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Patronage of the weary17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡluleoi8pNO
Unaccusing hands holding17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3wIL1sN7Bi
All dictate a delicate placing17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡohu6NGrwH2
As warm lies and sour truths dance17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfgm4qmB2hB
Endless across time and history
There’s a dreamlike twist to a world that’s real but holds no sense of memory. Every detail lunges forward to be remembered, filling spaces that might have held something once. Myla flutters her eyes as she stares silently up at the rough ceiling and basks in the realization that nothing truly fills her head. Just a name – her own, she believes – and a thumping pain that crosses over her forehead from the right. It’s dizzying even without trying to move her head; there’s nothing in her memory, the blank space that it is, to tell her how she got here. Or to tell her why she feels so out of place in the lumpy bed beneath her back.
It leaves her breathless. Renders her extremities into a chilly numbness that prickles as it bleeds it’s way out to the rest of her.
Myla swallows. Her throat clicks and, finally, her head turns to seek out a way to relieve the dryness she finds her mouth sourly enduring. There’s a rough, carved mug sitting close by on an equally rough table just within reach of her place on the small bed; rising up so she can grab it and drink what’s within gives her a better view of the room she’s in and the rough quality of everything in it.
It looks well-loved is the only thing to coherently cross her thoughts through the pain that warps them. She sips at the clean water within the cup as she slowly picks up every detail she can manage. Each item is something only the poor or money-conscious would own, something in the back of her mind tells her, but they hold no sign of disregard just because of their cheap cost.
Finishing half of the water, Myla returns the heavy cup to its place on the table and tries to lever herself upon her feet. The careful way she raises up barely prevents the dizziness that curls its way in from the corner of her eyes. Twists and bursts of foggy color try to eat away at the center of her sight stop and fade when she doesn’t attempt to step forward, leaving her shaking and nauseous in their wake.
Certain of her strength after her knees stop shaking, she shuffles her way to the window. It’s much closer to her than the door and is already open, letting in the daylight in an uneven square. With the thumping in her head and the wavering of her eyes to match the numbness in her feet, the less effort she places in moving, the better.
The window gives access to the sight of a treeline no more than ten steps away. It graces Myla with a coolness that the warm sun above her head warms gently; a perfect balance of temperature from light and shade meeting just outside the window. It soothes the pain in her head as if she’s holding a chilled cloth against the sore spots.
She sucks in deep lungful’s of the earthy air before leaning carefully out the window to take in what may be on either side of the house she’s woken in. What is likely the front of the house, from the road leading up to it, holds plots of a personal garden. The leafy plants settled into near lines are probably herbs. In the other direction, a barn sits. The part of the larger building she can see is a little more taken care of than the house but not by much.
There’s no sign of other people but, with the presence of the barn, Myla doesn’t expect there to be until closer to midday. Pulling back into the room with the assurance she’s somewhere at least on a decently worn road is echoed by a sweet sigh of relief.
Lacking other people means she can explore the house a bit. It means she can try and pick apart the life that’s etched into the wood to try and remember if there’s marks of her own upon them.
The room is her first search area.
It’s small and holds barely more than the bed, the table, a locker at the foot of the bed, and a basin fill with washing water. A path to the window, the bed, and the door are the only open spots on the floor. On the walls is not very much – one, really, holds anything at all. A pair of empty hooks near the room’s door just above Myla’s head protrude from the wood, the usual contents to hang from them likely being used for the day by whoever lived here.
Turning to eye the locker contemplatively, she decides she’s seen all that’s available to her in the room that won’t be an invasion of privacy. There’s no inkling of familiarity that ekes out of the emptiness of her memories involving this small space. Even the unlacquered surface of the door does nothing more than set her nerves on edge. The quiet part of herself that still vaguely remembers her life decries the thought she’s grown up with such uncaring sensations as she steps out the door to find a combined space – main room, kitchen and storage all meet her as her steps carry her forward enough for the room’s door to shut behind her.
The room’s setting matches what greets her here. Well-loved and likely hand-made by the house’s usual inhabitants, but all very rough-looking despite the care behind their make. The only decoration Myla can find is a small altar set into the far corner, near the large fireplace sitting lopsided opposite to the kitchen. She drifts towards the corner first as if there’s a line connected to her tugging her closer.
She can’t place what makes up the altar beyond the small goal contraption that catches the wax of the unlit candle stuck in the center, and even then the actual name drifts out of reach.
Something, though, tells her that the presence of gold marks the altar’s Patron as something decidedly not agriculture related. Or something close to animal husbandry. If that’s what the house’s owners do.
Swaying gently under the humming that surrounds the small, decorated table, Myla lifts a hand before the candle wick. She can’t place why she does this, nor why she isn’t surprised nothing is happening, but there’s also no reason for her to stop. When the hum fades, though, she does still her swaying. Instead the movement that marks her presence at the altar is her wrist and fingers slicking in a familiar, and very complication, pattern.
There’s heat against her palm when she stops, filling in the space where nothing else sat against her skin. Lowering her hand, Myla takes in the purple flame quickly devouring the wick until her vision blurs.
Purple is significant. It’s a thought that invades her senses until the flame can sustain itself and bleeds into the red-orange-yellow mix of a normal lick.
The front door opening draws her away from the altar and the curious thought about the importance of flame colors. There’s only one person stepping through the door; an older man, just beginning to grey at the temples, stands in the rectangle of natural light as he takes in her presence in the room. There’s a harshness to his frown that speaks of hardly ever smiling that has Myla shifting her stance into a preparation to run.
“You’re awake,” he says. “Good. Didn’t want to try shilling out the silver for the healer.”
She doesn’t respond to the rude comment. It seems to surprise and amuse the man, thought he continues walking inside instead of trying to instigate a reaction out of her further.
Myla turns to keep him in sight as he troops to the only other door that sat in the same direction she’d come from – another bedroom, slightly larger to allow for a bed meant for two but equally as undecorated as the other. The door closes behind him before she can see what he does inside.
There’s barely a second to ponder what she’s expected to do when the front door opens again. A boy, almost close to that of a young man she believes, has his head bowed down when he steps through and turns to the kitchen. His arms are laden down with the heavy sack of flour and some covered packages of what is likely various cuts of meat. Unlike the older man, his father, Myla doesn’t get to study his face to try and pull memories out of the pool of shadows. No, instead her eyes track the flex of biceps and shoulders; her ears echo with the steadiness of his weighted steps and burn at the huff of relief when he can set his cargo down and begin placing them in their rightful stops around the kitchen.
The only similarity between man and son from behind is the curl and color of their hair. Even their tanned skin holds a marked difference – the man holds a cool undertone to the sun-touched quality of his and the boy, a warmer undertone that sends Myla’s thoughts skittering with this isn’t home as the frontrunner.
“Shit!”
Myla jumps away from the shout the same the boy does from her.
“Damn but you’re quiet.”
“It’s not like I’ve been the one moving,” she finds herself spilling out.
The boy tips his head to the side, like a concession. Light that the open window in the kitchen allows in shifts over his face and allows her to clearly see his eyes – they’re a brown that burns with an amber that sunlight that hits them. Just like his skin, those eyes are warmer than his father’s equally brown.
Unable to bare the silent assessment, Myla forces herself to ask after his name. It takes a few moments before he grants her with “Audric” in a slow forming tone. She understands it for what it is, knows it’s the clearest hint she’ll get without asking that she does not know this boy or his father, and returns with her name in kind.
“That’s not the usual Austian name,” draws them both into turning towards the reopening bedroom door. “Not an Athosalite one either.”
Myla presses her lips together and confesses a truth she hates having to give to this man. “Neither seem familiar to me.”
“Does anything?”
The rudeness continuing pricks at her but she does her best to push the offense down. “Some. Enough to have guessed this wasn’t home before I spoke with Audric.”
Audric tilts his head the other way, eyes finally catching on the lit candle at Myla’s back. “Enough to remember it’s only right to light the altar candle around this time.”
“Oh?”
Myla shifts so the older man can see the candle as well. Just to see the amusement turn into a blank shock – something about him seems to believe her incapable of anything at all, right alongside her lacking memory. Something about herself preens at having proven him incorrect.
“Well damn.”
Audric’s eyes roll. He doesn’t bother adding to the conversation and instead turns to the room Myla had woken in. She can see him reaching for the washing water before the door closes on it’s own, leaving her alone with his father and his insulting consideration of her person.
That rudeness does not fade from the man as he continues to study Myla as if no such surprise has sprouted within him. “Think you can cook?”
“I think I can try.”
“C’mere, then. Not complicated, but it’s work. Nobody under my roof will load around.”
She takes her place at his side before of the counter with no further urging. Her orders her through each step in that unchanging tone of his – just expectations of her to throw a fit and refuse to dirty her hands, mixing at a few weirdly worded comments that seem prematurely cut off. Audric joins them and begins preparing the pot for stew and the oven for the waiting loaves of bread.
It’s simple, preparing lunch with these two strangers.
Myla wipes her hands clean when preparation is done, eyeing the very obvious progression of her skills in the presentation of three portions she’d compiled under guidance. The quiet part of her mind that’s been dictating whether something is familiar or not just leaves her with the understanding that this is the first time she’s done such a task. Pride sweeps it aside simply for the fact that this might have been her very first attempt at helping with a meal.
“Now to cook and clean up around the house,” Audric tells her when all his father does is walk away without another word. “C’mon, you can shadow me.”
She follows his lead around the outside perimeter of the house without question. Myla prefers Audric of his father for many reasons, chief among them is the difference between their quiet speech. The boy holds a gentle peace that the man seems to have lost far too many years ago. His words are gentle and precise; discomfort in having to talk at all but kind in giving her grace to fumble until she learns without judgement.
Yes, she prefers Audric over his father very much.
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