cost of him out of your back! We’re ridin’ with a lady today, and this isn’t the practice ground for you to slouch around on!” Ah, the magnificent sound of military discipline. Olaf knows his business- while he gets the men ready to ride again, I turn Rednose back towards where our camp lay and spur him into a slow walk, saving his energy in case I need him to gallop. If that happens, I’ll probably take my feet out of the stirrups, let go of the reins, and then simply fall backwards. Hopefully, that won’t happen.

[Lisenet]

"You'll ride in front of me." His tone makes the inside of my throat feel abraded, and my brow puckers at the sound of it. Does he think I will sit in the back just to spite him? He is incorrect. At least in this instance. I have no desire to spite anybody. In fact, all I feel that I want at the moment is more water, but I don't want to drink all of his and leave none for him. I'm not tired, not hungry. My initial deep suspicion has leveled into simple caution, but I do not feel afraid. Not consciously. Nor do I feel particularly in need of anything. My mind is tired. But I do not know how to fix that.

The commander is wary of something I cannot perceive when his weight settles behind me. His arm around my waist somewhat unnerves me, but simultaneously I feel strangely detached. I realize that I don't care for being touched, but somehow I also don't fully care if I am. The oddity feels as though my opinion of other hands is a form of disregard: I don't want them near me, but I don't consider them Important enough to spend time or effort avoiding. How strange.

"Why do you think there will be a chase?" I ask, frowning with a muted form of concern. "Who will be doing the chasing?" He eases his sword in its sheath in such a way that I know he will be able to draw it more swiftly, and gives a summary of his plans to a man named Olaf, who must be his second-in-command. "With the amount you all spit you could create a new oasis." Castle Richards? Isn't that where the queen--?

Omar's bellow shakes my thoughts free of their intended course and I flinch at the unexpected volume. I hadn't thought he had that sort of noise in him. But once my ears stop ringing I feel a flicker of amusement for his words. I think about mentioning my uncertainty over the status of my birth--I may well be a common woman, not a lady--but decide that the commander probably has guessed this on his own already, and stay silent. At least I can look forward to hopefully being among other women at his camp, and young ones. Being so thoroughly outnumbered by men makes me uncomfortable in a subconscious sort of way. They are threatening in appearance, but I no longer feel distinctly threatened by them.

We start out with an easy pace, and I run my few fingers through his stallion's mane, still frowning, disconcerted more by my observations of the commander's watchful demeanor than by what he sees that I don't. Surely I should be able to see whatever he does, but perhaps it is his past experiences which allow him to merely see our surroundings differently. My past is of little use to me at the moment.

We're approaching a long line of low-growing scrub when I notice an in incongruent pattern between the leaves and thorns of the gnarled branches. Fabric. My hand reacts more quickly than my voice can, unwinding itself from the stallion's mane and wrapping tightly around one of the reins ahead of the commander's fist, yanking hard. The horse shies sideways and men erupt from the bushes surrounding us. Dust thrashs up around another line of men riding hard toward us from the north.

The stallion lashes out at the man closest to us and I hear his teeth click shut over the space the man's arm has only just vacated. My heart throbs against the inside of my rib cage as he evades the horse and dodges at us. Wishing only to keep him away, I lift my bare foot and snap it out, catching him in the forehead. His head whips back and he drops, unconscious--I can still hear him breathing--to the rough sand. Then I just do my best to hold on and stay out of the way. The commander's feet have the stirrups and I have only one hand.

[phrostphyre]

”There’s an itch between my shoulder blades. And I don’t know who, but- but such a thing is more likely than not. “ I’m concentrating on keeping Rednose from prancing around when someone- the girl, I think, jerks the reins, causing Rednose to shy away, and then there’s men screaming out of the brush. I know what I need to do with clarity, even as my stallion’s going for a man’s arm. Dropping the reins, I bring the arm around the girl’s waist up, to her face, and gently turn it away from what I’m about to do, then cover her eyes. ”Don’t look. For the love of Fraljya, love, don’t look.” With my free hand, I drag my sword out of its scabbard, across and in front of her body, and then I’m guiding the horse with my knees and lashing out with the sword, flaying one man’s skin from his face.

There’s men yelling for blood all around me- nothing for it, then- and I’m brutally forcing Rednose to turn with my spurs, taking a spear across the arm meant for the girl. Uttering a keening noise, I’m doing what comes naturally- the savagery, the hatred- them or me. I look to my left and there’s a man drawing back with another spear, that’s thirty seconds, so I turn to my right and parry a crude sword, then back to my left and I drive the point of my own sword deep into the man’s skull through the cartilage in his nose, and then back to the right and I’m forcing his sword aside again and then cutting down, hacking into his shoulder, destroying the socket and limb for good.

Immediate threat taken care of, I spur Rednose through the enemy, whoever they are, and then from behind us there’s the thundering of numerous hooves against ground, whoops and bellows, and then spears couched, my men crash into the enemy, desperately trying to form a shield wall from where I was among them. It does no good, and I turn the horse back around, facing the whirling melee again, but I stop. My hand’s still covering the girl’s eyes.

I don’t follow my own advice. A cavalry charge is a terrible thing to behold, when it’s against unprepared enemies. This was no different. I can feel my bile rise at the thought of the three men dead by my sword, and I choke it back. I turn the horse away from the melee and then uncover the girl’s eyes, before dropping from the saddle and picking up a handful of sand to begin scrubbing at the sword’s blade.

[Lisenet]

"Don't look." But-- "For the love of Fraljya," I do not recall her. "love, don't look." Something about the quiet urgency in his tone encourages me not to fight it even as my mouth is opening to speak and his hand rises to block my view of what his men are already doing. His callused hand folds carefully over my eyes after nudging my face to the side, and I don't know what to do but to let him. I blink twice and close my eyes. His right arm tightens as it reaches across me, and as it withdraws it brings a length if steel with it, and I flinch back from the cold I can feel radiating off of it. I can smell the chill of the steel, taste its bitterness. In recognizing the cooler air it brings with it, I also recognize for the first time that I am not very warm. The Hadarac Desert, though I believe us to be on the outskirts, can strip a dead horse of all its moisture in as little as a day when there are no clouds. The day today is overcast, but I have been lying in hot sand for hours and am nearly cold myself. The shape of the commander behind me is defined by the heat of it, which I realize I don't have. This particular revalation makes me feel like a dead thing. But then the voice of the quiet watcher who sits with my languages murmured, and I understood that concussions could cause their bearers all sorts of peculiar sensations as their brains and bodies struggled to repair themselves.

My puzzled musings are interrupted by the sound of metal scraping bone, and wood striking flesh. I feel the sharp disturbance of air as some object comes close and is abruptly stopped and recoil, tucking my chin down and tightly gripping his stallion's mane. I marvel as I wonder how the commander can manage to wield his sword with any dexterity while guiding his horse with his knees and effectively obliterating all of my sight without ever pushing or allowing a scrap of light to come through his fingers. The backs of my shoulders bump the insides of his arms as he moves and I pray to any deity who might be listening--his protective Fraljya perhaps--that my presence doesn't cause the death of the commander or any of his men. I don't know if it's a need to feel important or simply a need to understand motivations, but I fear that these marauders appearing so close to where I was found may be because they, unlike the soldiers, knew something about me that caused them to attack.

Knowing that his weapon and others are thrashing through the air around me makes the space my skin isnt inhabiting feel barbed. At the churning of hooves in sand, blades screeching against armor, the roars of the men triumphant and the moans of those who are losing many fights at once, I find my shoulders curling inward as though that will prevent me from hearing as well. Perhaps I might have preferred to see but not hear. Images blur after a while. Sounds remain sharply engraved inside our skulls like legible glyphs.

The sounds change, reorganize, and in moments they are pounding away and the din has become more decisive. The stallion slows his pawing and turns his back to the sounds of misery, then the commander's hand drops and he dismounts. Soon I can hear the sound of sand scraping metal, but I've brought up my cramped fingers to immediately replace the ones he removed. I don't want there to be any chance of me seeing what he was protecting me from. His consideration, and the risk he took to himself by replacing, temporarily, the hand I lost, was entirely unexpected. Some of the chill distantly settled into my skin abates. If somebody cares at all about me, I cannot be nobody. And....it is comforting to be called by any endearment. It grants the illusion of the kinds of associations I can no longer enjoy. Though I wonder who his goddess is.

However, small, unexpected comforts cannot compensate for the sudden thickness to the air in my lungs. I listen closely to the sound of the commander's breathing so hopefully I won't remember the sound of no more breathing on the rise behind me. My stomach contracts into hard lines and I press my lips tightly together. I don't care if it no longer wishes to enjoy the company of my body, I'm keeping it, and what little it holds, right where it is. "Thank you," I say at last, my voice feeling stretched and thin, in referral to the care he took in keeping as much blood out of my memory as possible. "Are you or any of your men hurt? Or your horse?" I have the vaguest feeling that I could help if they were, but I don't know how I would or why I feel that way.

Another thought occurs to me. "What of the man who--" A hand wraps around my foot and yanks, and I slide out of the saddle with a yelp, landing hard on my left shoulder. The man whom I had kicked had snuck up on us while the other soldiers were gone.

Hearing the hum of air parting before a blade I roll sideways, scooping a fistful of dirt and small stones from the ground, and throw it at him, still refusing to open my eyes because I can smell the blood of dead men around us. And because I know the commander is nearby. I find a fist-sized rock on the ground and listen again as I stand. He's stumbled back from me, cursing, giving me an easy target. I don't know where I hit him when I throw the rock but a stone that size hurts, and I quickly feel out another one. "How dare you attack one who is weaker than you," I accused--furious and aching and tired and frightened--throwing the second one and missing this time. I find a third. "How dare you treat others as though their lives are worth less than yours." The third rock strikes, and this time when I bend I find the hilt of a dropped sword. It's light enough that I know it's made of poor metal. "I hate men like you!" I pull my arm back to throw the sword and trip over what I don't have to see to know is the remnants of what was once a person, one of his comrades. With a shriek of fury, I hurl the sword in a direction no sounds have come from. I hate swords. They are killing weapons. I press my fist into my forehead and wait, crouched in the sand, for someone to take me to a horse. I was lucky not to cut off a toe walking barefoot through a recently made battleground but I will not threaten any more of my body parts trying to repeat my brief spell of good fortune. I hate killing. I hate men who would rather kill for their own good fortune than make a living creating good fortune for others.

My entire body is wound tight, like a hundred twisted bowstrings knotted together. I should not have lost my temper. "Is this what it means to show the flag?" I ask of no one in particular, to anyone who might hear. "If so, I thank the gods that I will never have a sword of my own." Let them make of that what they will; it's the best I can offer for all that I'm nearly dead weight to them.

[phrostphyre]

I cough. Even with one hand, she’s good- she must have had some sort of previous experience in fighting, even if it’s just enough to give her an instinctual grasp of what to do to avoid getting killed. A blow must have slipped through my defense, I can feel the rib, it feels wrong, now, and my arm isn’t working properly either, I think it might have been jarred numb, but I stand with a grunt, expelling the air, and momentarily, the hurt, from my body.

I want to retch. But I don’t, I have the girl to take care of, men to make sure are alright- so many things to do, and the battle, the skirmish, fuck me, it wasn’t anything more than a goddamned zit on the Blue Divide’s ass, didn’t even last longer than three, four minutes. I take a step towards her, cough again, spit up a little bit of blood, and then frowned. Don’t only dying spit up blood? It’s not important, I shake it off, before I move to stand behind her, but her tantrum stops that, momentarily.

So I watch, warily, sword in hand still, before I look down and scowl at a body. I sheathe it and swear, almost out loud, before taking another step and settling a hand on her shoulder. ”I thank you for your concern about my men and I. If they’re not all hale and hearty, we’ll get them to where they can be made well again.” I shift my side slightly, then let out a loud exhale of breath. I can tell it's my rib, but I try to compartmentalize the pain. I shove it aside, even as I feel the rib shift a little more, and I swear softly.

I skip over myself, I’m not important, just have to protect and lead and achieve victory, ”Generally, darlin’, showin’ the flag means letting people out here know we’re a presence, and not to be trifled with. Also, generally, we distribute food and blankets to the poor farming families right on the edge of the desert. Sometimes, though- sometimes, we’re forced to this. This was a planned ambush. What I want to fucking know,” I snarl the last bit, ready to deliver punch after punch until whatever scum gave us away is beaten dead, damn their hide.

”Is what low-life piece of scum betrayed us! Thi-“ I cut myself off abruptly. She doesn’t want to hear about my frustrations and suspicions that someone has attempted to get me killed twice now, out on patrol like this. I’ve only told Olaf, and he’d agreed with me, before promising to help me break them. I swallow, and force back the choking rage that’s a churning ball in my gut.

It’s in that state of rage and fury that what the girl said last finally registers with me, and I laugh. It’s a deep, from the soul, laugh, but whether it’s hysterical or simply angry I can’t tell. ”No, darlin’, most folk don’t find the sword agreeable. My friend’s mother said it best, I think- ‘He what lives by the sword, he most oft’ dies by the sword.’”

[Lisenet]

While I do not care for being on my knees where I know others stand, I feel safe down here. My knees are steady pressed into the coarse sand, I could count the small stones digging into my shins and kneecaps, the tops of my feet. Every bone is outlined with them. These are pains that I understand.

His footsteps as they approach from behind are measured, and his callused hand drops wearily against my shoulder. ”I thank you for your concern…..” Ever so polite even under unexpected circumstances. Is he of the nobility or just raised that way? I can’t remember when and where one’s birth dictates their position as fighters, but I know that it does. Somehow. My silent watcher who sits with my languages and sometimes tells me things won’t tell me this. I think she wants me to figure it out on my own. I rather wish she wouldn’t. As far as the state of my mind goes, I could rather use the help.

I still want to help him and his men although I haven’t the faintest clue how I could. At best I could sit on somebody while they get stitches, but I don’t believe they would appreciate it. The commander sighs, and something in the low stream of air sounds strained. I twist to look up at him but still refuse to open my eyes so I’m left just listening. There is little I can do to guess if he was lying about the state of himself and his men since he’s not exactly lying on the ground moaning. So, since I believe him to be sharp enough not to stride about and do things he oughtn’t with a serious injury, I do not do him the dishonor of not believing him. I can't tell by listening or by scent if he is bleeding overmuch—there is too much blood in the air for that to begin with, and if he were bleeding violently enough for me to distinguish it, there would be nothing I or anyone else would be able to do to help him anyway. So I sigh, pound my fist against my forehead a few more times because it makes me feel better, and rise. There’s a faint breeze that brings a brief reprieve from the oily stench left on the air, and since the sounds of dying have now stopped I can focus again on the sounds of living. The soldiers are gradually, carefully returning. That I hear no pained screaming is a comfort.

”I’m glad this isn’t all that you do. All I know about soldiers is what I’ve heard in ballads, and those aren’t sung about blankets.” About bedding and the blankets involved, perhaps, but I am not about to add that. A wellborn woman ought not be present where such songs are sung. I wouldn’t want him to think that I may have been a whore.

His vehemence startles me into flinching around to face in his direction again—a habit even when I am not actually looking. The vitriol in his voice makes it clear that something about this ambush is off—I am thinking about it in a much different cast than he is. But at least I can know from his opinion of it that my presence likely had little to do with it. ”Why can’t they have just watched to see which way you would go and waited where they knew you would pass on your way back? Why must someone have betrayed you?” Betrayal is a sad, sorry thought. Not being able to trust is the most wretched feeling. I have little trust in myself at the moment, so I understand vaguely. But then, everything feels vague to me right now. A thick gauze hangs between me and the rest of the world.

His laugh startles me too, perhaps because he seems the sort to rarely do so, perhaps because he sounds a bit startled by it himself. It has other edges I cannot properly identify but neither do I feel a solid need to. I’m too tired for that. I’ve been lying on the ground for an uncountable number of hours or perhaps days but still I can feel the ache of weariness laying itself in layers back through my skin and muscle. I’m not yet tired enough that my bones feel like wax, but if warm wax were poured slowly over my shoulders I would not feel much different. ”Are you one of the ones who wants an honorable death in combat or a peaceful death in sleep?” I wanted to know. I suppose I could feel many questions burrowing under my tongue now, but this one needed the least introduction. As ‘hale and hearty’ as I wish him and his men to be, he does not sound it. He sounds tired too. His men don’t laugh or shout to one another. They are louder than the dead but they say about as much. They don’t sound pleased by their defeat of their attackers. More….resigned. This is their duty and nothing more. I hear no pleasure in their subdued tones. I am glad that they don’t take satisfaction in taking lives, but not that they’ve had to do it.

Counting his giving me his shirt, his arm keeping me on his horse and his hand keeping slaughter out of my sight, his fourth unexpected gesture is the arm behind my knees so he can bring me up into his arms. My muscles all tighten with surprise as my balance shifts and I throw my arm behind his neck to better distribute some of my weight, and to make me feel a little less like an invalid. ”There is nothing wrong with my feet,” I insist with my lips pursed. ”I just didn’t want to cut off a toe walking back on my own. I can take care of myself.” Well, that statement is negligible. Most people who take good care of themselves don’t wind up in the desert missing limbs and memories. But I don’t like being coddled. It feels very….out of character. I know little of my character but it does give me a few nudges out of habit. Accepting what I do not need does not feel like my habit.

Thankfully he allows me to mount on my own. Chances are he could just as easily throw me up there by himself, but I appreciate his consideration for my peace of mind, and my peace of mind does not value being treated like an insufficient, incapable child. I do not feel like a child.

I should have guessed that his camp was a fair distance off—he said that to find me they’d gone out as far as they could without bringing more than their flasks, though one does drink more water in the contempt of the desert’s heat than they would in a forest—but we set off at a walk and the distance feels much longer. Some of his men or horses must not be capable of going any faster. Since I am not necessary for the guiding of the horse I let my mind begin to drift, swirling in the small eddies of imagination and thoughts with a certain shallowness they cannot surpass. My hand slides from my eyes and I hunch over the saddle horn, half-asleep, not wanting the commander to have to work to keep me on the horse if I fall asleep entirely. Despite the exhaustion, my hazy mentality is still punctured through with the low-lying anxiety I am coming to understand will remain a part of my mien for the next great while, or until my memories return.

I don’t know what it is that jostles me sideways out of my haze but, knowing the blood is far behind us, I let my eyes finally open and look about me. There are more trees now, but it is no less hot, and the ground still has the pale cast of dirt that doesn’t hold water. I crane to look at the men behind us—the commander rides in the front—wondering at their welfare, and in doing so catch sight of the spreading, thickly colored bruise in the commander’s side. I recognize the depth of it as being more than a surface injury. ”You’re bleeding!” I exclaimed, horrified. Again I felt the draw and urge to help in any way I could, but that desire proved impotent; I had no notion of how to help in any way other than not to make it worse. ”I could have—“ What could I have done? I fumble. ”Ridden with someone else. You shouldn’t have carried me.” And I shouldn’t be telling a commander what to do, but apparently my sense of propriety does have bounds.