~Memories II~
by Ola
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A/N~ This is the sequel to "Memories," but can stand on its own. It might be even more interesting and surprising to begin by this one, although you'll miss some references and details. Yes, I had said that I wouldn't write or post this until I went back and edited "Memories." But I never seem to go back to rewrite stories. I've already too little time to write new ones! =) I hope you don't mind too much, and that you enjoy this fic. I hope it makes sense too. Ah, one more thing. I am writing another story at the same time, and this one isn't written at all yet, beyond this chapter, (and I'm truthfully starting to forget what my plans had been for it, that's also one of the reasons I decided to go for it) so the posts will be few and far between. I will try to make them longish though (well, it depends on your definition of "long" *winks*). That about sums it all up. So if you haven't yet jumped to the story, enjoy!
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Part 1~
Fire…Pain…Fire…
…and the smell of flowers…
She clawed her way out of the dream –of the nightmare- and out of the heavy blankets, heaving, and soaked with sweat. Breathe. Breathe girl. The little room seemed unnaturally stuffy and warm, even with the cool night breeze flowing in from the wide open window. It always does after those nightmares. Because it wasn't the first time.
The girl made no noise as she rose and padded to the window, sighing as the wind cooled off her body. No, it's not the first. But when will it be the last? A cold lump rose in her throat as she starred into the darkness. As dark as my past. In neither case can I see further than my nose. And I don't know whether I should be grateful or not. She sighed again and tried to think of nothing. Worrying about it wouldn't help, except to give her stomach an awful knot.
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"Mica dear?"
"Yes?" the girl looked up from scrubbing the floor, and blew an offending hair out of her face.
"I need you to go to the village. It's Saturday today." The girl nodded, marveling yet again at how she lad lost track of time. But on the other hand, life on the little farm was a string of daily routines. Milk the cow, feed the chickens, water the garden, clean the house…and help Mrs. Zogriva out. In return, she was given a room, as much food as she could eat, and clothes when her old ones fell apart or were past mending. But no money. And thus no way out of this place. And yet, I should consider myself lucky, especially remembering the state I came in. Naturally rather thin, Mica had been no more than a bag of ones that day. How long ago was that? Nine? Ten months? Maybe eleven? Her black hair cropped as short as a boy's, her body showing more black and blue than pink, her clothes torn and bloodied…yes, she had been more than lucky that old Mrs. Zogriva had taken her in with no more questions than "what is your name and what do you want?" When Mica had later asked her why the woman hadn't slammed the door in her nose, she had smiled her crooked smile and answered "I am poor and old, dear. I'm not afraid of what life has left to throw at me." But under that blunt talk, there always glinted a sad, motherly look in her eyes. And as weeks succeeded days, Mica came to think of the old lady as –if not her mother- then a kindly old aunt. When she though about it, she thanked whatever god was looking upon her for Mrs. Zogiva, for she had asked work and food at other doors, and had been denied with everything from a polite "No, go away" to a boot to her derriere and dogs biting her heels as she scrambled for her life. Mrs. Zogriva's scrawny little house had been the last one on this road, and she had thought about not even asking there. She had been too tired and too close to tears. But hunger and cold drove her to desperation. And now, she was more than glad that it had, because there was no saying what would have happened to her over wise.
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"Is that all Miss?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Give my regards to Ms. Zogriva."
"I will. Good bye sir."
"Good bye little Miss."
Little Miss? Well, I suppose I am. She laughed and took the road "home." Home. Will I ever see home again?...Do I want to? As ever, her thoughts differed, and she was left in the middle, torn about by her inaction. Search for her family, or stay well out of their way? But she had gone over that more times than she cared to remember and it had brought her no other conclusions than she already knew: she remembered nothing prior to those few months she had spent with Mrs. Zogriva. And no amount of staring at the few possessions she owned had triggered any reaction except for headaches. The girl's face clouded for a moment, but it was too warm, too sunny, and altogether too pleasant outside to think about such things. She had a new life now. She could start everything anew. How many people could boast of that, eh? But what did you have to leave behind for that new life? A little voice whispered in her mind. And no amount of sun could dispel the disquiet she felt in her heart.
She entered the kitchen and deposited the bags of goods she had bought in the village, the put everything back in its place, only then noticing the silence. Yes, it was always rather quiet here, but never this quiet. She looked around and called the old lady. Perhaps she was asleep? But she was not in the habit of taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon… Mica called again and went upstairs to the woman's bedroom, a little cubicle big enough for a bed and a large wooden chest. She didn't even have to make it to the top floor. She gasped and took a step back, seeing the old lady sprawled face down on the top stair step. She regained her calm and ran to the prone figure. It didn't take long for the girl to assess that the old woman was irrevocably dead. She rocked back on her heels and sat down hard, shocked, while her mind swam in little circles for a while. What the heck was she supposed to do now? As soon as I go to town for a "funeral guy," the militia, or government, or whoever takes care of that, will grab everything, faster than I can say my name, without a thought as to what will happen to me. Staying here is out of the question. The militia will kick me out. All I can do is take what I need and high tail it out of here as soon as possible.
But it would be too much like ribbing the dead…It would be the same! But what else am I to do?
She steeled herself and dragged the woman to her bead. For such a massive bone structure, Mrs. Zogriva weighed no more than a feather. That done, Mica closed the door, washed her hands, and sat down to plan her future, trying hard not to let her emotions get the upper hand.
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She looked critically at what she had laid on the kitchen table. Very little of that was her own. Only the short dagger, a canteen of water, and her old boots. Add to that two work shirts and skirts given to her by the old woman, half a loaf of bred, a piece of cheese, grapes, and a pair of pants she had found in a chest tucked out of the way –belonging to the lady's husband, or perhaps her son?- she wore those now, with the cuffs rolled up and a string keeping them at her waist. Her old clothes were long gone, not even good enough to serve as rags. The final addition was a leather coin purse. That, perhaps, had been the hardest for the girl to appropriate, not because she couldn't find it, but because it was thieving. But she's dead. She won't need it anymore…but what if she has a family? Children? I am steeling what is theirs…I worked for that money!!! Pfff, the militia will take all of it anyway, and no on who deserves it will ever see any of it. In the end, she had taken almost all of it because of that last thought, had packed it all in a bag, and left with one backward glance and a silent prayer for Mrs. Zogrieva's soul, while tears stung her eyes, threatening to spill at any moment.
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And once again, I'm on the road, alone. But the difference is, I'm clean, fed, and sane. Which I couldn't say I was, back then. Delirious with pain and exposure, half-mad with shock, and with no idea of what was going on, who I was, or what had happened. She remembered the snow, and that's what had saved her. The cold had broken her fever and made her aware of the hunger that gnawed at her belly. Mica snorted at the memory. Yes, and with hunger came that excruciating pain, which I would bet hadn't anything to do with lack of food an everything to do with an inner wound…or poison? That's a possibility… And that had also been the moment she had realized she neither knew her name, nor her age, her birthplace…nothing that was "her." And even worse, she didn't know whether it had been an accident, or if someone had deliberately tried to hurt her. But why? And how? Only more questions, and never any answers. The girl shivered, and resolutely marched away from the town, toward the next one –for there would be no work to be found here.-
Another life begins…a life I can choose…just like I chose my new name…
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A/N~ So? What do you think? (posting the third entry in less than a week! Jeez, something must be wrong with me…)
Does the story make sense? (To those who have read "Memories" and to those who haven't?) Drop me a word please!! =)