Chapter 2: Lethologica
"Lass?"
The deep and smooth voice glides easily into the empty oblivion in her mind, devoid of ideas and feelings, softening into a tenacious and persistent buzz that eventually causes her to fall out of the illusory float.
She blinks her eyes open. The first thing she notices is how cold she feels. Not just her skin, but all of her cartilage, as if the cold had penetrated her soul and frozen everything within. Because her vision is blurred and she can only see colored specks, she blinks again, but even this minor movement feels monumental. She wants to slide back into an unconscious state.
"Try to stay awake, please."
She forces herself to look up. Now that her vision is clearer, she can see the man hovering over her. His slightly wrinkled face shows concern, but his deep blue eyes shine reassuringly.
"How do you feel?"
"I'm cold," she moans, her voice hoarse. Hearing herself is an unusual sensation. Her tone is as cold as ice. Uncomfortable and heavy feelings descend upon her, and she closes her eyes again to flee.
"Look at me, lass," the stranger politely asks.
She takes a deep breath, moistens her lips, and looks at the man.
"It's alright," he says, nodding and smiling. "I am a doctor. Is there anything that hurts? Did you hit yourself anywhere?"
She lets out a sigh and shakes her head. "All I can feel is the cold. But I don't think I hit myself."
She wants to sit higher because it irritates her that she is lying so lamely but she can barely move. Only now does she realize she's wrapped up like a modern-day mummy ready for Halloween. She nests a little to free her arm, then draws up on the couch, buries her arm in the wonderful heat, and pulls the blanket up to her chin. Her nostrils fill with a pleasant aroma. It's floral, but there's something dark and seductive lurking beneath the surface; it'd be nice to get lost in it. She inhales deeply, and the scent seems to reach her soul.
"My name is Dr. Liam Jones. What's yours, dear?"
She casts a glance at him. She should also introduce herself and tell him who she is. She opens and then closes her mouth. She looks for memories, words in her head, her own name, or something, but nothing comes up. It's absolutely nothing. She has no idea who she is.
She shakes her head and looks at Liam with wide eyes, feeling panic rise in her thorat. Her heart is racing and she is panting for breath.
"I don't… I'm not sure," her voice is broken as she murmurs.
She trembles throughout her body, weakening as a result. Her eyes are heavy, and she longs to escape the bright room and immerse herself in that dreamlike, floating peace where there are no questions.
"It's all right, lass," Liam says, his words encircling her and flowing warmth into her heart. "Perhaps it's the shock.
"Shock?" She repeats incoherently. Everything in her mind is jumbled, even the image of the disturbing depths of a filthy lake.
The man smiles at her, as if everything is fine, even though it isn't, and she tries to breathe more calmly. She won't get anywhere if she breaks down. She needs to know what happened to her and where she is in case a memory surfaces. She fakes a smile and nods to the man.
"The ice cracked beneath you, and you were dipped in the lake, which is why you're cold. My brother saw you and brought you here. We undressed you to get you out of your wet clothes and warm you up faster," Liam explains, apologizing with his gaze.
She has more pressing concerns than the fact that this man saw her naked, and he's a doctor anyway, so she sees no harm in the action. She is relieved to be able to look at this so practically, but everything else is a challenge. What kind of lake is it? What happened to the man who rescued her? What's his name? The questions are piling up at an alarming rate.
"You're in Storybrooke," he adds as if sensing that she needs whatever information she can get right now. "You don't come from around here."
"How do you know?"
"On one hand, I know everyone here, and those who live here know better than to go out to the lake today."
She shakes her head and chews her lower lip. She knows she shouldn't give in to her feelings of despair and dread, but it's difficult to fight them right now.
"Here, drink this," another voice says, and she notices the younger man as he steps into her line of sight. As she turns her head toward him, her eyes widen, a warm tingling sensation spreads through her stomach, and her face becomes hot. She averts her eyes and lowers her head, embarrassed.
The man's chest is on full display, he doesn't seem to know the concept of buttons on his black shirt. She's sure she's seen half-naked (and certainly naked) men before, memories or not. She may have even touched a naked man. It shouldn't be such a thrilling sight, especially since she has no idea who this person is. It's absurd... And why does she feel so dizzy all of a sudden? No, it must be because of her amnesia, not because this guy is practically half-naked; the two have nothing in common.
She returns a timid stare, this time focusing on the man's face rather than his broad shoulders, rich, dark-haired chest, and the muscles on his abdomen.
He is unshaven, his five o'clock shadow has almost grown into a full beard, and his hair is unkempt, giving the impression that he has neglected it recently, but his face is stunning. Strict, hard features, a firm nose, and jaw, a full and seductively arched mouth, small creases on the corners of his eyes, and sun-kissed skin that enhances his ocean blue orbs. And now there is a light delight twinkling in those eyes.
The man is clearly amused by her reaction, but it doesn't make her feel uncomfortable - or only slightly so.
"I remember you," she says softly, looking the man in the eyes. She remembers these piercing and cool blue orbs. She recalls and rejoices because there is something.
"I got you out of the lake," he says almost casually. His voice is pleasant, a little rough, velvety deep, with a wonderfully sinister accent. "You were impressed by my chest back then, too," a half-smile plays on his lips, relieving the stiffness and hardness on his face.
His remark mortifies her, but all she can think about is this man, not the lake. Fear reappears - why can't she remember anything? Why doesn't she recognize herself?
The guy appears to be tall. She is curious about her own height. And what does she look like at all? She has no recollection of her own face and is unsure of the color of her hair or eyes. In any case, how can she speak? How come she hasn't forgotten everything and doesn't seem to have just arrived in the world? Why does she understand words, concepts, and meanings but can't recall anything about herself? How is that even possible?
The man hands her a glass filled with an amber-colored drink. She examines it with suspicion.
"What's that?"
"Liquid sunlight," Liam describes.
"Rum," the extremely attractive man says at the same time.
"I don't think I've ever tasted rum," she mumbles as she takes the glass.
"Well, there's no time like the present," he insists. His voice is full of assurance and strength.
She takes a careful sniff of the glass. A luscious, full aroma fills her nostrils, evoking a rich earthy summer scent and a cheerful sprinkle of sunlight. It's not at all unpleasant or strong, as she had expected, indicating that an intangible, everlasting memory is at work in her. She has no idea if she like rum or not as she moves the drink in her hand so that the amber liquid runs on the wall of the glass.
"In one go, love," he murmurs, and she turns to face him. The man's eyes sparkle with determination. She squares her shoulders, convinced that she is the type of person who will never back down from a challenge and that if anyone doubts her abilities, she will simply demonstrate that she is stronger than anyone believes.
"Cheers!" She raises her glass to the man, then takes a deep breath and downs the rum all at once. Melted fire is coursing down her throat and into her stomach. She closes her eyes and licks her lips in pleasure. The rum has the flavor of nectar. Yes, liquid sunlight is fitting. Warmth permeates her body, delectable flavors dissolve in her mouth, and her spirit sighs in relief.
"Only a few bottles are made each year," Liam gently explains. She gives him a curious look. "Granny, the lady who makes it, always says it's not rum, but liquid sunlight, and I believe she's right. It's a treatment for grief, heartbreak, and anything else for which there is no genuine cure. Granny claims it's a particularly good vintage, and how did she refer to it? Oh yes! Happiness in a bottle."
"Are you telling me this to make me feel better?" She turns to face the doctor.
"Is it working?" Liam frowns at her.
She beams. "Either your words or the rum did the trick. Despite the fact that nothing has changed, I feel better. I'm still not sure who I am, though," she laments.
This time, she can look at the situation objectively. She has no recollection of anything, and there is nothing she can do about it, but because her head doesn't hurt, it's most likely not a concussion, and it can only be due to the trauma. So, memories will surface sooner or later, right? She doesn't need to worry about it anymore; it won't help her. She must remain resilient and believe in herself that she can do it. If nothing else, she can act as if she is strong, and she will eventually believe she is.
Liam pats her hand softly on the blanket.
"If nothing hurts, it's probably due to the shock. Perhaps now that you've calmed down, everything will gradually return to you," Essentially, the doctor repeats her thoughts letter by letter. It's a logical and understandable conclusion, but no matter how hard she tries, she's still worried.
"But what if it doesn't?" Her voice has a gloomy, despondent tone to it. What if she doesn't remember? What will happen to her? It's terrifying to feel so disconnected from her own life, which floats helplessly at an arbitrary intersection of time and space.
"Then you'll take a hot bath and nap for a while."
"What if nothing returns after that?"
"We'll call the sheriff's station and tell them we found you, and then we'll take you to the hospital for a checkup," Liam says grimly.
"It may not be necessary," says the man, whose name she has yet to learn, which kind of irritates her. She's overcome with impatient longing, but she's too afraid to ask.
"What do you mean?" Liam is fascinated.
"She must have papers, correct? At the very least a phone," he murmurs, squatting next to a dripping heap of clothes.
"Are those mine?" She asks, leaning slightly forward. Despite her desire to remember everything, she has no recollection of the clothes. Her fear grows as she realizes it could easily be a stranger's. What's going to trigger memories from the depths of her mind if what is fundamentally hers doesn't even elicit any emotion in her?
The man looks at her with caution, then a sly smile appears in the corner of his mouth, followed by his hand lifting a light gray, lace thong. "This is a lovely piece that I'm sure would look marvelous on you."
For a brief moment, she is stunned, her face flushed.
"Brother!" Liam's words are harsh and tinged with a warning.
The man looks at her defiantly once more, just as he did before she drank the rum. It was as if he didn't want her to fall into despair, as if he purposefully teases her into forgetting how hopeless her situation is right now, and as a result, a weakening warmth spreads in her heart. Sure, she may overestimate the man's goodness, perhaps because he saved her and she remembers nothing but his eyes, and his remark is nothing more than a playful comment, but she is still grateful to him.
A faint smile flutters across her lips, followed by a playful squint and what she hopes is a stern look. "Well, be happy you saw that then because it won't happen again," she says dryly.
The man's lips twitch and his eyes twinkle with admiration, filling her with pride.
"That's a terrible shame because you're quite stunning," he says solemnly, but his eyes continue to gleam.
Their gazes lock, and she feels an odd flutter in her stomach. The man looks at her like she's the first drop of water after weeks of drought, and she knows he means his words. It makes her happy that this handsome man thinks she's beautiful. It makes things a little better, no matter how lost she feels without memories. Is this a sign of shallowness, though?
"Enough already, Killian!" Liam reprimands his brother, but not as harshly as before.
"Why? I'm simply stating facts." Killian smiles casually, bringing a hesitant, delicate smile to her lips. She likes this guy, which may be insane. Likes that he doesn't sugarcoat his words or beat around the bush; his speeches may be raw because he freely expresses his thoughts. Despite this, she feels like he's hiding some parts of himself as if he's full of secrets waiting to be revealed. She also believes Killian understands her and her situation. But does he really, or is she just hoping he does so she won't feel so alone?
"Killian," Liam shakes his head in exasperation, but a small smile forms on the corner of his mouth. The doctor, she believes, now understands why her brother included this little interlude.
Killian starts with the red coat's pocket, which is at the bottom of the pile. She's enthralled by his movements. She's not sure if it's the anticipation and hope or the man himself that makes her heart race, but she doesn't dwell on it for long.
When Killian finds nothing in her coat, he looks into her jeans, but all he finds is damp tissue paper.
Then she notices how strangely he's holding his left hand. She realizes why as she examines the limb in question more closely.
He wears a prosthetic.
"It was worth a shot," he says, raising his head. She quickly moves her eyes away from his hand. His gaze is drawn to Liam first, then back to her.
Her stomach twitches, but she's not sure whether it's from disappointment or Killian's intense look. "You need a name. What about Swan?"
"Killian!" Liam warns, but Killian is unconcerned, a teasing half-smile nestled in the corner of his mouth.
"What? If there are names like Raven or Robin, why can't she be Swan?" He inquires, his tone unassuming.
Liam's eyes flash a cautionary warning.
"Then it could be Red Riding Hood," Killian responds, his face dark yet seductive. It's an expression that implies both danger and pleasure. "Because of the coat, of course" he adds after a moment, his smile turning wolfish.
Wolf. If he wanted to taste her, it might not be such a bad thing-
No! It's absurd to think about something like this in her current state, and she blushes once more.
"Swan is good," she says abruptly, mostly to refocus her mind. She likes the name's lost, delicate tone, and it fits her perfectly in a sarcastic sense. Or so she thinks.
"Really?" Killian's eyes widen slightly.
She revels in the fact that she managed to surprise him, her soul tingling with satisfaction. "I don't mind a little dry humor."
"Be careful, because you might grow to like me," he winks.
"My memories will return sooner than that," she adds mockingly, despite knowing the man is correct. Actually, she already likes him, but she's not going to tell him that.
"Well, Swan," Killian nods, "despite what you say, I think I quite fancy you."
lethologica
(n.) when you think of something but the word for it escapes you