Somewhere Very Strange
Evening on the 38th of Roalis, 2718
A
soft weight settled on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t tell much, except that the air was thicker, but it always was now.
It was like a leg that’d fallen asleep and was waking up, tingling pain, except it was through all of him. It got worse when one of the others came in, the slight ones. Worst of all the doctor, who’d made him see vivid green until his tongue burned with the taste of growth and something deeper, something greener, so green it was crimson, like a man’s sap.
Second-worst, her.
She had pretty hair, thought whatever of his mind was left to him. It seemed like he was a man from another time, another place; he wasn’t sure what that man’s name was, anymore.
But it was like a honey-comb of braids piled up on her head, pinned with clasps of gold and milk-white pearl. The orange light slanting through the window caught it aflame. Light dripped over her face, down the macha pale fall of her nightgown.
There was a book in her hands. “Ellie should arrive on the evening of the next eight,” she began in an even voice, “my dear.” She ran her long-fingered hands over the book, then opened it, turning a page with a careful crackle. “And if you are much recovered by then, and all goes well with Ellie, perhaps we shall send for…”
The man in him knew the light meant sunset: there was a small desk against the window, and a chair too, and they each cast long shadows over the carpet.
Whatever he was now, wherever he lived, there was no time, and even less thought of it. Time came and went; the light darkened, then brightened again. Sometimes a nattle came, with a round face full of kind lines, to feed him porridge by the spoonful with a tender attention that made his heart ache. Sometimes more natt in neat dress got him out of bed, how he didn’t know, other than that he must’ve been a lot lighter now than he used to be.
He felt like a brittle bird in their strong hands, listening to them change the sheets to fresh, crisp ones as smelled of lavender. He still liked the smell of lavender, whatever else he was now.
Every evening, she came.
One of her eyes caught the light fair blue, like a drop of sapphire. “I brought Emil-cåtha,” she said in her soft high voice. “The Stories. I thought I recalled Amesbury’s as the translation you liked best; you have quite a few.”
She watched him closely, then took a deep breath. “Where to start, where to…”
She turned a few pages rapidly, then a chunk of them.
“Bei te Ilatha,” she murmured, then – surprisingly – let out a laugh, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Her wedding band glinted. “No, I shan’t. I’m certain you’d like me to, you fox,” she laughed, then looked at him, and some light fell from her face. “I remember when you read it aloud at Vicente’s party in Tiv. You scandalised all the ladies, especially me. Ah, Vicente – it was all I could do to keep him from coming straight from Florne; I told him to give us a little more time…”
She flipped a few more pages.
“Thilari, then. How a wise man earns Ophur’s token.” She smoothed the page. “Unless you have a – request…” The chip’s voice near caught.
She began reading.
It couldn’t hold his attention. He was bone-tired. He drifted in and out of daydreams; he swam through faces, names, voices, trying to hold onto memories.
Her breath hitched once, and he came into focus, sharp. Something glistened on her lashes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “this can’t be helping.”
It tugged at something in him. He didn’t know who she was, but he knew he would’ve held her, if he could’ve. He wasn’t sure who he was, but he knew this, sure as it rained in Hamis.
soft weight settled on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t tell much, except that the air was thicker, but it always was now.
It was like a leg that’d fallen asleep and was waking up, tingling pain, except it was through all of him. It got worse when one of the others came in, the slight ones. Worst of all the doctor, who’d made him see vivid green until his tongue burned with the taste of growth and something deeper, something greener, so green it was crimson, like a man’s sap.
Second-worst, her.
She had pretty hair, thought whatever of his mind was left to him. It seemed like he was a man from another time, another place; he wasn’t sure what that man’s name was, anymore.
But it was like a honey-comb of braids piled up on her head, pinned with clasps of gold and milk-white pearl. The orange light slanting through the window caught it aflame. Light dripped over her face, down the macha pale fall of her nightgown.
There was a book in her hands. “Ellie should arrive on the evening of the next eight,” she began in an even voice, “my dear.” She ran her long-fingered hands over the book, then opened it, turning a page with a careful crackle. “And if you are much recovered by then, and all goes well with Ellie, perhaps we shall send for…”
The man in him knew the light meant sunset: there was a small desk against the window, and a chair too, and they each cast long shadows over the carpet.
Whatever he was now, wherever he lived, there was no time, and even less thought of it. Time came and went; the light darkened, then brightened again. Sometimes a nattle came, with a round face full of kind lines, to feed him porridge by the spoonful with a tender attention that made his heart ache. Sometimes more natt in neat dress got him out of bed, how he didn’t know, other than that he must’ve been a lot lighter now than he used to be.
He felt like a brittle bird in their strong hands, listening to them change the sheets to fresh, crisp ones as smelled of lavender. He still liked the smell of lavender, whatever else he was now.
Every evening, she came.
One of her eyes caught the light fair blue, like a drop of sapphire. “I brought Emil-cåtha,” she said in her soft high voice. “The Stories. I thought I recalled Amesbury’s as the translation you liked best; you have quite a few.”
She watched him closely, then took a deep breath. “Where to start, where to…”
She turned a few pages rapidly, then a chunk of them.
“Bei te Ilatha,” she murmured, then – surprisingly – let out a laugh, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Her wedding band glinted. “No, I shan’t. I’m certain you’d like me to, you fox,” she laughed, then looked at him, and some light fell from her face. “I remember when you read it aloud at Vicente’s party in Tiv. You scandalised all the ladies, especially me. Ah, Vicente – it was all I could do to keep him from coming straight from Florne; I told him to give us a little more time…”
She flipped a few more pages.
“Thilari, then. How a wise man earns Ophur’s token.” She smoothed the page. “Unless you have a – request…” The chip’s voice near caught.
She began reading.
It couldn’t hold his attention. He was bone-tired. He drifted in and out of daydreams; he swam through faces, names, voices, trying to hold onto memories.
Her breath hitched once, and he came into focus, sharp. Something glistened on her lashes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “this can’t be helping.”
It tugged at something in him. He didn’t know who she was, but he knew he would’ve held her, if he could’ve. He wasn’t sure who he was, but he knew this, sure as it rained in Hamis.
