Not So Permanent (Mihai)

[Will Blacktide]

Spring 2, 512 AV His fingers clutched convulsively, the first movement to signal that he was alive. Somehow, he had survived. Bright sunlight pricked at his eyes, though filtered to a warm pink through his closed eyelids. With the return of conscious thought came also pain – a great deal of it. His right shoulder was an agonizing stab of misery. To look at it, it was abundantly clear that the head of the humerus had slid from the scapula and the arm that was half buried in the sand lay at a funny angle. That entire side of his body was entangled in rope – lines from the casinor that had disintegrated in the storm. The storm. That thought brought a little snort of derision from him, and a resultant bit of sand shooting from his nostrils. Could it even be called a storm? It had seemed like a thing alive – with some dark, malevolent will all its own. Through a sky split and torn asunder with wild swirling swaths of djed, came winds that seemed to howl from the bottom of the sea itself. A storm – that was no storm. It had been a malediction – a curse, one which Will could not help but take very, very personally. If that . . . thing . . . had let him live, it was only for the purpose of inflicting more misery on his already miserable self. The lines followed a tangled mess to the iron fittings which secured them to the bit of mast that had been his salvation. At some point after hitting the rocks – no – after being driven upon them as if demons drove the little craft before it, and being slammed down into them as if Izurdin’s own hammer had fallen – Will had found himself overboard, scrambling for the surface, grasping for whatever his hands could find to grab onto – anything that would float. How he had managed to avoid being crushed and broken to bits on the jagged teeth that reared out of the boiling froth could only be attributable to pure luck. Scrabbling onto the broken mast, it had taken all his strength to hang on. Finally he got his near frozen hands to work, tying himself to it, as what little strength he had left ebbed away. Rushing down forty foot troughs – clawing back up to the crests, his miniscule life preserver carried him along to . . . here. And where was here, exactly? He moved a fraction of an inch, and groaned. Pain encompassed him and he almost blacked out. But slowly it formed up into concentrated points and focused in his shoulder, his right ankle and his head. The fingers that had moved so slightly seemed to be alright, as did that hand, wrist, arm – slowly his mind traced its way up the sore but relatively unscathed limb. His left leg too seemed to be basically intact. His other ankle though . . . With the light stabbing at his pupils, he forced his eyes open, repeatedly blinking, trying to see past the dizzying black spots and the pounding, pulsing beating in his head. Finally getting them open, he craned his neck, feeling his shoulder shriek in protest, looking down to see . . . “Sweet holy fuck . . . “ he groaned, his already pale face going sheet white. His ankle, what was left of it, was a complete, fucked up mess. He had seen the white of bone – lots of it, shining in the brilliant sunlight. And fresh blood – lots of that too. Flies were swarming about it and he thoughtlessly tried to move it to make them leave. Nothing. The nerves were there – or at least enough of them for the pain to be coming through like waves of molten heat washing over his brainstem. But the ligaments were mostly severed and the muscles ravished, ragged, ripped. Easing his head back down to press his cheek into the sand, he closed his eyes again. Maybe Krysus had more in store for him, but he bloody well wished that she would just let him go. Wherever Nate was, that’s where he wanted to be too. In hell, perhaps. But even hell had to be better than this shit. Though from the looks of his leg, it wouldn’t be too long before his wish came true. Did he black out again? Did he drift off into some awful dream state – though what could be as awful as being awake? Images floated through his overheated brain. He had woken up that morning – the morning after that horrifying night – and Nate was gone. Fled. Will had looked for him everywhere. And of course the other casinor was gone. As much as Will had made those idiotic, fake, desperate promises to make everything better, Nate had known better. There wasn’t going to be any ‘better.’ Cursed by a goddess – how did one get ‘better’ from shit like that? That girl, that damned fucking girl. It was all her fault, wasn’t it? But in his fevered vision it wasn’t the girl that his cousin looked so accusingly at – it had been him. He was the one who had thought of it. He was the one who had planned it. But it had been Nate who had been marked. Some fucking joke of the gods. For three months Will had looked for him – or maybe he had been running away. What chance had there ever been that he would fortuitously bump into Nate on the swell of the vast ocean? He had hugged the coast, and searched, knowing it was still like looking for a needle in a haystack. How many thousands of coves and hidden beaches had he passed up? But still, he had sailed south, and south, and south. And then rounding the tip of Ektyol and north. What else could he do? Finally admit that Nate was gone? For good? That he would never see him again? Never hold him again? Never again argue good naturedly with and aggravate and have fun with and make love to? Never, ever again? Maybe in a year he could have brought himself to do that. Or two years, or ten. But not now, he told himself, every morning. Not tonight, he’d say silently, looking up at the stars. So he kept on, having no intention to stop, until the storm that was no storm stopped him. Like a brick wall. And now here he was. He would die if he didn’t get some major, skilled medical attention very, very soon. And he didn’t particularly mind.

[Mihai]

After traveling halfway across the continent alone, it was strange for Mihai to feel real fear. Thankfully, he had been in his proper form when the warning signs first came, the unutterable urge to go to ground that he had followed with alacrity, and that had likely saved his life. Of late he had been hunting further and further afield, and now the foolishness of that had proven itself to him. In his tiny cave, he had changed into an adolescent boy because the form was smaller, could huddle farther from the raging djed without, could howl his fear and longing into a noise too great for him to penetrate. For Myri. For Miharu. For his dead mother, his dead father, the Master. Anyone? But after a day spent huddling naked in the dirt, night had come with its terrors. The next dawn saw him napping fitfully, and he emerged from hiding, starving and ready to hunt if only things were safe. As soon as he shifted back to his more natural form, the fear abated and the hunger took over. Nothing made sense to his senses, however, and this was not his hunting grounds. He felt vaguely like a trespasser, and he didn't know the place, but thought perhaps it would be safer to hug the coastline and head south a bit until he recognized the terrain and could make his way back to Taloba. It was the smell of human blood that brought him, and then the groans of pain. He watched the injured sailor for some time, waiting for possible ambush. One couldn't trust those who weren't Myrian, he told himself, although he had spent a portion of his life growing up without knowing a single Myrian soul. Finally, he began to edge closer on his stomach bit by bit until he was sitting out of reach, but quite close. With a flash of light, he became a gawky, adolescent boy whose stomach began growling with a vengeance before he even spoke. "Where are your people?"

[Will Blacktide]

Time filtered in a watery, fluid way through his mind. If Will had been in his complete senses, he could have easily gauged the time with fairly good accuracy from the movement of the sun overhead. But as it was, he only wished for darkness and some relief from the blazing light, reflected a hundred fold by the light sand. His swollen tongue felt like a huge, dried out sponge in his mouth and knew he was dehydrating quickly. But any attempt to move caused so much intense pain in so many places that he had no hope of even crawling off into the jungle – not that that would necessarily help matters. If he had to guess, he’d say he had washed up on the coast of the mainland, and not Black Rock, the way the storm had pushed him. Though, really, things had gotten so upside down crazy in those last hours, he might be anywhere. But if the tropical foliage behind him was indeed a part of the wilds of Falyndar, he would probably not survive the night – whether he could find water and staunch the flow of blood or no. Falling into a fitful slumber bordering closely on unconsciousness, he passed in and out of more horrible dreams. In one, he saw again – for the millionth time at least since it had actually happened – the blood on his own dagger, and then, looking up – to see Nate, the girl. Then he looked back down and the dagger transformed to a sharp, serpent like tongue and it leapt at him, and he screamed – though in reality he simply groaned. His eyes flickered open. He had heard a voice. Or no, he had just been dreaming. It was his own voice. Or maybe Nate’s. His head ached fiercely, a deep gash running through his hairline and a large knot above his left ear signaling a possible mild concussion. But he forced his eyes to focus and he saw the apparition – a wraith – skinny, pale. It wavered before his eyes, and then it slowly solidified. Was it real? “Help me.” His voice was no more than a dry croak. He tried again. If this thing was real, there was one thing he needed desperately. “Water. Please. Bring me water.” His eyes remained fixed on the spirit that seemed to be in the shape of a boy, willing it by sheer resolve to be real and not to disappear into the shimmering waves of sunlight.

[Mihai]

But no matter what the shipwreck desired, after a moment's consideration, the boy did disappear pale skin flashing as he disappeared into the foliage. There had been a stream not far away, and with the way the tide was running the water should no longer be brackish. Along the way, he found a gourd-like fruit he recognized. Some melon or another that had a Myrian name he could not remember, but it would serve. He didn't truck much with fruits, preferring fresh and bloody meat, although he could occasionally be persuaded to try something else when in his human form for long enough. He carried the melon under a skinny arm and lit upon a rock that made up part of the stream's bank. Kneeling, he cracked the melon open, scooped all the pulpy meat into one side and then dipped the other into the water to catch as much of it as he could. Then, more slowly to be careful and not spill a drop, he returned to the blue-eyed man. Kneeling beside him, he set the fruit aside and sort of waited there for a little while, water in hand. He didn't know if he was allowed to touch him, to pour the water down his throat or not. He wasn't Myrian, and he assumed the Myrians would kill him on sight, but death might be a mercy now, and besides, Mihai wasn't exactly Myrian himself, no matter the twisting scar along hsi rib that marked him out as one of Myri's. In his absence, the man seemed to have fallen back into his swoon, unaware of Mihai's presence. Mihai hadn't a mother; she had died upon his birth. But there were mothers among his group, and he remembered one in particular soothing the ill ones, and those of them who spent too much time in their human forms and felt the grave growing pains for growing too fast for those fragile bodies. He put his hand upon the man's brow, gentle as anything, and pushed his hair back. It was a testing sort of thing, this comforting, with water and food held at the ready. He didn't really know what he was doing, but it felt nice to be doing something for someone who truly and absolutely needed his help.

[Will Blacktide]

At the light touch on his forehead, Will’s mind leapt to its own defense. Even if the rest of his body was playing traitor and letting his life’s blood seep out onto the sand, his brain was determined now to save itself, and him, if it could. Consciousness returned in an excruciating rush, and his eyes blinked open again. There was someone here – right next to him, kneeling in the sand. A youngish looking boy, whose dark eyes peered down into Will’s face, with an expression of solicitude – and apprehension. Not knowing where he might have come from, or who might be in his company, friend or foe, malevolent or beneficent, Will locked his blue eyes on those brown ones and croaked out a command – a request – a plea. “Water.” He was still halfway on his right side, halfway on his stomach. His dislocated right shoulder was bent at an awkward angle and motion of any kind felt like a thousand knives thrust into his back and arm. But the need for hydration was paramount – imperative – inexorable. So with a groaning gasp of intense pain, his left hand dug into the sand and he pushed himself a bit more upright, his chest and face now clearing the sand by a few inches. The boy, with a container of some sort – a gourd, no, a melon rind, Will saw as it was placed to his parched lips – let sweet, live giving fluid dribble into Will’s turned up mouth. Some slid out the far side, but working his lips around, Will was able to get into a position so that most of the water entering quickly slid down his throat. The taste was a thousand times better than the best wine or liquor Will had ever drank. He couldn’t get enough, and when the boy seemed to hesitate, as if he thought perhaps Will needed a break, Will croaked, “More!” Finally, it must have been that the make shift vessel was empty, for the boy set it back down beside him on the white sand. The effort of drinking had been exhausting, and Will sank back down, his eyes closing again. But his mind had reset itself, for the moment anyway. And though fatigued and in almost unbelievable pain, he said in a hoarse voice, “Thank you. Many thanks . . . “ It was a great effort, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to retain his tenuous grasp on lucid thought. So he forced his voice to work. “Who are you? Is – are there others, around here? Where am I?” The possible presence of others was not definitely a plus. Will was cognizant enough to recall that he had foundered near Myri’s Teeth. That meant in all probability that he had washed up either on Black Rock – or the coast of Falyndar. He fervently hoped for the former. Black Rock was no picnic – but the Myrians were not well known for their hospitality. If this was Falyndar, the coast was a great distance from any settlement, in particular Taloba. And the fate of those who came unbidden to its shores was, well, notorious. His eyes opened again, and he glanced up at the boy. “Is this Black Rock?” he asked, dreading to hear the response.

[Mihai]

Mihai aped a mother's tenderness, holding a hand under the man's head to support him as he drank, trying to trick him into drinking more slowly so his thirst was better slaked, and again brushed his hair back when he thanked him. The lad just blinked in response, then finally nodded. Questions, and he only had a few answers to share; the world seemed turned upside down in many ways, in ways only the animal side of him understood, but there was a disconnect between his animal soul and the human tongue. He fretted for a moment, then shrugged. "Mihai," he said, hand on his skinny chest, the man's head in his lap. "There were others, but... storm came, blew everything strange. I don't know anymore. Black Rock is that way..." He pointed. "Or it used to be. Swam past it once. Well, sort of. Can't remember too well. You want the fruit? There's a lot of juice. Juice is like water, right?" That said, he picked up the other half of the melon, the one brimming over with succulent flesh. One could only hope the storm hadn't poisoned it and all naturally occurring things in the jungle.

[Will Blacktide]

If Will had been a bit sharper, he might have caught the boy’s odd manner of speech. But as the common tongue was not his first, and given his state, who, or what, his angel of mercy might be did not bother his anguished brain. All that registered was that his companion seemed confused as well, and little wonder. That storm – it had been abundantly clear it was like no other that Will had ever experienced. Where top became bottom and left right, no doubt every living creature that it had touched now felt more than a little disoriented. His mind could not handle trying to get more to the bottom of his location. If he was in Falyndar, well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there? If Myrians showed up, he couldn’t raise a finger to protect himself. Apparently, he wasn’t on Black Rock. Pity. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Mihai,” he almost groaned the name. His eyes opened again to take in the slightly wavering lines of the face above his. “Yes, the juice. Let me have it.” His one good hand came up to weakly touch the boy’s hand. But before he ate of the melon, the fulsome smell of which now filled his nostrils, he had to know. “My-my leg. The ankle. Can you see . . . how-how bad is it?” Will didn’t need to wiggle it about for him to know, it was going to be a feat to find some help, unless this Mihai happened to be a skilled healer. And that was doubtful.

[Mihai]

A hand was raised with a bit of melon when the demand was made and he could not but comply. He twisted and arched to look at that ankle and hissed, no dissembling in him. But the bit of melon was waved around, the sugars within it tempting the flies away from the mass of wounded flesh and he played the pied piper just far enough away that the flies would smell it and some of them, at least, would leave the shipwreck be. He waved away the rest and then held up more melon for the man to finally eat. "Bad. Bone, blood. No flies now. Eat." Though he was entirely wrapped up in the sudden need to play nursemaid to this stranger, in a brain more equipped for logic and planning now, he began to plot out what must be done: remove the rope, bind the ankle, carry him to Taloba? Perhaps he could make a den for him near Taloba, offer some healer whatever they required to overcome their strange prejudices to make a short trip to heal the man. "Mihai help. Eat. Eat."

[Will Blacktide]

Will hadn’t really needed the confirmation the boy gave. There was a malaise settled in his bones that told him, this was not something that would just heal up. Not on its own. But what could he do? He was certain that he could not even move on his own, and the boy seemed far too young and slight to get him anywhere else. With eyes fluttering shut again, Will thought I am going to die here on this beach, and it wasn’t such a bad thing to contemplate. His body hurt like nothing he had ever experienced. So dying would end that. And his mind and heart hurt more – so that would be a relief too – to never have to think of Nate again. As Mihai held the fruit to his lips, he was tempted not to eat. On the other hand, he considered, what could it hurt? He might die a bit more comfortably, not feeling so parched. Feebly, he took a small bite and the shocking goodness of the melon filled his mouth. His taste sensations sparked an unconscious reaction and he ate what he could get into his mouth greedily, swallowing with care and difficulty in his prone position. It was most likely that Will passed out of consciousness at some point either after eating or during it. If time passed with Mihai standing a compulsory watch over the dying man, Will was unaware of it. Somewhere in the depths of blackness he chased his demons, and they chased him, until finally a voice sounded in his head. The words were garbled, and it seemed just part of the dream, and his brain wanted to rest – to not have to deal with reality - his own, dire reality. But that spirit that goes beyond conscious desire was having none of this dying business – not if there was even a ghost of a chance to survive – and it shook at him and nagged until his eyes half opened. Blearily he realized there was another now, a female form with white and a voice like cool water on a hot day. Water – his throat and tongue once again cried out for it, and he opened his eyes more fully. Despite the earlier fluids provided by the kelvic, his leg injury was depleting him. Only his fingers flexed as he peered up at her through salt and sand grimed lashes. No word escaped him and his thoughts were so fuzzy he was probably beyond speech at this point. Blue eyes captured her gaze for a moment before his eyes closed again.

[Mihai]

While the man slept, Mihai could do little except mind the flies, the which he did with all due diligence. Normally he wasn't so concerned with what he could and could not control, but sitting here in his human form far from his sister, his goddess-master, his den, troubled by the unnatural storm that changed everything... So like a human, he fretted over what he could control: flies. Surprised by the woman's arrival, her scent masked by the sharp tang of the sea, perhaps, he nearly shifted form on instinct, his weaker form wearing only the twisting scar-like mark of Myri's favor. His hackles rose, anyway, and a desire to protect Will that came from whence he knew not. Then she spoke funny. He frowned at the funny talk. "He's dying," he said in Common.