Shackles of Delirium
There is little to say since the title is self-explanatory. When one is possessed by a bout of delirium, one hardly knows what he or she is doing, usually with unforeseen consequences.
Laughing madly to herself, she stumbled through the trees, occasionally swerving just in time to stop herself from colliding into an outstretched branch.
The heavens had opened on the night of her father's death, sending a continuous thunderstorm that lasted till now, nearly dawn. She had stayed in the rain for approximately six hours now, wandering aimlessly through the grass and trees, sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling.
The cream and black robe was thoroughly soaked, and had turned nearly transparent. The wet satin stuck to her skin like a protective layer, dripping beads in rainwater in continuous streams. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and her breath came out laboured and shallow. She was sore all over from the assault of the sharp raindrops and the merciless wind, both of which seemed to cut deeply into her flesh, lacerate her heart and rendered her bloody and helpless.
But to her, everything was a blessing from heaven. The heavens had sent the lightning and thunder to welcome her father through the doors of heaven, and the heavy downpour signified the cleansing of all the footprints he had treaded on Magvel. As such, the thunderstorm was something to rejoice, and she should stay out for as long as possible in order to send her father off.
Father…She swung her shamshir recklessly, slicing off the scion of a tree, dodging just in time to avoid being hit by the falling section. Father…Are you happy up there with Mother?
She tripped over a jutting root on the ground, camouflaged by the darkness, and stumbled.
When her father had been alive and well, she had never seemed to care much about him. As the daughter of an avid gambler, her duty to her father was to pay his gambling debts and place food on the table every time he happened to lose all his money and came home to whine about his losses. She had harboured little respect for him, and felt more anger, disgust and even perhaps a little hatred. Often, she had wished to be out of his grip, to have been born as someone else's daughter.
But now that he had died, he had left her forever and there was nothing left in her heart except regret and sorrow. It seemed as though the storm had washed all the nasty feelings she had harboured against her father and replaced it with desperate longing and fond memories.
Father…A line of tears ran down her cheek. Now she had so much to say to him, too much to apologise, but she would never have the opportunity again. Why did man never learn to treasure what they possess and only regret after what they once had slipped from their grip forever?
She sniffed and wiped her wet face with the back of her hand, then resumed her crazed laughter. Oh…but I am so alone now in this world…alone and single…without anybody around me to protect me anymore…no aim; no purpose; no intentions…
"Maybe I would wake up tomorrow and find all this is just a dream…" she mused silently, accidentally bumping her head into an overhanging tree branch. "Oww…" she rubbed her head forcefully, sitting on the ground, glaring at the offending tree branch. With a wave of her shamshir, she chopped off the shamshir with a swift stroke.
"Hmm…what was I thinking of before that?" she muttered to herself. "Oh! About how this was a dream…"
A dream…yes, this must be a dream…she mumbled. What a strange dream this is…She looked around. Where am I? How did I get here? What happened? She stared around confusedly. Oh never mind, Papa will find me if I don't go home soon.
She traipsed in the rain a little further, kicking at the muddy puddles, until she saw a white brick wall blocking her path.
"Ohh…a wall…" She pointed at the long white-brick wall before her and giggled. She had wandered…how many hours was it now? "I wonder what's behind it…" Smoothly, she executed a perfect somersault and leapt atop the wall.
"A cherry tree?" She clapped her hands and smiled. She liked cherry tree. They were short but produced good solid wood. The flowers were small beautiful and fragrant. The fruits were delicious. I love cherry trees!
She jumped into the tree, landing neatly on a branch and looked around amongst the leaves eagerly. "Huh? No cherries?" she pouted. "No one grows cherries! All the cherry trees don't produce cherries anymore!"
Heavily, she sat down the branch. Papa would like this tree. It was big and sturdy, and it would be good for spying on people walking past below the tree. She sniggered at the thought. Spying? Hehe, I would eat the cherries and throw at the cherry pits at those ugly fat uncles with balding heads who waddle past! Her legs dangling in mid-air, she hummed a happy tune Mama had once taught her.
"A light?" Her eyes widened at the sight of a warm glowing orange light in a distance, coming from a building with graceful arched roofs. It looked like the kind of light that Papa liked to make in the fireplace, a welcoming, warm fire that she could sit in front of and warm her frozen hands. Mama liked to seat in a chair by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and mending one of Papa's old shirts. She wrinkled her nose as she thought of Papa's old shirts. They were so full of little tears and holes because other people's swords would tear the shirts here and there whenever they challenged Papa to a duel.
Papa always wins, she thought, a fierce pride burning in her chest.
The light looked so inviting…and her hands were a little cold…just a little…Maybe she could go and see what was there. Hee. If anyone sees me I shall dash out before they can even see my face.
Slowly, she crept down from the tree and tiptoed towards the source of the light. It came from a window. Silently, she peeped into the room. It was well furnished with heavy expensive-looking furniture. The couch was lined with satin spreads and covered by numerous downy cushions. The fireplace was burning brightly, just like what Papa used to make in their house.
Stealthily, she crept to the door and tested the doorknob. The door was unlocked! Eagerly, she tiptoed into the room, making a wet beeline for the fireplace. Kicking off her sodden boots, she dug her toes into the soft carpet and placed her hands in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth slowly creeping into her fingers.
I like this place…she thought cheerfully. Such a big house with such nice things…and nobody to live in either! I can go call Papa and Mama here to live with me in this big cozy house!
There was the sound of harried footsteps approaching the door.
Shocked, she stood up and bolted to the door. If she could dash out before the owners came back, she would not get caught since they would not see her face!
A tall man stepped into the room, wearing richly embroidered robes and a jeweled crown on his head. He had lovely long red hair that fell to his waist, and he held an exquisite sword in one hand.
He gasped when he saw her.
Oh no…she grimaced worriedly. He saw me, and I can't escape…what shall I do? He'll tell the others to come and get me. He'll ask his servants to beat me. She stood, frightened, twiddling her thumbs.
"Marisa?" The strange man walked towards her. "What…what happened to you?"
She jumped back frowning, away from this weird man wearing expensive stuff. How did he know her name? And who was he to ask her what happened? All she did was see a light and come in to warm herself a little! What was wrong with that? She pouted sullenly.
"Marisa?" The man walked closer towards her, a bewildered expression on his face,
She stared at the man, then turned away, resting her eyes fixedly on the door. If she could to the door while he was advancing…she made a mad dash for the door, for her escape to freedom.
Quick as a flash, he held out his arms and caught her before she could run away. She struggled, kicked, clawed, scratched, thrashed, but regardless of whatever violent action she used to scare him or wound him, he held on fast, shouting her name again and again and urging her to calm down.
Finally, she settled down, muttering glumly under her breath, hands behind her back, head hung low.
"Marisa? Tell me what happened?" The strange man demanded, gripping her arms tightly.
"How do you know my name?" she retorted resentfully. "Who are you?"
His eyes widened at her words. He had nice eyes, large and crimson, except that they were currently filled with alarm and disbelief.
"Marisa?" he frowned. "You…don't know who I am?"
"No!" She winced as his fingers dug painfully into her arms. "You're hurting me!"
He slackened his grip on her, but still wore the same expression. "Are you sure you don't remember who I am? Me? You're not playing a joke on me, are you? Marisa? Answer me!"
She was getting a little dizzy from his shaking as he demanded an answer. "No!" she replied morosely. "I have no idea who you are. Let go of me before I get my Papa to fight you!" If Papa was here, he'll beat this bad man and make him release me. Then he'll throw this bad man out of the house and we'll live here, Papa, Mama and I. The three of us can live happily ever over without this strange man.
"Marisa?" He shook his head in disbelief. "You really don't know who I am? Joshua? Your husband? The Prince of Jehanna? The one who spars with you? The one you share a room with? Marisa!"
"Go away!" she shrieked. "I don't know who you are." She pushed him away with all her strength and shrank back against the wall. She didn't have a husband. "Papa…" she bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. Papa always helps me out of these situations. Where's Papa?
The strange man seemed to become even more bewildered at her words. "Papa?" he repeated. "Your father?"
"Do you know him?" she asked eagerly. If this man knew Papa, she was saved! No one would touch her knowing Papa's reputation as a swordmaster!
"I know him…" The man enunciated slowly. "I won the hand of his daughter in a gamble three months…" He took a careful step towards her. "If you are his daughter, don't you remember being married, wedded to a prince?" He advanced towards her further. "Do you not remember the first night, when I asked you to call me darling?"
Her head was hurting. The tears spilled down her cheeks. She did not know what this man was talking about, what he was demanding…what was he talking about? Her head ached painfully. She must have hit her head on the branch a little harder than she thought. She placed a hand on her forehead gingerly and yelped. Her forehead was burning!
"Remember our first sparring match in the garden? I won because I caught you by the ankle…" The man was standing right before her, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "Do you remember Winchester and Amber, and how I taught you to ride?"
Ride? She knew how to ride? Her head throbbed painfully, as though trying to pull something out of the depths of her mind. Ride? Horses? There did seem to be a horse in her memory…where?
"Remember our first kiss?" He clasped her hands in his and held it above his heart. "Do you remember the cherry pie? Yes? How you dashed out after the kiss ended?"
"Please…" she whimpered. Her head hurt too much for her to bear. The room was getting hot, and she felt as though she was burning up in a furnace. "Please…stop…" Papa…help me…
He had not intention of following her wishes. "Do you remember last night? We shared a room and bed for the first time…"
Vague images of a red satin nightgown and a large bed tumbled in her mind, accompanied by a headache that seemed to split her skull into two with the pain.
"No…" Her vision clouded. Her head spun, and felt herself stagger. Instinctively, she grabbed hold of his arm for support. She could not remember…what were those things? She could not, did not remember…
Papa. She called desperately in her mind. Mama.
Her world was swamped by blackness.
She was running.
She ran and ran and ran, not caring to stop and find out where she was going. Pure instinct told her to carry on running until either something or someone stopped her, or till she dropped dead from over-exhaustion.
Her surroundings were strange. There was nothing, not even solid ground at her feet, except for a pure pristine whiteness. Everything, as far as her eyes could see, was white like virgin snow. She could not even be sure that she was in fact moving forward as she ran.
Was she running on the spot? Shrugging, she dismissed the query. Even if she was jogging on the spot, she still needed to run. Something instructed her to run, and she was sure of the existence of that command. Who and what that something was…she could not be sure.
Marisa…
The voice resounded vaguely through the atmosphere (if there even was one). She shook her head and persisted her running, as though the voice was a figment of her imagination.
Marisa…
The voice was more solid this time, and it was louder. Just as she had done before, she dismissed the voice. One started hearing things pretty often while one was fatigued from running.
"Marisa…" A figure materialized in front of her, blocking her path (assuming that she was moving).
She paused, shrugged and resumed running.
"Marisa." The figure held out a hand, stopping her.
"Father, take your hand away," she said crossly, panting for air. "I need to run."
Her father laughed good-naturedly. "My dear child, and where are you running to so anxiously?"
She hesitated, at a loss for words. Where was she running to again? Oh right, it didn't matter; her aim was to keep running. "Father, it doesn't matter," she snapped testily. "I just need to." She tired to run around him, but no matter how she tried to maneuver, he always stood directly before her, solidly obstructing her path.
"Marisa, my child," her father said gently. "What do you see?"
She narrowed her eyes. First her father appeared from nowhere and steadfastly implanted himself smack in her path, now he posed bizarre abstruse philosophical questions to her? "White, lots and lots of white," she answered impatiently. "Now may I go on father?"
Her father laughed again. "What do you see, child?" he smiled gently. "Look carefully, Marisa. What do you see?"
She replied without even glancing around. "White, father. We're surrounded by white. Only white."
Her father shook his head. "You aren't looking carefully enough. Try again."
Annoyed, she followed her father's instructions and took a brief overview of the surroundings. Strangely, everything had changed. It was no longer white, but a deep grayish colour, like the clouds before a thunderstorm.
"It's grey…" she frowned. How did the surroundings change colour without her even noticing?
"Good," her father nodded. "Continue looking."
"It's still grey," she replied with a hint of boredom in her voice.
"Look harder, Marisa," her father said sternly. "I won't let you pass until you see what colour it is."
She stared resignedly at her surroundings. It was still steel grey, with a blackish tinge to it. "It's still grey," she repeated, sighing. "This is a waste of time, father. Why can't-Oh…"
The grey colours swirled before her very eyes, spinning as though they were in a vortex. Shades of grey began to differentiate themselves: the dark greys were suspended at the bottom beneath her feet, the steel greys floated at the top, and the lightest greys bordering along white were hovering at the top.
The colours continued to polarize, the top getting lighter, the bottom getting darker, until the top looked like the former pristine virgin white that had once constituted the surroundings, while the bottom was jet black, almost like a bottomless pit waiting for her to drop down and suck her in.
She frowned in bewilderment. "Father?" She did not comprehend this shifting of colours.
"Keep watching, child." Her father commanded. "Focus. Concentrate. Search for the colours."
The greys began shifting again, separating amongst their individual shades. Spots of colour gradually seemed to emerge from the depth of the grey, spinning and swirling incessantly as they became larger and larger. "I see…" she stared. "I see red, like the colour of blood…and brown! Like the chocolate cakes Mother used to bake! And pink, magenta in fact…the colour of your hair and mine…And…"
"Okay," her father interrupted her. "Empty your mind, Marisa. Open yourself. Open your heart. Open her mind. Close your eyes and take five deep breaths. Pull yourself together. Focus! Focus!"
The various hues seemed to respond to her actions. They reintegrated into grey, lumpy patches of grey of the dullest shades. Breathe…she told herself mentally as she closed her eyes. Focus on emptying your mind, open your mind, open your heart…
She re-opened her eyes, just in time to see the colours mixing again to form different shades. She felt as though she was trapped in an iridescent bubble, looking at the colours reflecting off its surface. She reached out hesitantly to touch the surface of the bubble, only to find that there was nothing.
"I see…" she scrutinized the colours carefully. "Light brown…what? Light brown curls…Saleh?" The colours seemed to have heard her calling, and now the brown flowed across the top and positioned itself adjacent to the beige. "Brown and beige…twin spots of deep brown…" She knitted her brows in concentration. "Father? Is that Saleh?"
"Is it?" her father answered equivocally. "You tell me." He sounded triumphant.
The brown hair certainly matched, and the beige was almost definitely Saleh's skin tone…the bright brown eyes… "It is!" She exclaimed. "Saleh!"
Her father nodded. "Can you see anymore?"
She hardly waited for her father to finish. "That one there, with the sandy tuft and the tan…that's Gerik! And Tethys beside, with the red hair and pale complexion…is that red fluffball Ewan?" she giggled.
The reds continued flowing, becoming a long crimson waterfall. The beige and brown mixed together, forming dark beige, like the colour of a lightly tanned complexion. Two drops of red separated from the tips of the waterfall and journeyed to the centre of the viscous beige colour, forming two almond shaped drops of colour.
"Is that…" Joshua.
"Your heart shall tell you that, Marisa," her father smiled knowingly.
"Joshua…" She stared fixedly as the colours swerved till they formed an exact likeness of him. The same eyes, the same hair, the same nose…Her surroundings had changed drastically. She was no longer in a white vacant space by herself. Instead, a lush carpet appeared at her feet, and furniture formed from nothing. She watched as Joshua sat himself on the couch and exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. His face was a constricted mask of regret and depression. He looked haggard, almost like Saleh when he came to visit the previous times. His eyes were filled with sorrow and worry.
Instinctively, she reached out her hand to comfort him, but found that her hand passed through him as though he was empty air. "What?" She backed away in shock and turned to her father. "Why?"
Her father smiled and nodded gravely. "Marisa, you yourself should know best. Only you can help yourself."
"Father…what do you see?" She asked, confused.
"I?" Her father grinned. "I see what I am supposed to see. White and more white, and your mother waiting for me."
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "Father…" She bit her lower lip, eyes beginning to fill up with tears.
"The world doesn't stop revolving, child," her father explained. "You have still much to do. You still have much to accomplish."
"I understand father," she nodded swiftly. "Thank you."
"Return to where you belong Marisa," her father smiled benignly. "You won't regret it…"
She nodded again. She knew exactly what to do. Enough voyaging, Marisa. Time to return to where you belong. "Farewell…" she whispered. "Papa…I love you…"
As she felt a strong force pull her into a spinning whirlpool of air, she heard the words, softly but clearly.
"I love you too, child."
The first sense of awareness was warmth. She was covered by a warm material, and she was blanketed by a even warmer material. Momentarily, she speculated whether she was lying in middle of the Jehannan desert during midday wrapped in a thick blanket of down.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. She recognized the room, she remembered the bed, and she recalled what happened. Groaning, she attempted to move her fingers and toes, but they were stiff and awkward.
Damn, she cursed mentally. Now I have immobility problems…
Groaning, she wriggled her legs and body. Good, they are finally moving. Time to get back into action, lazy bones. Shifting uncomfortably, she moved one arm and then the other, propping herself up with much difficulty.
"Marisa?" Joshua lifted his head from where he had sleeping in a chair beside the bed. "Marisa! You're awake!
"Joshua…" she said in a small voice, attempting to sit up.
"You know who I am? Grea-No, don't move!" He tucked her back beneath the suffocating pile of blankets. "I'll go call Mother and Natasha."
"No," she croaked, holding out a hand. "I'm fine." She struggled to sit up again, stubbornly propping herself up on one hand.
Joshua rushed to support her. "Stay here, Marisa, I'll be back after I tell the rest the good news."
"No!" she protested weakly. "What time is it?"
He took out an antique silver pocket watch. "Two in the morning."
She sighed and leant against the soft pillows. "Don't trouble them. I'll be fine in a while."
"No you won't," Joshua replied. "I'm going to call them."
"If you call them I shall get out of bed," she threatened, even though her voice was hoarse.
He paused, as though weighing the two options. Finally, he gave in. "Must you be so difficult even when you're ill?" he sighed, sitting beside her bedside. He ran a hand through her hair. "You stupid girl…running through the rain like that…Do you know how worried we were? Mother worried herself sick for you."
"My father died…" she hung her head.
Silently, he put his arms around her in a tight embrace. "I heard. You silly girl. Would your late father have been happy to see you putting yourself in such danger? He would have been even more distraught to see you in this state," he whispered, stroking her hair. "We were all worried that the fever would persist."
"How long was I out?" she asked.
"Two weeks," he sighed heavily. "All of us have been doing everything in a constant state of fear and worry for the past two weeks, dropping in as often as we can to check on your health. Marisa…you worried me sick."
She disentangled herself and took a close look at his face. He did indeed look like the picture that had appeared while she was unconscious. Black eye bags featured prominently on his face, evidence of his lack of sleep. "Were you waiting beside me every night?" she asked softly.
He nodded, then pulled her into his embrace again. "Don't you do anything that foolish again. I think I'll just die of worry if something like that happens again."
"I'm sorry…" she apologized in a small voice, leaning her head against his chest.
"Do you want some porridge?" He asked suddenly. "You must be hungry. I'll get you some from the kitchen."
She suddenly released how hungry she was. Her stomach growled loudly. She must have been living off sheer healing by staves since the night she fell ill with fever.
He laughed as he exited the room. He returned in less than two minutes, carrying a porcelain bowl filled with white porridge and a silver spoon.
He sat beside her, holding the bowl carefully in one hand. Scooping a spoonful of porridge, he blew gently on the steaming porridge. "Careful, it's hot," he said gently as he offered the porridge to her lips.
She opened her lips gratefully and let the porridge slide down her throat. It was hot, but not burning, thanks to his hardworking blowing. She tasted cinnamon and a variety of other mild spices.
"Is it nice?" he asked anxiously, another spoonful in hand.
She nodded. It tasted different from what the royal cooks produced. "Did you cook it yourself?"
"I've cooking porridge every night since you fell ill," he confessed, sounding slightly embarrassed. "In case you wake up in the middle of the night and feel hungry."
Subtle warmth poured into her heart and flooded her veins. A faint blush rose to her cheeks as his words sank in. She chewed on her lower lip nervously.
"More porridge?" He suggested, lifting another spoonful. His cheeks, too, had turned slightly pink.
She opened her mouth obediently, looking at him. "Thank you."
He smiled warmly. "You don't have to thank me, Marisa. We're husband and wife, after all." He blew gently on the porridge. "I am just happy that you are safe and sound and you remember who I am."
She swallowed another mouthful. Her heart leapt at his words.
Her father was right…she hardly regretted returning.
Author's Note:
Okay, no politics this chapter. There will be in the next few. Gosh, I'm uber tired out.