A song in the dark
Smoke. Smell of smoke, but not of fire or blaze, rather a kind of herbs burned. Pleasant, maybe. weird, but not unknown.
A sound. A voice? a dream? And then the pain. Pain that is not feeling, but it's there and presses against the senses, like a tidal wave, barely restrained by a rickety dam.
In the whirl of a chaotic welter of confused feelings, Daryun attempted to raise one hand to his aching forehead, but he couldn't.
He insisted, because it was not like him to give up, and barely realized had dragged his naked arm on something that was not the cold, bare earth he expected.
What? a piece of cloth? the fur of a blanket?
Where the hell was he? Where were his men? Where was Shabrang, his trusty steed?
Heart began beating heavily in his chest. Blood warmed veins and opened a chink in the delirium that darkened his mind.
Qbad. What had happened to Qbad?
Daryun opened his eyes. Dark. It was surrounded by darkness, or had he lost the sight?
This thought worried him and again he attempted to rise one hand to his face, but this time someone held him back.
In sensing the grip on his wrist, Daryun snapped instinctively. All his muscles tensed in the effort to fight back, but the only thing that he got was to blow up the pain in every fiber of his body. The only light he saw was the red-hot lightning that flashed through the skull.
He stifled a groan through clenched teeth, and falls back.
He attempted to get up, but the hand that he had sensed on the wrist was pressing now on his breast, fresh on the burning skin, and held him down.
Unknown fingers grazed his sweaty forehead, from one temple to slowly slide on cheek, the gesture, it seemed, of someone who wished to reassure him.
Only then, Daryun heard the sound of the softly sing of a warm and kind voice.
A woman's voice singing a song without words, or at least no words that he could recognize.
What language was that? And who the hell was that woman?
Daryun forced himself to reopen his eyes. There was a glimmer now, as it were lit an oil lamp in the mist veiling his view and did not allow him to distinguish anything more than a vague figure bend on him.
In vain Daryun tried to focus the figure, now moved aside keeping firm one hand on his chest, to prevent him from trying to get up again. Confusedly, it seemed to him to notice something strange, as if the woman was wearing one headgear elongated upwards, in an unnatural shape. Something shone on it, maybe a row of gold jewelry, or other, giving the impression that a small flame ascended straight like a thin snake.
However features of the unknown's face remained unreadable to his confused eyes. Daryun only noticed, or thought to notice, that they were not the features of a Turk woman, or in any case of the eastern lands.
His military training, programmed to take notes on the fly of all things useful to control the situation, was no more helpful for him.
In any case, he was not absolutely able to control nothing.
At least not yet.
Daryun attempted to speak. He would want to ask who she was, what was of his soldiers, where he was, but voice refused to go out from his parched throat.
She seemed to have understood that he wanted to say something and bent again on him looking at his countenance, as if expecting to hear his words.
Or so Daryun thought, until he noticed the small burner essences, smoking of the odorous substance already known, that the stranger woman was approaching to his face, always softly singing her mysterious lullaby.
She wanted to stun him, not hear what he was trying to tell her!
Daryun tried to pull away from her. He had no intention of being again put out of game, but, weak as he was, she held him back with ease.
She smiled, or so thought Daryun before the darkness swallowed him again. A benevolent or malevolent smile, however he could not distinguish it, always that a smile there had been.
Slowly, Daryun felt the pain withdraws from his body, pushed back from that same drug that also faded his conscience. Stubborn, he tried to rebel, and held out the muscles that instead wanted to relax.
A stab of throbbing pain was the only reward to his stubborn attempt. Anyway he wanted to remain alert. He wanted to know where he was, and especially what had happened to Qbad and to their soldiers and even to his horse; and, moreover, also where were finished its clothing and armor, not mentioning his sword.
He had wish to curse, but he had no voice.
Furious with himself and his weakness, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers on the one thing he did not know to be cloth or whatever.
He could not let himself win, he must inform Kishward about the trap in which they had been attracted, and, above all, he must warn his Majesty Arslan of the enemy that threatened him and his own kingdom, so painstakingly regained.
Narsus. He had to inform Narsus.
Had to ... he had to do too much. He could not allow to that woman to reduced him to impotence.
But he could not help it. Despite all his strength, in him every spark of consciousness was slowly being faded.
In a semi-final spark of lucidity, he thought to hear a vague amazed note, almost disgruntled, in the lullaby sung by the unknown woman, as she was surprised and, at the same time, annoyed with his stubborn not wanting to let himself go.
He sensed then, as last thing, her fingers sliding on his forehead, his temple, cheek, neck, as she were drawing something.
Then everything became nothing.