Marcus's vision swam in and out of focus, his consciousness returning slowly. His body felt heavy, leaden, as if bound to the surface beneath him. He blinked, groggy, trying to force his eyes open fully, but the light above him was blinding—too bright and harsh like the midday sun, yet cooler and unnatural. He turned his head and caught glimpses of his surroundings: smooth, polished surfaces unlike any wood or stone he'd ever seen, walls that seemed to glow with a faint light, devoid of torches or windows.
His heart quickened in his chest as panic began to rise. This wasn't any place he knew—there were no familiar smells of earth and salt from Harve, nor the distant sounds of bustling people from Vernworth. Instead, a strange humming sound, low and constant, thrummed like something alive within the walls.
His breath hitched as he tried to sit up, his muscles protesting with sharp pains. He gasped, tugging at the strange cords and tubes attached to his skin—thin, translucent things stretching from strange, glass-like devices. He thrashed, panic overtaking reason, yanking harder until a metallic click sounded beside him, and the door to the room slid open.
Two figures entered, tall and graceful, and despite their strange clothes both bore a heavy presence. Their eyes gleamed unnaturally bright, and from their backs, wings—black, not unlike a griffin's, but more than two—sat neatly folded behind them. Marcus froze at the sight, his heart pounding.
The taller of the two stepped forward. His twelve wings were darker than the night sky, and although his face wore a smile, it bore a mask of calm authority. He spoke, but the words were foreign, in a language Marcus couldn't comprehend. His heart sank; he was truly in an alien place.
The second figure, smaller and with only eight wings, held a strange, shimmering object that resembled a stone tablet, though it appeared to be made of metal. The figure's eyes were sharp and focused, exuding curiosity. He approached cautiously, speaking in the same strange tongue, his voice quiet and measured. Marcus couldn't understand a word.
"Stay back!" he managed, his voice hoarse and raw. He attempted to summon his bow, but could only muster a few sparks. His stamina and magic were spent, and surrounded by unknown beings, he felt powerless.
The twelve-winged figure spoke again, his voice low. Although the words held no meaning, there was a calmness to them, as if he were trying to ease Marcus's panic. He held up his hands in a gesture that might have been meant to reassure him, but Marcus was too disoriented to feel anything but fear.
"What do you want?" Marcus croaked, his throat dry. He glanced around the room, searching for something familiar. Everything felt too clean, too smooth, the air itself sterile and unnatural. Strange devices adorned the walls, symbols blinking on flat surfaces that resembled glowing parchment but bore no ink. Nothing here was familiar—neither the materials, nor the smells, nor the strange hum that emanated from everywhere at once.
His mind raced, trying to piece together where he could possibly be. He had been atop the Brine-Dragon, pierced by the tentacles of the Brine, and then… darkness. He remembered dying—at least he thought he had. His life had flashed before his eyes as his body gave out one last time. And yet, here he was, very much alive.
The eight-winged figure—his face softer and more curious—held the strange tablet-like object in one hand while gesturing with the other. He pointed at his mouth, then at Marcus, and spoke a word. The meaning was lost on Marcus, but he understood the intent. They were trying to communicate.
Frustrated, Marcus shook his aching head. "I don't understand you!" he spat, his voice rising in irritation. "I don't—"
The being blinked, tilting his head slightly. He repeated a word, then another, slowly, almost mimicking Marcus's own cadence, but it was no use. Marcus could not decipher any meaning.
The taller figure—the twelve-winged one—stepped closer, his hands remaining visible, open, unthreatening. His face showed no hostility, instead reflecting someone trying to calm a cornered animal. He gestured toward Marcus, pointing at the strange tubes still attached to his arm and the wounds that dotted his body, as if trying to indicate that he was being healed.
Marcus's eyes darted to the tubes and back. He wanted to rip them off and escape, but where would he go? He was weak, barely able to stand, and this place… he had no idea where he was or how to navigate it. Even the door had opened on its own, without hinges or a handle.
The eight-winged one began speaking again, this time tapping on the strange tablet. Each tap formed new symbols on the surface while he drew patterns in the air with his finger, as if trying to connect the strange shapes to something Marcus might recognize. The symbols meant nothing to him—they weren't runes or glyphs or anything remotely familiar.
Frustration welled up in Marcus. "What do you want?" he growled, his voice rough. He pointed at the two beings. "Who are you?"
They didn't answer. Instead, the eight-winged one exchanged a glance with the other, something unspoken passing between them.
Suddenly, the eight-winged one stepped back, raising his hand as if asking Marcus to be patient. He began speaking again, slower and more deliberate, repeating phrases and sometimes pointing at objects around the room, as though he were trying to teach a child how to speak. Marcus inhaled deeply, centering himself; yelling was getting him nowhere. He exhaled and began naming the objects the winged one was pointing at.
The being smiled as he cooperated and soon pointed at himself. "Cyran," he said in his strange tongue. "Cyran," Marcus repeated, then pointed to himself. "Marcus." Cyran's eyes lit up with excitement as he repeated, "Marcus!" He pointed to the taller figure beside him, who remained composed, a hint of amusement flickering in his bright gaze. "Azazel"
"Azazel," Marcus echoed, struggling to imitate the complex sounds. A wave of relief washed over him; at least he had names now. A cough tore its way out of his parched throat. "Water," Marcus rasped, miming drinking from a cup. As he calmed down and the adrenaline left him, he felt as though his throat were sandpaper.
Cyran's expression shifted to concern, and he nodded vigorously, glancing at Azazel. The taller being responded with a series of low tones that resonated through the air, the words almost soothing despite their alien quality.
Soon, another winged being entered the room—this one appeared to be female and had only two wings. She carried a jug that Marcus hoped contained water, along with some food. She set the jug beside him, poured a glass, and handed it to him.
"Water," Marcus said cautiously as he looked at the liquid; it was clear and odorless.
"Water," Cyran repeated.
Assured, Marcus raised it to his lips. As he drank, cool, refreshing liquid flooded his mouth, soothing his parched throat. He gulped it down greedily, almost losing himself in the sensation.
Marcus took a moment to savor the water, the coolness easing his dry throat. He looked up, only to find Cyran and Azazel watching him intently, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. The brief calmness faded as the weight of exhaustion settled heavily on his shoulders.
"Thank you," he managed.
Cyran clapped his hands together, nodding enthusiastically, and then gestured toward Marcus. He mimed lying down, his head resting on an imaginary pillow, eyes fluttering closed. "Rest," he mouthed exaggeratedly.
Marcus blinked in surprise, the meaning of the word obvious to him. Rest? After everything that had happened? The thought of drifting into slumber felt absurd. How could he relax when he was surrounded by unknown beings in an unfamiliar place? He needed to know more, to piece together the fragments of his memory from his final battle and understand why he was here.
Yet, his body throbbed with fatigue, his limbs felt leaden, and the soothing hum of the room seemed to wrap around him like a warm blanket, he couldn't deny the weariness creeping into his bones. It gnawed at him, insisting that he let go, if only for a moment.
Cyran's eyes widened as he noticed Marcus's internal struggle. He mimed again, pretending to yawn, then clasped his hands together, resting his head on them as if succumbing to sleep. "Rest," he repeated softly, his voice gentle as if trying to reassure Marcus that it was safe to let go.
The temptation tugged at Marcus harder now. He stared at Cyran, then at Azazel, who remained silent but observant. Perhaps a moment of rest wouldn't be entirely wasted, his exhausted mind whispered to him; perhaps it would offer clarity and strength when he woke.
"Just for a bit," Marcus finally relented, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with reluctant acceptance. "Just a moment."
With a deep breath, he lay back against the cool, soft surface beneath him. The reality of his situation still loomed, but as the gentle hum of the room enveloped him, Marcus let his eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the call of sleep.
A/N:
Writing a scene where characters can't understand each other is challenging.