Event Déjà vu Part III

[Mittle]

Something smacked Mitt in the face on the sixth bell and he punched at it without even opening his eyes.
Not the same day again! His temples throbbed emphasizing the hangover from last night. Too many memories confused him and he stumbled outside, heading to the shore with a strong urge. His eyes hazy with sleep and not fully open, he tripped hard over an anvil shaped piece of driftwood.

'Gods dammit, not again!' he thought, totally frustrated. "Coffee." Mitt murmured through a very dry throat. Didn't he leave a cup in his tent? He hadn't seen one. And he definitely didn't leave one last night. Wait--that was a solid memory!

Mitt half ran, half staggered to the Inn to get coffee with his usual pattern. At least that part was a habit, not a weird memory of the same thing!
"No food, no thank you." he murmured to Tazrae. This hangover was a bitch. He scratched an absent hand against his jaw and felt some thick stubble that was nearly a beard.

With a heavy sigh he walked to the shower, putting his face up and closed his eyes to raise his face skyward. Cool water soothed the pounding headache and streamed down his muscled body like a lover's touch. He turned off the water and noticed that torturous Macaw on the shower head.

"Let me guess-- four feathers today, three times. Four times three is twelve. Four squared? Is that how many days? Tendays? Seasons? Years?! Leave your feathers and just go. I've had it with the head banging." Mitt leaned forward fast and swung out his forearm in a back handing motion, his eyes ice blue. His arm stopped a hair short of actually hitting the bird.
"Fuck off, I'm done."

It flew away soundlessly and Mitt ignored it; and stepped on four feathers. He rolled his eyes so hard you could swear he was looking for brains. Mitt stomped to his tent as the water sheeted of his tanned body with every step and he muttered with growing irritation.

Yep. Four more feathers on the altar. I can't. Not today Izurdin. For the first time in eight years, he turned his back on morning prayers.

Donning his shorts, he paused to rub a hand over his hair to dry it. But it was definitely longer and thicker. An idea had him checking his nails and sure enough they were definitely longer too.

If I go to the smithy I'll get my ass kicked for finding gloves. He checked to confirm that one was missing. No surprise there. The young smith sighed and rolled his neck til it cracked. Fine.

He knew nothing about this cursed place and he figured why not. Mitt shrugged as he blew off all signs of prayer, work or any other obligation. With long smooth strides, he crossed the beach to where he never, ever went.

Large fronds, thick undergrowth and bright green trees and bushes made a living wall of warning to anyone that dared to pass. His dark blue eyes skimmed the vegetation and his gaze rested on some bright orangey red berries clustered on a strange furry looking bush.

'Red usually means danger. Why not.'

He grabbed a large handful of the sharp smelling berries and downed them. Whatever the things did, it would only last until this day from hell started over. Mitt choked on the sour taste and made a face. Yech.

Pausing he looked around and wasn't all that surprised to find a least half a dozen pairs of eyes watching him. Birds and reptiles all watched him closely and listening for anything he might say.

"Yea, Arty warned me about you guys. Games up, show's over."


WC 621 Total WC 4,327 Gross 7,306

[Mittle]

Mitt had no idea just how prophetic those last words were. Searing cramps locked up his stomach and he curled into a fetal pose, trembling. His body racked with pain and his throat swelled to three times its normal size. A bloody foam gathered and leaked from his nose and gaping mouth. Curled on his side, the tremors and seizures took merciless hold of his muscles, expanding and contracting spasmodically. His hands curled up on themselves rigid and unfeeling as he inhaled for the last time.

WC 86 WC total 707

[Mittle]

Right next to his ear, a large Macaw screeched at the 6th bell, leaving five feathers behind as it glided off. Mitt groaned and clutched his stomach with both hands, too stunned to catch his breath. A vast wave of nausea gripped him and he stumbled out of his tent to puke until he dry heaved. The blood pounded in his head like crashing ocean waves and he wiped his mouth and nose on his forearm. What the hell!

Mitt crawled on his hands and knees to the first clean water nearby and clutched the side of the shower. With a trembling hand, he reached up to grasp the handle and turned it on, stumbling forward to sit beneath it. The young smith raised his face to the cool falling water, swished around his mouth and quickly spit it out with another tear inducing, gut clenching dry heave.

His abdomen contracted in painful spasms as he gasped open mouthed and prayed fervently to Izurdin to make it stop. Eventually it passed and the water felt better on his face and head.

'Okay, Okay. I get it. On the straight and narrow from here on out. Lesson learned.' he thought firmly. 'Now coffee.'

The walk to the Protea Inn seemed to take forever and if he ever needed coffee, it was today. By the time he made it to the counter Tazrae had out a tray of his coffee ready. He must've spent more time puking than he'd realized.

He carried over the coffee tray to the table, sat down and promptly downed the first cup in two and half very hot slurps. Mitt paused for a couple chimes, hoping it wouldn't come right back up again. Reassured, he poured the second cup and actually paused to sip it like he normally did. Heavy lidded and aching, his eyes wandered warily to the edge of the jungle... and over to the red berries.

How many suns, moons, eons had he lived this day? And more importantly, what did he have to do to finally make it stop? He remembered sometimes going to the docks and swinging his legs in the water to cool off after a long day. Maybe some ocean time would help?

The tawny haired young man drained a third cup of coffee, completely emptying the entire carafe. He returned the tray and decided that he needed some ocean time and walked to the beach thinking. He might as well g--

"Am I just hanging in the breeze buck naked in public? How long have I been doing this?"

Would he never wake up from this nightmare? Mitt sprinted straight into the water up to his waist and then turned to look back at the shore. No one had seemed to notice at all. Right. Syka didn't mind people roaming around starkers.

"Nice going Mitt--walking around with your big hairy ass hanging out for how many years now?'

The large crimson Macaw perched on the anvil shaped driftwood and called out,
"Can't swim!"

He looked at it in surprise and wondered. How did it know? He waded out deeper, trying to get some distance between him and the bird and now the water was lapping at his chin.

"He's here!" the bird warned ominously and flew away.

"Huh? Who's here?"

Mitt shook his head and turned his back on the shore, looking out at the ocean. The water was so clear and warm here! It was grimy gross brown cold sludge back home in Sunberth. After about a half bell, it was a nice combination of warmth, gentle movement and the soothing sea water that finally eased the savage ache of his stomach. His headache was gone and he swam awkwardly for a little bit, venturing just a little further from shore. It was peaceful and quiet out here and the sun warmed his tanned skin.

He'd played around in the water enough and was kind of creeped out by the bird saying he's here. Who? Nevermind.

The young man rubbed a large hand through his hair to dry it and he swore it was even longer. He dashed toward his tent and put on shorts, sitting down for a chime. He rubbed a thoughtful hand over chin and scratched. Beards are itchy, especially in this crazy heat.

Mitt walked over to the Inn's kitchen in the quiet time before breakfast and lunch, carrying his chalk and paper. After an hour of confirming each item he remembered, he put the list in his pocket, skipped lunch and headed to the Foundry.

He knew what he had to do now. He needed to accept the gloves like an adult and grow up. It was time to stop running from his grief and his past and confront it head on. Preferably without the obnoxious big crimson bird that plagued him!


WC 813 WC total 1,520

[Mittle]

Mitt walked into the foundry rightfully expecting to find the usual drunk snoring Artik and a stupid bird. The place was empty of both of them when he stepped in and saw the the cupboard by the door was open. Mitt clenched his jaw firmly and grabbed both pairs of gloves, holding onto to them so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His eyes darkened to blue and he clamped his mouth down even harder.

After a very long few chimes, he sank heavily into the chair and turned over the gloves in his hands. Both his and his father's names were inscribed artistically at the wrists. His own glove pair were just a bit smaller than his dad's and he wondered at how anyone on Syka could have known their measurements from so far away? These strangers had reached out to kindly welcome him and dad, free and open.

His tawny head bent as he leaned his elbows forward, slouching onto his legs. His dark eyes not really seeing what he was holding any longer. Tears ran up his face to his temples, dripping through his hair to splash on the ceiling and pooled above Mitt's head. They shimmered like mirrored mercury and rippled out with each drop that joined.

Syna's rays bespoke of four bells passing in quick succession instead of only the four chimes that were normally supposed to pass. Mitt finally stood up, bringing both pairs of gloves with him as left the Foundry.

As his foot finished crossing the threshold, the tears on the ceiling splashed quietly to the floor to gather by the forge. The separate scattered droplets pooled together turning to lava and hissing steam that rose from the fiery mass. Five feathers dropped onto the hot sizzle and cooled as rapidly as if quenched in the water barrel nearby.

Mitt wasn't there to see anything unusual because he was out to get some supper and was off to the Commons. Some gifted cook had left a fragrant soup just sitting there for anyone to help him or herself. It looked to be a type of chicken broth with sausages, onions and garlic. How was no one else eating this? It was a quiet night and he seemed to be the only one around at the moment. He grabbed a bowl and ladled a small helping, not wanting to push his luck after this morning's fiasco.

As he turned to look at the ocean while eating, behind him, the replaced ladle continued stirring the soup slowly and gently. No birds chirped, no night insects whirred. Only the tide sighed in an out, as if in time with Mitt's own breathing.

Finished eating, he went over to wash his bowl and a few others that had been left behind. With a positive attitude, he ground up some coffee beans, dropped a few in the sand and picked them up.
'More flavor!' He thought with smirk.

Transferring the grounds to the sieve, he started boiling some water to make a cup of coffee for tomorrow. If this day was going to keep happening, he'd damn well better start doing it right. Meticulously, he cleaned up the area, as well as returning the grinder, sieve and coffee pot to their rightful places.

He pulled the gloves out of his pocket after he finally made it back to his tent with his coffee. Mitt set down the cup in the corner for tomorrow and faced the Izurdin figurine he'd been avoiding so defiantly.

Mitt knelt before the Izurdin altar and set the pile of feathers to the side so it was cleared off again. He picked up the large stones, clicked them together, and set them to the side.

"I know I've been stupid about this whole thing. I mean all that fuss over gloves? I don't understand why I've been acting like this lately. Why was this such a hitch? It's like I.." He paused with his hands on his thighs and his head bowed.

"Maybe I got so used to having things always be 'us and we' in my life but now that it's just me, it's so much more different than I had ever imagined. I can and will get past this." Mitt promised himself. Gently, he set the two pairs of custom gloves on the altar and paused before he continued.

"The gloves are purely for the Foundry, I know that. I just wanted to bring them here to show you. It's a matter of suck it up and I know that now, I do. Everyone goes through their own shit and it's no reason to throw a tantrum at everyone else expecting them to care. It was selfish but I can and will do better. Thank you Izurdin for teaching me that patience isn't about ego. It's about letting it go."
Mitt picked up the stones gently and set them back on each side of the Izurdin figurine.

Something large suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision and for a moment, he couldn't quiet identify it in the starlit sky.

Artik was red-faced and hunched over, trying to drag the heavy driftwood to its usual place. He reeked of alcohol, sweat, stale beer and probably two full seasons of body odor but the young smith called out to him anyway.

"Hey Arty, stop fighting it. It's just going to keep on happening whether we like it or not. Are you not remembering?"

The older blacksmith looked confused for a second, evidently lost in far too many memories to sort from reality. The young man rose from the altar to walk forward and put a hand down on the anvil shaped wood.

"Pack it in man. You'll remember it just fine without it."

The blond man looked at him doubtfully and considered his words.

"But I have to do this, don't I?"

"No. You can do whatever you want to. Or better yet, start doing what you -should- do with all this time."


WC 999 WC total 2,519