Stranger in the Mirror
He registered pain; that was his first reckoning with awareness, that and light. Even through his closed eyelids, he knew it was light, daylight, brighter than candles. He wanted to remain asleep, to never open his eyes and escape the painful throbbing in his head, but a desperate willpower broke through the lull of never-ending nothingness. He needed to open his eyes or he might never do so again! Heavy-- when had raising his eyelids become so onerous an endeavor?
He was near to panicking when he finally cracked open one eye far enough to assure himself that he could and that it was indeed very light outside his head. A thunderbolt of light stabbed him blind and pounded his ears. His lids snapped shut as an automatic protection mechanism, and his intestines clenched and seized up. He groaned and waited for the nausea to pass. What had happened to him? Where was he?
The next question to enter his head was a head-pounding, terrifying one: who was he? He had no idea what his name was. He couldn't recall anything of his past. Not one event. Not one moment. Despite the pain he knew it would bring, he abruptly sat up and frantically wrenched open his eyes. Remember! The sheer effort of the exertion sent him careening back onto the bed. His head hit the stack of pillows, delivering him a constellation of painful sensations. The misery and torment was becoming an assurance that he was alive.
"Oh, I see yer've finally waked up," came a woman's voice from a short distance away.
"Ugh," he replied, then realized that his mouth worked, although it was dry. With an effort of will drawn from some unknown source of strength, he opened his eyes again. "Where ...?"
"Oooh, hold on. I getcher some water. You're croakin' like a bullfrog."
The cheery-voiced speaker was gone from the doorway, leaving him to agonize over his situation in private a few minutes longer. No manner of concentration, however, could clear the fogginess in his head.
"Ah, yer still awake." The same caregiver returned carrying a pitcher and a cup. "Take a drink and then I suppose you'll go back to sleep like you've done before."
He sipped at the water, but feeling little relief, he set the cup on the bedside table and struggled to remain alert. "I'm not going back to sleep."
"Suit yerself," she said, smiling.
He drew a deep breath and fought to control his pain and his body's habit of passing out. "Where am I?"
"Chancey's Inn in Newbark. A farmer brought you in a week ago on a hay wagon. Found you by the roadside. By the look of your clothes he knew yer were a traveling priest. We put up the roving men of god here for free," the woman said with pride.
"So, you don't know what happened... Why my head...? Who I...?" His mouth snapped shut, aware of and perturbed with by his own inability to finish a thought.
"Oh, we figured you got attacked by bandits, though what kind I couldn't guess."
"Kind?"
"Stupid or Stupider! No priest carries anything of value to be robbed of!" she laughed.
"Oh...I see."
But he didn't see. That didn't explain anything to him.
"Yer clothes are clean, so they didn't rough yer up none. Just banged yer over the head and ran off, I guess. No other injuries that I could see. I just had a man lay yer out here and been checkin' on yer regular like. This is the second conversation we've had. Don't suppose you recall the earlier one? No? Yer forget this one too until yer head's fixed, though I can't see you was hit hard enough to bleed or crack the bone. Heads are funny like that."
He nodded and closed his eyes. That was a mistake. Now he would have to start all over again to get them to open, which he couldn't, and he drifted back to sleep.
When he re-awoke the room was darker but coated in a warm ambient glow. Through the shaded window, late afternoon light illuminated everything it touched, like a honey slick. He didn't know if it was the same day or another, but he remembered being awake earlier and conversing with another person.
He was a priest found unconscious on the road by a farmer and brought to Chancey's Inn in Newbark. There! He could remember that perfectly, so why, then, could he not remember a single, damned thing more, in particular, his own name?
The pounding of blood to his brain had stopped. At least there was that relief. The pain had subsided, but not left him entirely. As he sat up there was no nausea, just a little lightheadedness and a great deal of inertia. He sat a long time before throwing his legs over the side of the bed, giving him the opportunity to study his surroundings.
He picked up a book on his bedside table, "Aiden's Book of Verse." He thumbed through a few pages reading banal lines of pastoral poetry feeling pleased that he could read the script, because it implied that he wasn't far from his native land or that, possibly, he was a scholar. Also on the table sat a half-full box of tiny "Rhys" crackers, which, he decided, were probably left by his attendant. He blushed to think someone had sat at his bed watching him as he slept, but there was hardly anything he could do about that now. Besides, it was better than being left neglected by the side of the road.
Then he sat some more, mulling over what to do next, which was a challenge considering his body's constant desire to return to a state of inertia. He looked at his hands and discovered that he was wearing fine, pale gray gloves. He removed them one at a time. Whatever his employment was in the past, his trim nails and callous-free, clean hands were an indication that he had not been a laborer. He noticed that something important, he felt it was very important, was missing. He had all his limbs; fingers and toes were in order; at least, he felt a sufficient number of toes when he wriggled them in his shoes– it would take far too much effort to remove his shoes and actually look. But the feeling that a part of him was gone continued to nettle his mind, dragging his attention back to the problem if it attempted to wander elsewhere.
He spotted a mirror over a dresser on the far side of the room. His desire to see his face overcame his lethargy for an instant, and he sprang from the bed, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. The sudden need for privacy tickled at the back of his mind. He didn't want to be caught examining himself, but the door was in the opposite direction. With a passing thought, he wished the door would remain closed for privacy. The door was forgotten in a flash the moment he caught sight of his reflected image, or of a face belonging to someone, in the mirror.
Once he stared into the mirror nothing else mattered. There was a stranger in the mirror looking back at him, eyes wide in astonishment. That he understood the mechanics of a looking glass meant that the face he saw was his. And it wasn't that there was anything particularly wrong with the face, just it wasn't familiar to him in any way. Black hair, no, the deepest darkest purple, cut straight across his brow and hung straight at the sides, grazing his shoulders. The features were even, nose straight, lips not overly sensual or full, but quick to smile. Those lips were smiling now.
"What's so funny?" he asked the face in the mirror. He was surprised to hear the answer come automatically from his own lips, "That's a secret!" and one of his almond-shaped eyes wink, as if the stranger in the mirror was in on the joke.
The return of his sense of loss chipped away at his patience. "You're an impish bastard," he snapped aloud.
He was of two minds as to whether or not to continue his examination. He knew innately that he would not find signs of any injuries, as if seeing that his clothes were undamaged meant that the flesh beneath them would be as well. He was, nevertheless, curious as to what his body might reveal about himself. So, he stood wondering what to do, feeling that undressing was a unfamiliar activity for him.
"This is ridiculous," he snapped. "I hope I haven't always been the simpleton I am now."
He unclasped the ornate pin holding his cloak closed and removed the heavy cloth, draping it over his arm. He was about to check his neck for bruises when the care giver returned, banging on the door and attempting to gain entrance.
"Lor' it's stuck again!"
"No wait!" he shouted, fearing she might break it down to get in. He spun around and made a dash for the door. "Allow me."
He gave the knob a jiggle and found it was secured shut. "It's locked."
"Can't be," she said. "Locks er all busted in the free rooms. Juss stuck. I'll give it a go."
"No!" he cried out. "Here ..."
This time he "thought" about unlocking the door, and the knob turned smoothly, allowing him to open the door with ease. Oh my. Had he locked the door to his room with mental resolve alone? On his way to the mirror– he had wished it bolted closed. And it locked. Now, with a simple thought, had he released it? He had no idea if this made him unique or not, but he knew implicitly that he had employed magic to both lock and unlock the door, and that the woman entering the room had not. It was gratifying to know that he was superior in some way.
"You're up!" she said grinning with pleasure that he was well. "And smiling, too."
"Yes, I'm feeling quite..." He nearly said normal, but wondered what normal might be for him and substituted another word, "fit."
She looked him over unreservedly, causing him to blush a second time. "Yer look hale and hearty, al'rit. Bit on the thin side. Ah, I see yer got yer cape off, too. I couldn't get a fix on unhooking that thing."
"It is complicated," he said with a smile. "There is another thing you might be able to help me with. I seem to have lost something, but I can't say what. Something important."
"Important?" The woman screwed up her face in concentration. "Yer had no money..."
He wasn't about to wonder how she ascertained that. "Not loose things, I don't think. Like... a part of me. I know that sounds silly, but it is essential that I find it. It's more a matter of great significance to me than of value to anyone else. Oh, and I think it was rather large," he added as a ragged trace of memory returned.
"Yer staff!" she said, delighted to have remembered that. "No man of the cloth would feel right without his staff. I daresay it feels a part of you."
"Yes," he replied quickly, his hands itching to hold something. "That must be it. Do you know where it is?" His excitement was tempered by his fear that it had been stolen or lost along the way.
"I do and I'll get it for you. Put it in the closet here for safe-keeping."
She opened a closet door revealing an empty space with hooks for hanging hats and robes. At the back leaned a tall, wooden staff. He moved before she did, snatching it out of her hand before she closed her fingers around it.
"Thank you," he said, a bit breathless. "Thank you for guarding this."
His obvious relief and pleasure smoothed over her ruffled feathers after he had taken it away so hastily. She huffed a moment before saying, "Well, I guess anyone can see it's important to yer. In fact, if you go to the nearest shrine they might be able to help you find yer way back to where yer came from."
"Really? Why do you think so?" he asked
"By the decoration, of course! All priests belonging common to a shrine carry staffs marked the same. Yers would all have one of them red glass balls atop it."
A fleeting image came to mind. "What of a staff with rings at the top? Have you ever seen priests carrying a staff like that?"
"Rings? Loose ones? No, not that I've ever noticed, and many wandering men of the cloth come through here. We're at a crossroads where the main road leads north to Seyruun."
"It doesn't matter," he shrugged. "Could you tell me where to find a shrine in town?"
"Yes. You'll be leavin' then?"
"I should. I've taken up your space and hospitality a long time."
"And you'll be needing to find yer way home. I suppose you have family missing' you somethin' fierce?"
He hadn't thought about that. Had he a family? A wife and children? Friends? He had no yearning to rejoin them or guilt for having forgotten them.
"I don't know," he admitted.
He wanted his identity back, but his overriding feeling of pride wouldn't allow him to let on how much memory loss he had suffered. "Possibly. I don't know if I was traveling alone or not."
"Oh, lor... I do hope yer family's well. Hadn't thought 'bout that. Mr...? Whatcher name?"
Name? Damn it all! He must have a name! His memory locked on to two names which would do until his memory returned.
"Aiden Rhys," he answered with a smile.
"So yer know that, Mr. Rhys," she grinned back. "Good. Wouldn't want a man runnin' loose who didn't even know his own name. So, would yer like a bite to eat before yer go? Haven't had nothin' fer a week. Yer must be hungry."
But he wasn't. Not at all. He was bone weary, but he desired no food.
"No, thank you, but I'll have another cup a water, please?"
"Get yerself a drink at the bar and a bite," she ordered him with motherly concern. "Or I won't sleep at night fer worry."
His bemused smile must not have impressed her. "It won't cost yer a cent, if that's what's worryin' ya," she added.
Aiden nodded and left the room with directions to the nearest shrine. He followed her downstairs and turned under her watchful gaze into the dining area of the inn. Even though little light filtered in through the grease and dust-encrusted windows, he had no trouble seeing. Even the darkest shadows gave up something to his eyes. He had no idea why his vision was better than normal human vision, no more than why that might be so, but he was certain that it was. There he knew something more about himself!.
When his eyes swept the tables then the bar, he had only seconds to process the figures bent over their drinks before his brain froze up. A flash of brilliant light and an agonizing pain that crushed the life from him became his new reality. It did not matter that light and sensation were only memories. The vision was so concrete that he could taste the bitter smoke of burning flesh. Aiden nearly collapsed to the floor, but a chair caught the brunt of his weight.
It was the return of a tiny piece of his memory, a significant turning point, he thought, possibly the one that caused his injury and memory loss. What had caused the light? An explosion, probably resulting from a very powerful spell– that seemed obvious enough. Was he the magic user, or someone else? He had no answer to that, and so he centered his attention on what else had been in that picture: golden hair, long and flowing. The more he concentrated on the vision, the murkier it became until there was nothing left but a feeling of emptiness, despair, and the dramatic light.
He had caught himself half in a chair, half over a table. Now, he stood on his feet and looked around again, hoping to find what it was he had seen that had triggered the memory. Dark wood flooring with ten tables, mismatched chairs, half a dozen people, all human, two at the bar– that was it. The bar. There was figure seated at the bar, back turned to Aiden, fair hair flowing past the seat of the bar stool.
What did the long, blonde hair signify? Aiden didn't know, but he had to find out. He felt certain that this was a clue to his past, possibly someone important and critical to his well-being. He approached the person sitting at the bar. He thought it was a woman, but on closer observation, the shoulders were too broad. He cleared his throat and tapped the person on the shoulder.
"Excuse me?" he said.
The stranger turned his head, straightened his back, and looked over, not up, for he was so tall that the two men were nearly was eye-level with him sitting down. They stood regarding one another for a moment, and when he could wait no longer, Aiden smiled and asked, "You know me?"
It was tentative, just barely hopeful that it was true.
"Xelloss."
The man said his name. He had named him. Unfortunately, the man did not seem pleased to see him. A darkness clouded Gourry's brow.
"It's been a while," he said with a slight frown, "but I'm not so stupid as to forget you that fast."
"Really?" Aiden, now Xelloss, said, a smile warming his face. "This is wonderful!"
"Been a few years." The man appeared more apprehensive as he looked to the side, searching for something, or someone. "You alone?"
"Yes."
Xelloss was aching to force this man to tell him everything he knew about him. It took all the control he could muster not to, to be patient and gain the man's trust, and then wait for the man to illuminate him.
"You mean Lina's not with you? Where's Lina? Is she all right?"
The man's blue eyes filled with anxiety over this Lina person. Xelloss could feel the other man's distress rush over him, followed by a surge of strength flowing through his body. It was immediate and intense-- and wonderful.
"Did something happen to her, Xelloss? Tell me!"
Xelloss couldn't help the smile curling the corners of his lips. He was elated! He had a name and man who knew him. All he had to do was hide the fact that he remembered nothing about his past while learning everything he could and hope for a total and rapid recovery.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about Lina here... now. Can we go someplace private to talk . . . Gourry?"
Where had that name come from, he wondered? But since the man nodded in response, it proved that he had remembered the correct name. His memories were still in his head, thankfully not lost; he just couldn't get at them.
"Sure. Let's take a walk." Gourry slid off his stool, dropping a few coins on the counter. "You seem chipper."
"I know. I can't explain why either." Xelloss shrugged in an exaggerated manner and nearly laughed aloud. "Ha! Oh, ah, this way. I need to stop by the local shrine."
"You're not going to blow it up, are you?" Gourry asked.
"No. Should I?"
"Don't think so, but seems either you or Lina destroyed most the ones I remember going into."
Xelloss tucked that piece of trivia away. Every bit of information was invaluable, a treasured part of the puzzle of his missing past. "So true." And as he said it, he knew it was so.
TBC
