2015 Writer's Challenge Week #Six: Sensory Perception
Alone
Salty, muted at best, with a trace, a tang, of iron, and earthy; not unlike fresh mushrooms. That taste registered in his brain as he surfaced from the dark depths of wherever it was Merlin had been. Other things began clamouring for attention, like the cold dampness seeping into his clothes or the soft kiss of moisture on his exposed cheek. Not to mentioning the dull aching thud of pain in his head.
The squeak he heard came from himself as he tentatively reached up to touch the place where the ache originated and he stopped, struggling to open his eyes, when his fingers touched something firm and crusty on his scalp.
Blood.
Dried blood. In his hair, the taste in his mouth, of course. Merlin blinked his eyes, trying to focus, as he spat. Pushing himself upright, he ran the back of his hand across his lips, wincing at a stab of pain, and glanced down at his hand, seeing a faint smear of diluted blood amongst the speckles of dirt from his face.
He squelched a rising tide of panic and forced himself to assess the situation. He'd been hit on the head. By whom? Or what? He had been lying face first on a cushion of damp moss and forest detritis and he had no idea how he had got there or for how long. Somehow he'd bitten the inside of his cheek and lip in the process. He'd been there long enough for his clothes to absorb moisture and he shivered suddenly from the chill.
"Ádrýgan," he instinctively whispered, keeping his gaze downcast as the flare of magic briefly lit his eyes gold. His clothes instantly dried out. He swiped away the remaining dirt from off his face, sitting back on his haunches, gingerly feeling around the crusted scab at the back of his head. Something, someone, had hit him hard enough to knock him out but not enough to bleed all over himself. That at least was a good thing. And asides from the dull pounding in his skull, he wasn't otherwise injured. Still he frowned, as he looked up and paused.
He had no idea where he was at.
A fine damp mist had settled all around and he stared out into a forest shrouded thickly in a cold fog. Naturally vibrant colours of greens, grey, browns, even black, were softened, watered down, diffused. Eerily still, he couldn't hear a thing, save the gentle dripping of moisture. Only within a few feet of him could he clearly make out the trunks of the trees and the lower canopy of branches before they faded into the fog. He struggled to his feet, tottering briefly and his hand reached out to steady himself, his fingers feeling the hard, knobby, grooved, bark of a pine.
Upright now, he looked around, realizing that he stood on an incline, the ground sloping away to his left. He let the damp, refreshing aroma of the pine trees, the peaty, earthy compost of the forest floor, and something else, something familiar, wash over his senses, reviving him.
Water, that slightly fish-like, boggy, yet clean, smell of water reached his nostrils. Merlin looked down the slope, frowning, trying to make out more than the sounds of the dripping from the drenching mist that accumulated on everything about him. No bird sounds, nothing. Just the irregular, calming drips of water from a fog enshrouded forest.
Instinctively, Merlin moved down hill, towards the source of water, knowing he had to be near a lake, he could hear no water trickling or coursing from a creek. The sound of his footfalls, stepping on -and snapping- twigs and sticks, sounded unnaturally loud as he made his way through the trees. Still struggling to figure out what had happened to him, or where he was for that matter, he also couldn't help but marvel at how thick the fog was. It made everything unnaturally still. Visibility was reduced -literally- to only a few feet ahead of him. It didn't seem right, but he knew to the core of his being that it was real, natural. Just extraordinarily thick.
A gentle lapping of water on rocks warned him of what had to be the lake and he was upon it so abruptly that he lurched to a stop, grabbing at another tree to keep himself from falling onto the rocks and into the lake, just a few feet below him. Inky, jet black water, so still he could clearly see his disheveled reflection looking back at him, barely moved in the fog. He strained to see anything about him, having no idea how big or wide the lake was. Sighing, his breath coming out in a puff of air, Merlin looked back up the slope he had come down and stopped.
Sound. Faint at first, but then distinct, came the muted honking of geese to his ears. His head swiveled up, searching the grey shroud, trying to fix on their position as they drew closer, close enough to hear the rustling of their feathers and the flapping as they flew.
Like wispy grey ghosts, the skein briefly appeared above him in the mist, indistinct and seemingly disorientated by the enveloped world around them. Yet they vanished back into the gloom, their musical call floating back towards him until there came only the sound of the lake patting at the rocks, and the constant, endless, dripping of water.
Their calls slowly receding, Merlin stepped down onto the rocks of the tiny beach, feeling a shiver run through him. The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise and he looked about him in alarm, wondering where the source came from. He focused briefly on the dark water, detecting something amiss and he was about to kneel down, when he sensed the need to turn and look back up the slope.
The abnormal hush of the day, the lack of birds song, the thickness of the fog all lent to running an icy finger down his spine as he stared up the hill. From out of the mists a large figure moved and Merlin froze.
An enormous stag, silently passing through the thick stand of the trees above Merlin, slowly emerged before becoming fully exposed in a tiny clearing. He heard the creatures even breathing, evidenced by the puffs of breath from the stag's quivering nostrils. Steam rose from the damp hide, a muted dark grey and brown with a distinctive rusty red tinge to the fur. The creatures neck was thick and feathered with a mane of damp hair and the impressive rack of antlers would have made any trophy hunter salivate at the sight.
Merlin could only stare at it in awe. Surely he wasn't that far north to encounter one of these creatures.
The stag looked his way, not seeing him, displaying its full rack, before turning to look away to its right, lifting his head then gingerly begin picking its way through the trees and vanishing into the fog.
Stunned at the sight, Merlin slowly knelt at the lake's edge, still staring up at the now empty clearing where the beast had just been. He stretched his hand out towards the water and noticed that the icy, prickling feeling of the hairs on the back of his neck was still there and getting worse. Frowning disconcertingly, his hand was about to touch the water when memory returned and a spurt of energy coursed through his veins.
He hadn't been alone.
Where the hell was Arthur?
As realization reached his brain, his hand came in contact with the freezing, pitch black waters of the lake.
The jolt that hit every sense of his being caused him to shoot upright and stumble back up the slippery, damp, moss covered, rocks as he looked at the lake in horror. A jumbled, confusing vision had flashed like lightning before his eyes and he stopped only when he slammed up against the crumbling embankment of the hill behind him. He stared at the water, panting in abrupt fright, forgetting for an instant his alarm at where the Prince of Camelot had disappeared to.
Forget Arthur, his confused brain screamed at him.
What the hell was in the lake!?