A resounding thought crept into my mind from blackness: why is it so cold?
I couldn't feel my body. Couldn't feel the bruises and the deep cuts and the burns. Only bitter cold. My teeth smashed together as I sucked the frozen air into my lungs.
It burned.
I could feel the crystals forming under my tongue.
God, why is it so cold?
My senses seeped back into being; my body trembling and seizing in cycles, sending shooting messages of pain to my brain.
What happened? What's happening?
The air had a peculiar taste: sulfur and… something else, something I couldn't quite determine. I tried opening my eyes; the lashes tore at the skin sending more signals of pain.
A weak wail erupted from my lips, only to be drowned by shrieks of the wind. I felt tears well and freeze, tightly locking my eyelids shut.
My initial thoughts echoed and repeated like the morning alarms. I absentmindedly tried to lift my arm, an attempt to silence the imagined staccato.
More pain. A stronger, desperate cry erupted.
Something's wrong, I thought. Oh God, help me, something's terribly wrong. It's too cold. I'm going to die.
My body is broken, said the little voice inside. I can feel myself dying. God, I'm not ready. Please. Not today.
The words poured from me. Breathless, weak, almost audible: not today.
I brought my hands to my face, ignoring the screaming agony in my right shoulder and wrist. I cupped them to my eyes, letting the tears thaw to release my sight from its shackles. I bit the pain and pushed it away.
"Help!" I wailed like a newborn, as loudly as my lungs would allow.
I tasted copper deep in my throat as I screamed again.
Not today, the voice chanted. Not today.
"God!" I wept pathetically. "God, please help! Jesus, save me!"
Hands.
I felt alien hands on my arms, pulling them down to my sides.
"Shhhh," the female voice cooed. "Nechto-lo, nechto-lo."
Her hand brushed my forehead, lovingly. Like a mother's touch. I felt heat radiate from the hands before me, melting the aches to their fraction. The heat pulsated, a heart beating in tandem with mine, opposite the pain. My teeth stopped chattering, and, for a moment, my right eye eased open.
I saw a black silhouette against a hazy green... sun. Shimmering lights swam lazily around the silhouette and drifted, what it seemed, into me. Warming me. Comforting me. Healing me.
I felt my broken ribs and torn skin knit together. Pain, but not unbearable. It was almost satisfying: like ears popping after a long flight.
How is this possible? The voice whispered.
The last whisper before darkness once again claimed my mind.
I nibbled on some cake. It was dry and cold and tasted like pennies.
"Just out of the freezer," I murmured to myself. "Who puts cake in the freezer?"
In fact, everything felt too cold. Felt wrong.
The air conditioner must be on full blast, I thought. Odd. Nana never runs the air conditioner. Maybe the door is open. Sometimes she leaves the porch open and it gets too cold. She loves the sea air.
I stepped outside and pulled my arms around my bust. The sun looked so strange.
I chalked it as odd weather; everything looked… very green, more so than usual, at least. The dense woods didn't make everything this verdant. Nor was the beach so close to the house. I furrowed my brows and a thought danced across my consciousness: everything is feeling so strange.
"Nana!" I called, even though I knew she wouldn't answer.
Why is the water so close… so green? The whisper carried itself over the tumultuous waves, even though I had not spoken.
"I haven't been here in years. It's so different."
An alien voice wafted through the air: "You're dreaming."
"I'm dreaming."
My eyes snapped open. Taking in too much light, I sneezed causing pain to shoot through my right side. I couldn't see anything beyond blinding light, bathed in translucent, unearthly green. My vision focused a little more, letting in dark, vague shapes of people walking, running. Just blurs – shadows. The light pierced through my head, igniting a headache behind my eyes and just below my skull. The shock made my stomach lurch and bitter bile spilled over the sides of my mouth. I coughed, choking.
I couldn't turn.
My body convulsed with every retch and cough, and with every attempted breath, the foul substance followed.
Finally, after a few panicked moments, a pair of hands found me. Different hands. They didn't emanate the same gentle warmth as before.
Against my body's will to convulse, the hands turned my body to its side, allowing the ichor to expel itself from my throat. I pulled a ragged, desperate breath.
The shapes and shadows grew clearer. My eyes framed the rocks and dirt and snow.
Why am I lying in the snow? I thought. Why am I outside?
I heard terrified screams.
Panic. Pain.
The fear; I could smell it. It coated my nostrils, my tongue, my throat. Hundreds were running, weaving through makeshift shelters, carrying blankets, or buckets whose contents sloshed over the rim.
We were dealing with a catastrophe. That was clear. No one, however, seemed to know exactly what the disaster was, what had happened. Their movements were confused, yet determined.
I shuddered as the man rolled me onto my back, not so gently. He had an impatient expression; pinprick droplets of sweat speckled his forehead, the skin beneath his eyes was dark purple and his sallow cheeks sported irregular lengths of prickly hair. This man probably had not seen a good night's rest in days.
He propped my head with a bundle of cloth and pushed a clay tumbler to my lips.
"Trinkto-lo."
Trinkt? Drink? Am I hearing German? No, similar, but not quite, I thought.
"Vasseh ses. Trinkto-lo."
I took a deep drought, ignoring the odd words. It was water, though it tasted off. Grainy. I didn't care how wrong it tasted, I slurped greedily and choked.
"Daroto-lo, sera! Vasseh trinkto-lo dares!"
He raised the tumbler so I would drink slowly, angling it as the liquid disappeared into my gullet.
After the last drop was spent, he took the tumbler away. With a quivering voice, I asked for more. My throat felt drier than before. He ignored me and gently pushed my head back to the ground. He began to lift the tattered strips that was my favorite blouse.
I flinched and my good hand automatically slapped his away. He hissed, impatient, and muttered angrily under his breath. He forced my hand to my side and continued lifting my shirt. I decided against fighting – my head felt too heavy to care.
I felt a pinch on my side. He muttered under his breath, his free hand disappearing into his satchel. I didn't want to see what he saw – not yet. My eyes wandered to the source of the green light, instead of the source of my pain. It wasn't the sun, as I thought before.
My mouth dropped and tears welled in my eyes: a gaping, spiraling hole in the sky loomed beyond the mountains. I whimpered.
It was so wrong.
"What is that thing?" I asked, my voice breaking into pitiful mewling. The man stopped fingering my side with salve and narrowed his eyes, confused; a queer expression rested on his face.
"Nechto-lo, sera. Essato-lo naptat; lo senseto minse nex lo napto."
My nostrils flared in confusion. "What the hell are you saying?" I was whining. I could tell it grated his exhausted nerves, but I didn't care. "What the hell is that thing? Do - do you have a phone? I need," I paused, my voice broke. "I need a phone. Or a cop. I don't know... I want to call my mom. I need to call my mom." A deluge of frustrated tears splashed on my cheeks.
Despite my best efforts to stay calm, my diaphragm began to contract. I was hyperventilating, trying to recite my mother's phone number.
He brought a calloused finger to my lips, effectively ceasing my attempts.
With a heavy sigh, the man's hand disappeared into his satchel. A moment later, he produced a glass vial with dark liquid. I latched onto his arm, my eyes desperate - I must have looked feral. "A phone. Something. Please. Mobile. Telephone. Police." These were international words. Certainly, he would know these words.
His voice was slow, deliberate. He mimed as he spoke. "Peshen trinkto-lo." He brought the vial to his lips, pretending to drink. "Lo naptato" He leaned his head, eyes closed, against his empty hand, "e senseto minse." He removed the vial's stopper. "De skiel," He gestured towards the green 'sun', "unko-lo'ne, sera." He wagged his finger and pointed to his head. "Andraste, sole las gaia to salvat. Trinkto-lo e napto-lo. Bik."
He brought the curious vial to my lips and tipped it, carefully. I drank, obedient. It tasted overwhelmingly grassy and bitter. When the liquid was spent, I glanced towards my side: rags, crusted brown with blood. My blood.
The man before me pixellized and the edges of my vision faded. My head swam, heavy and light at the same time. The aches melted away and I was floating.
Napto-lo. His voice echoed deep. I could feel the syllables vibrating within my spine.
Sleep.
I was at my grandmother's bay side cottage. The sky was too green. The water, too green. Even the trees, too green.
Too cold. Too green.
"Nana?" I called, despite the intense pressure on my chest. In the water, I saw hundreds of people swimming. They were screaming and then... silence.
I walked to the railing and wrapped my hands around the wood. Splinters dug into my skin, in my fingernails. I let go. They were embedded deep.
I looked towards the bay and my stomach dropped. Those people, they weren't swimming. They were drowning. Or had drowned.
"Dead." A whispered echo danced around me. "All dead."
The bodies bobbed in the calm waves, ugly bloated buoys of flesh and bone.
I walked down the rotted wood stairs. I was barefoot. No, I was completely naked. My skin prickled against the cold.
The water was so close. Too close.
Why is it so close? I thought. It was never this close.
Trees swayed in the green-tinted wind and storm clouds surged in a great spiral over the bay. I squished my toes in the inundated sand and tried to raise my hand to block the glare. It wouldn't leave my side.
I waded until the water was waist-deep. Seaweed lazily wrapped around my legs and ankles and sharp stones and shells dug into the soles of my feet.
I reached a woman, or what was a woman.
She didn't drown.
She burned.
The skin around her mouth peeled back, revealing a ghastly smile. The rest of her skin was patchy, shiny. Black and red, blistered and seeping green pus from pungent cracks.
"How?" I asked to my whispering guide. "How did this happen?"
The corpse opened its eyes, two horrid rotting globes, iris' white and gelatinous. Its maw opened, emitting a stench like death.
It spoke: "The green storm."
"Jesus wept!" I cried, falling backwards in the dark waters.
The waves claimed me and I sank.
I couldn't breathe. I tried to cry out – call the whispering guide for help. As the air escaped me, water filled the vacuum. Filled my lungs.
The weeds pulled me deeper into the abyss. I could almost hear the dead calling my name.
Ali... Ali... Ali...
Everything was dark, save the looming green spiral.
My body convulsed.
I'm going to die, I thought. This is how I die.
"Not today." Whispered the voice. "Breathe."
I can't, I argued, noiselessly. I can't breathe.
"Breathe." It sighed.
I am going to die. I can't breathe. Oh, Jesus.
"BREATHE." The third command was neither a sigh nor a whisper, but a boom. A voice that shook the firmament miles beneath and above me; a voice that shook the grasping, vile fingers that clamped around my legs.
My mouth opened wide and I inhaled in the brackish water, letting it fill me to the brink. I was no longer drowning, however. I could breath.
I woke to sounds of crying, coughing, clanging. It was night. Thick, grey clouds blanketed the moon and stars. The green storm cast an eerie, unquiet luminance throughout the camp.
Everything ached. Even my fingernails screamed in protest. My teeth: ice chips, daggers digging into my gums.
I lifted my left arm, testing it. With a sigh, I slowly unraveled the bandages on the numb right arm.
My mouth agape, I began to shake with horrified sobs. It was covered in ugly wounds that oozed pus. Just like the woman from my dream.
Chunks of flesh had been carved out, the edges puckered and crusted with ugly black scabs. The rest of my arm was covered in shiny red patches.
Breathless, I wrapped it again, tight, and shook my head, willing the image to disappear. Morbid curiosity compelled my left hand to remove the bandages on my torso.
I pushed away the tattered cloth of my blouse and peeled the stained rags from my side. Angry red wounds crusted with dried blood. They were sewn with thick black threads, so uneven it looked like a child's embroidery. Some of the larger gashes still wept small trails of blood.
The largest wound was still open, the skin puckered around a bullseye of blood, fat and muscle. A thin sheet of crust formed over the gash. I saw shiny red burns covering my right side. The amorphous shapes reached my belly like clawed fingers.
I shrieked, so loudly, everyone seemed to stare.
The edges of my vision grew dark and greyscale; bile pushed its way through my stomach. Ignoring the urge to expel the foul substance, I swallowed a few times.
My screams were spent. Breathing deeply, my chin curled. I felt the bile return to the base of my esophagus and shook my head violently. Saliva pooled under my tongue; I tried to spit, but the saliva just slid from my lips to the nape of my neck.
I shook my head again. My stomach muscles contracted, working against gravity. I began to dry heave, my body convulsing so violently, my head slammed against the frozen ground. Each heave produced more and more pixels in my vision; each time my head slammed, a great bright light flashed, like an old-fashioned camera bulb.
I didn't notice the man running to my side, breathless.
He leaned all of his weight into my shoulders to keep my body still, turned my head to its side, and called out for help.
A middle-aged woman, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion, dragged her feet towards us. She wore blue robes, the hems caked in mud, and a fur-lined hooded cape. Her face was drawn with heavy lines, made more profound with blood and sweat. She knelt by my side and fished a small blue vial from a deep pocket on her robe. With a grimace, she swallowed the liquid.
She placed her hands over my ribs, her eyes tightly closed in concentration, and blue lights emanated from them. I didn't believe my eyes – I thought I was hallucinating.
"Vondes'kaf, laf ses'ne debol. Me, de gifte: les benes laf eytat e cashon." She muttered to the man, who nodded.
The man let go of my shoulders and began rubbing a warming salve on the most injured joints of my right arm.
I cautiously watched the hallucination. Skin grew from the wound. I blinked, confused. The woman, exhausted, took another generous drought from the vial. The lights returned as she massaged the mottled flesh and the angry red burns on my belly began to fade to pink and then cream.
"Jesus wept." I sighed, almost content. "How did you do that?"
And then, I understood. I understood why they spoke another language, why there was a hole in the sky. I understood that this woman was a witch.
No, a mage.
"Haven." My voice squeaked.
The man smiled and nodded. "We, sera. En Haven lo seto."
"Thedas." It shuddered.
The two healers exchanged a glance.
AN: First story in years and years. I'm pretty rusty, so don't hold back on the criticism. Sorry for the crazy amounts of alliteration - it's my favorite fallback.
The weird language is actually functional, so far. I have verb charts, vocab lists, etc... It'll really only be in use for the first leg of our protagonist's adventure - she'll learn King's Speech, eventually. It was inspired by a mish-mash of Romantic and Germanic language. There are a few cognates, which (I know) isn't exactly "realistic" for a language that formed completely virginal of Earth's tongues. Howeverrrrr, my background is, obviously, in English, German, French and Spanish languages thus, so is my version King's Speech!
I don't claim any rights over BioWare's DA Universe. Just doing this for some jollies.
And, this is a blatant self-insert.
Like, it's literally just me being there. If that bothers you, sorry! Again, this is just for the jollies. I just hope you'll enjoy reading as much as I enjoy imagining.
Maybe I'll be a mage. Maybe I'll be a badass Sneaky-Skyrim-Style archer. Maybe I'll die when Cory comes to town.
Thanks :)