The Wanderings of an Amnesiac (Closed, for now)

[Solstæce]

((Continues directly from here. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=17252&highlight=Lhax%E6an+%C6dinsolst%E6ce)))


*

FOREWORD
Those I am close to know this story; I have told it many times. Perhaps I am being over-modest, however I rarely believe journeys of personal discovery to be of any interest to anybody besides those directly involved. However, at the earnest and repeated requests of my family, it is at this time I commit my story to paper, in the hope that it is as entertaining and uplifting to you as they insist it is to them.


CHAPTER I
The first memory is always the most vivid: a piercing brightness first, then such an incredible experience of sound and colour…completely indescribable. Familiarity follows: voices become distinguishable, touch becomes comforting. Eyes don't work properly yet, so there's nothing to a face, but silhouettes begin to bear meaning, some more welcome than others. Awareness of breathing follows: the feeble rise and fall of the chest, the sensation of air trickling meekly over lips. Consciousness asserts itself early, far earlier than the motor skills necessary to convey it, and existence occurs in a short-lived state of biological limbo before you can gather enough sense for an exploratory jerk, which invariably returns a strong and infinitely welcome feeling of still being in your own body.

With time, the world will resolve itself properly; but not once, for one moment of your new life, will you be without the feeling that something terrible has happened, and you were very much a part of it.

This is how I came into the world."

*


"Up! Wake Up!"

A flicker.

"Wake up! You have to move!"

Noises, distorted and echoing. He can't see.

From further away: "He's not moving, Mitchell, I'm going to call Jhon."

No. He doesn't want Jhon. But he can't move himself. More voices.

"Is he awake?"
No.
"Does anybody recognize him?"
No.
"Where did he come from?"
Not here.

Urgent whispers, rising in volume: "...Mylea, no, no, he can't come in, not now, not today! We can't be dealing with the port's riff-raff, it's not our responsibility!" "I know, I know, but he doesn't look like a seaman at all! And he's all thin-maybe he's been mugged! Or kidnapped!" "Mylea, you're letting your imagination run. But what about the house? We've got nowhere to put him!" "Oh come, we have plenty of room, and he doesn't have to stay long!... just till we can find out who he or he wakes up..." A sigh. "Fine, alright...Jhon, help me bring him into the spare room, Mylea, ask your mother to put a sheet on the bed and then please run down and call on the portmaster and see if anybody's been reported missing.....probably is just a drunken whaler....he's not really dressed like one though....strange...."

Powerful arms wrapping around his emaciated body. The shadows close in again.

[Solstæce]

*
"How am I alive?"

What other question could I ask? A mind so riddled with trauma is desperate for a lifeline, something to ease its host’s re-entry into the living, tangible universe. Consciousness asserts itself with ever-increasing ambition; initially almost prohibitively timid, but flickering with greater earnest each time it stakes a claim to existence within our corner of the dancing cosmos. Each revelation, each time your consciousness lights up in a frenzy of recognition is another stake, another proof that you belong. And soon enough, your living, thinking mind will feel safe, safe enough to grasp these stakes and pull itself out of its cage of self-distrust into the miracle of being.

I woke up a few hours after hearing her voice, during an unusually spectacular sunset. Even then, the event felt very significant to me. Granted, it was the first time I had seen the sun in almost three months, so I convinced myself that I must have remembered it in more vivid extravagance than was true. But in that early, fogged-over existence, I felt as though the sun was speaking to me. Absurd: maybe. A fabrication of my fragile consciousness: likely. But there it was, a shimmering semicircle of dazzling magnificence looking, seeing, past my eyes into my very soul. As a decidedly un-supersitious being, this event tickled at my curiosity for a long time, and I could not understand why I felt it was so important. There was a prism, a glass one, hanging by a thread of woven spidersilk from the window latch. It was the only thing that gave that room any life; maybe I thought it was what gave me back mine. A silly notion, to be sure, but it was my first stake, my first anchor to a renewed existence, and I needed it more than they did (whoever "they" were). So I took it.

*




Mitchell Hollowell, 42, could be readily excused for his initial reluctance when presented with this man's gaunt and malnourished form. Several times a season, more frequently in the summer when the northern ice has receded and the merchant navies truly take flight, his small, beloved port is invaded. If trade is the lifeblood of civilization, then seaman are surely its liver. And surely enough, after absorbing all the poisons Mother Nature has to offer, physics dictate that a thoroughly self-unaware seaman will invariably walk with the wind two points to starboard.

Enter Mitch Hollowell and his front step, garden and, having climbed through an open window, sofa.

But even with his misgivings, it must be admitted that Hollowell was quick to realize that the pitiful, underfed soul comatose in the spare bedroom was no sailor. Nor did he fail to notice that his ward carried with him the unmistakable signs of a very traumatic event. What he did fail to notice, however, was this supposedly unconscious man meandering silently into the kitchen.

“Excuse me…”

The first syllable had hardly left his lips before Mitchell Hollowell’s feet left the ground.

“Blood an’ bone! What are you doin’, sneakin’ up on us like that? Nearly gave my wife a heart attack!”

Giselle Hollowell, however, was perfectly alright; she was in fact laughing at her spouse’s reaction.

“Don’t mind this great ninny, dear,” she said, smiling, “he’s-…”

But whatever “he” was was lost on her lips, for in that moment she seemed to realize she was speaking candidly with a relatively accurate representation of the living dead. Her face changed in an instant to a look of anxious panic.

“But what about YOU?! Do you feel alright? Faint? Dizzy? Nauseous? I’ve got some water still warm from tea, I’ll just heat it up for you, won’t be a moment. Sit please, I’ll send for a doctor, must have you looked at, do you want something to eat?”

This was all said very quickly, and it took the man more than a moment to realize that a question had been directed at him, for both their faces were peering at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry, I…-"
“Are you hungry?”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday, dear.”
“No, the date, sorry.”
“Um, is it the 1st today? Yes, it’s March 1st.”

Giselle Hollowell would have to wait to have her query answered. His mind, so fragile still, cracked once more, and he buckled lifelessly to the ground, the whites of his eyes blind, gleaming pearls, at the very same moment as the chime at the door tinkled its melody.

[Solstæce]

*
March 1st.

Two entire months, gone. How do you explain to a self-aware being (oneself, no less), that you are truly what you perceive yourself as? Consciousness is such a burden in this state, a constant reminder of yourself; but how can you know oneself if there is a terribly important gap in what you believe you know about your own being? Consciousness is infatuated with control, with omniscience; above all, it yearns to be consistently aware of the comings and goings of its host. Ignorance destroys consciousness; how do you fill such a chasm of ignorance? Although I have since built many bridges to span it, this chasm is still very prominent in my consciousness. For a long while following a period of such darkness, there is an unnatural feeling of separation between what you know you were, and what you believe yourself to be when you wake up. But what did I know? I knew I was Lhaxæan Ædinsolstæce; I did not need to be told this. I knew my birthday, where I was born, where I grew up, traveled, loved, lost…But all I had to start my journey, my own personal odyssey into my past, my future, and my own mind, was a small, brown, leather-bound journal within whose tiny cloisters I desperately searched for answers. Three pages from where my entries cease, there is an entry dated December 10 of the year prior to my awakening. I wrote it. I remember writing it...I still remember running out of food. Vividly. Two pages from the end, there is another entry, furiously scribbled in a rash display of cynicism. I thought I was about to die in the most helpless of conditions. I remember writing it. How long could I last in such an unforgiving hell? The next page is blank but for three words. I did not remember writing them when I awoke, and even now, long after I found my answers, I have no recollection of those last moments within my tent.

"Something is outside."

*

"Get something for his head-..."
"Here, splash this on his face-..."
"Mom, Eälin is here, I've brought him-..."
"I think he's coming round, look-..."

And indeed he was. The first thing dominating his newfound focus was not unwelcome, to say the least: a very pretty girl, perhaps 18 or 19, with hair the most beautiful shade of deep red falling in perfect ringlets to her slim shoulders. Blinking meekly as she fell in and out of focus, he began an ill-fated attempt at freedom, but was almost instantly restrained by nearly all present: the mother, father, and daughter. As he lifted his head, the other newcomer in the room came into vividly clear focus: the unmistakable pale, blond, androgynous visage of a Raiaeren elf. Speaking in a surprisingly deep, even voice, he addressed himself to the gaunt figure.

"Drink this."

He did.

"What is your name?"
The man on the floor licked his lips. "Lhaxæan."
"Lhaxæan. It is very nice to meet you. My name is Eälin."

Eälin is old. He spent many, many human generations in his own country, serving as, among other things, no less than Healer Consul, and no more than as part of the nomadic elven brethren who survive in the forests and unofficially "protect" Raiaera's borders, lands, and trade. His current stint in Corone comes nearly four thousand years after his initial participation in the founding of the city that would come to be called Serenti. He has seen many men live, conquer, and die. He has even seen some men blessed with hints of what could only be described as elven magic, but that was long, long ago, in an age of now-mythical kings. But nowhere in his ancient tomes of memory has he come across anything as curious as what he saw, or rather felt, in the man on the floor in front of him. Bending closer, he spoke, his eyes unblinkingly fixed upon Lhaxæan's.

"And how do you come to be here today, Lhaxæan?"
"...I don't know."

Yes. A very curious encounter indeed.

[Solstæce]

*

I consider myself to be amazingly fortunate as to where I was unceremoniously deposited; I do not doubt that Radasanth boasts many Samaritans to balance the heartless, but such a family, so full of life and love, coupled with the excellent advice and treatment of Eälin the elf, ensured my recovery would be a speedy one. After about a week I began to venture out of the house, often accompanied by Mylea, Giselle and Mitchell's charming daughter. The combination of excellent meals and having such a vibrant companion did wonders for my body and soul, and surprisingly, for all of the questions swirling around my continued existence, even then I remember feeling a very unusual sense of calm and purpose. I suppose that would be obvious; anybody with such mysteries inside their own mind would probably feel an overwhelming sense of curiosity and loss. However, I soon became certain that every answer I needed was in one place: Salvar. But that brutal land was the reason I came to impose myself so rudely upon the Hollowells; how could I ask them for help to get me back? They insisted that it was their pleasure to have me, and I was not planning on risking their good nature. I was still a meager fraction of my former self, stripped bare to bone and tendon by the unforgiving blizzards of that hellish place. I needed to prepare myself, physically and mentally, and thus I knew it would likely be months before I could even begin to seriously think about returning. Besides, I was in no rush: I knew what I needed to see would happen, once again, on the night of December 21st. The Winter Solstæce.

I could wait.

*

"...I can't believe he came from Salvar! That's so far away, he's only a few years older than me, and I haven't even left Corone! Can we please go to the continent soon?"

Mylea Hollowell was in such a rapid flow that neither her mother nor father were paying much attention, and both failed to hear their daughter's question. Met with such indifferent responses, Mylea glared at her parents before turning on her heel and walking huffily down the hall towards the bedrooms. Jumping onto her bed, she directed a half-hearted punch towards her pillow before settling down with her head resting against the wall. Closing her eyes in an attempt to banish her frustration, she realized she was far too restless and rose once more, walking towards her door and wrenching it open. She nearly jumped in surprise, however, as she came face-to-face with the increasingly human figure of Lhaxæan.

"Oh! God, I'm sorry, I didn't see you..." Mylea inhaled and exhaled deeply as she struggled to control both her surprise and embarrassment, for she found Lhaxæan rather intimidating.

"Come on Mylea," he replied, laughing quietly. "You scared me more than I scared you."

"Yeah, right," she said, smiling ruefully. "How could I frighten you?"
He grinned. "By letting me go outside in public by myself"
She pouted theatrically. "Liar."
"Yeah?" Lhaxæan replied, raising his eyebrows. "I was actually going to ask you if you'd take me down to the Citadel district, but if you want to stay here a feel sorry for yourself-"
"Nooo, no, I'll come with you," Mylea interrupted despairingly. "What do you want to go to the Citadel for?"
He shrugged. "As much as I love your mother's cooking, it alone will not get me into the shape I need to be in." He glanced down at his still-fragile body, and when he looked up he was startled to see Mylea's eyes widened in a thoroughly disarming look of surprise and concern.

"Are you going back to Salvar?" she asked in a low voice.

The words hung in the air for the briefest of moments before Mylea's look changed from surprise to horror, a sentiment only reinforced by Lhaxæan's piercing, quizzical gaze.

"How did you-"
A pause, and then Mylea burst into confession.
"I'm sorry, I read your journal, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it was just open on your desk, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-I mean...I'm sorry..."

She trailed into silence. Her hands were clasped tightly together, pressed against her lips and nose. Her eyes were cast downwards, but when Lhaxæan did not immediately respond, her lashes flicked upwards and he found himself gazing deeply, far more deeply than he had intended, into the poor girl's wonderfully green, heartbreakingly pleading eyes. For what seemed like a very long moment they held each others gaze, before a distant shout broke the spell. They both twitched, startled by the unwelcome sound, and then each dropped their gaze, embarrassed. There was a short, awkward silence before Lhaxæan managed to recompose himself.

"Oh....I mean..." he began, trying and failing to keep his eyes averted from Mylea's. "It's okay. It's a journal, not a diary."

She didn't seem convinced.

"I'm sorry...lost focus." He smiled. "It's fine, I mean it. It wasn't supposed to be private."

She met his eyes, lowering her hands, and Lhaxæan was very much relieved when she returned his smile guiltily. She still seemed uncomfortable, so he cast his mind around for anything to ease the mood.

"Did you...read the whole thing?"
A nod.
"You didn't think it was boring?"
A shake.
"So, what do you think?"
Her brow furrowed. "About what?"

"About what I should do?"

Continues with Mylea and Lhaxæan's first trip to the Citadel. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=17455)