II

It had been like waking from a dream. Madness, darkness, endless pain. Mercy was a sweet release he didn't know; from the gloom, he staggered into sunlight, half blinded. The words of his tormentor followed him. Awake or asleep, there was no day. He didn't remember. Fragments. Fractured memories. Detonations. The rush of air, rubble, burning, stone fused with wood and mortar. Colours danced, rainbows caught in liquid, a thousand shades in a bubble of iridescent dye; his arms could not cover the sights, the scent of death, the rawness. Somehow, his feet carried him free.

Later, he recalled the gloom, the relief it brought his strained eyes. The tent barely registered, nor its dull paintwork, the smell of straw and folk, of beast. His sight had filled with beauty no celestial could match; ethereal grace in shy smile, nervous yet kind, blue he lost himself in. Bruised porcelain framed with golden locks, the fallen leaves against the forest floor. And then a voice.

"Mock me, will you?! No one defies the great Kalah!"

Everything blurred.

Arcane symbols forced themselves into his mind, searing between sight and vision, his whisper hoarse, harsh, unbidden. Dredges of memory, from another life, a haze of dusty old tomes and grassy glades, of tepid seas swirling white, crags and mountains, roads and… a haze of vibrant white; colours bled, soaked, dripping glassy tears. Shimmering, resonance, silence. Deafening still while everything shook.

Tiny, demanding, the voice bleated, dying. "No! Filthy wretches… this wasn't - wasn't what was promised me!"

Darkness swallowed his senses.

—

"H-hello?"

Gentle words reached through oblivion, warmth cradling him. Heavy lids rose of their own accord; waves of dizziness swelled around him. The faint scent of flowers reached up through his nostrils, tendrils anchoring him more than the ground beneath. Fabric too coarse, too heavy, fell from shoulders too thin, too frail to be real. Her touch firm, delicate, caught bemusement. Arms so spindly would break like twigs, not hold wiry muscles, nor fingers to tilt his face? She misread the question.

"K-Kalah's lamp exploded. Th-there was a Djinn… he's gone, K-Kalah's dead."

It didn't make sense. It didn't matter.

"A-are you hurt?"

In her eyes, he saw the scars. Features disfigured… slashed. Concern turned to horror.

"You – you didn't know?"

Fingers, his own, hesitated over his cheek; her hand caught his. Fear, loathing, his; pity, compassion, hers. She didn't ask; he didn't answer. Shards floated to the fore, the vision a blur. The magic flowed from him. Her voice brought him back.

"I-I'm Aerie."

He didn't have anywhere to go.

—

Days faded into dusk, and nights to dawn. Noon crept up and stole away again. Clouds charged past, their payload cast, and the winds ghosted by unnoticed. He sat and stared while the world moved on. Athkatla never stopped bustling, never quietened; with dusk, new noises crawled out and murder sang its song. Death carried on the air, and the sleepers never stirred.

Aerie's arms snaked around his neck. Theirs was a room facing the sea, the shutters his only window to the wider panorama. The floorboards were silent for her; they creaked for the salt bitten breeze. In another life, he would have turned; she did not mind.

"I brought d-dinner."

The hot smell of fish broth, bread and lukewarm ale backed up her words. They couldn't afford wine. She smiled as she tried to tell him what they called wine probably wasn't made from grapes. He never reached for the bowl.

If grace oozed from others, it flowed from her. Gentling, she seated herself and took up the wooden spoon. Rough, splintering, it was a far cry from the grandeur Kalah dreamed of. She described it, haltingly, that vision that flashed and withered, the djinn and shockwave. She studied him when she spoke, sometimes. Blowing on it, she offered him, then sipped when he made no move to eat. "I-it's good," she lied, smiling. "F-fresh." Half a lie. Good for the fare it was. Rats dined better. He turned away.

Her sigh echoed, then her hand found his and squeezed.

—

His strength returned. His voice took longer. Dreams he should not have taunted him. His captor's voice rang out; his lips moved in silence. At his side, she listened. Slowly, he described the fragments; often, he turned away. Patience was her virtue; compassion was her strength. His pain was numbed; her hurt alive. Her eyes voiced it, and when it was too much, her hand reached out; it froze him. Shards of a former life spilled forth; of roads and mines, darkness and night, sun and fields, of books and halls. Villages and townsfolk. A city and a brother, a ghost. She listened.