It was a blood curtailing scream the brought the attention of the his caregivers. The rushed inside the quaint thatched hut, baring expressions of concern and curiosity at this loud guest. He made for quite an image, sitting upright on the carved bed, thick black locks rung around his head, sticking out from between extensive bandaging. His face was long and aquiline, his eyes not black but indeed such a pale gray one would think he was missing his iris. He tried to stand, but again bandaging made it obvious that his body was not capable of many physical activities right now. But the one part of his body left unbandaged was the part with the most extensive damage.
The guest sat in the bed, staring at his dilapidated hand and screaming.
It turn his caregivers a moment to wrestle him to the bed and clamp a strong hand over his mouth. He could hear their voices above him, some cursing in a strange tongue, others trying to speak him into calmness. A myriad of male and female voices called out above him, but his eyes were cloaked behind a cloud of mist. He could see their shapes, but faces were a blur.
“Tristan he keeps slipping back and forth. Isn’t their something you can do?” This voice soft, but old, …self assured.
“Not yet. He injuries are sever, he must have fallen from quite high. It is best to keep him sleeping until his body is used to it’s current state, from there we can heal him properly.” Male, defiantly male, strong, commanding. This man had to be in some leadership role.
“Bah! We need to get him moving now, before his muscles deteriorate.” Male again, much younger and arrogant in the way all young people are.
“Be silent Essus! Let the man sleep.” Female, proud, and strict.
Warm flesh pressed against his forehead and he felt a calm overtaking the pain and ache of his body. “Sleep now man. You bed amongst friends.” Suddenly his body felt exhausted. He stopped his insane thrashing and shivered, the straw stuffed mattress suddenly felt so inviting and comfortable. The sheets made from tanned animal hide were so warm he felt encased and protected. The air flooded with a sense of comfort and serenity, and he closed his eyes, falling into slumber.
Light pours forth on blinded eyes.
I face the truth of my demise.
Wind fluttered in through the open doorway, when he awoke next. He was calm this time, his head protesting against another outburst as he slowly sat up. It hurt like hell to make that movement, but his body forced him to test his muscles. He opened his eyes, and found vision from only one. He reach up gingerly and felt the wrappings around his head, covering off half his face. He groaned at the discovery and started to look around.
He was in a hut, a well made hut with stone going up for at least four feet then turning into closely tied wood and mud to hold the cold at bay. The roof was thatched, but sturdy and obviously a year or two old. The bed he had lay on was simple, but soft as goose down and sturdy. Well tended animal pelts had been draped over him and indeed a great deal of the home seemed taken up by some sort of animal remains or another. Something caught his eye, a pair of massive stag antlers, polished to near ivory, decked with bronze bangles, inlaid with amber and small emeralds.
“Beautiful piece of work isn’t it? Our smith Brigon made it many many years ago before his arm went off in battle. To this day people still praise it’s craftsmanship.” The injured man turned to see a tall, broad shouldered fellow just walking in the doorway. He cross between the bed and the post where the antlers hung and patted them fondly. “There is not another piece like this in all Erin, and that is not just pride speaking.” The man was well aware that he was being watched guardedly. Though his guest might not be aware that he showed it.
With near thirty or more summers behind him as the Chief Druid, Tristan was something of an expert at reading people. This fellow had lain injured and near deaths door for a good month now and yet he had given much of his character and nature away. He was a man with enemies, that was obvious by how he reacted to those trying to help him. He had shouted and cursed at them, calling foreign names as if they were the cause of his current state. It was possible that he was in a fever induced hallucination, but from the way he looked at Tristan, as if the druid a dog and he a cat, he doubted it.
“Where am I?” The pale, lanky stranger asked quickly, his voice sharp as a boar tusk. “How did I come to be here?”
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “You speak our language then? Very interesting.” Tristan coughed, the strangers accent was unusual, not one he personally had come across before, but he could recognize the Persian dialect with which the man had spoke in his pain induced fit. He could speak it well enough to convey a point. “You may talk in your native tongue if you wish friend. I’ll not hold it against you.”
“My native tongue?” He paused. Had he been speaking in a different language just now? He couldn’t remember being taught this strong, brash language. It sounded strange on his lips just now, but he had assumed he spoke it naturally. If he was not speaking in his own language, how did he know to speak in this one. He shook his head and went dizzy with pain. He sunk back to the pillows as a firm hand pressed against his temples.
“Are you telling me you remember nothing before now?” The man asked gently.
He tried hard, which only made his brain swim again. “I remember struggling… my hand slipping, and slamming against something hard…several times.” He said with an air of complaint as he looked down at his bruised and wrapped body.
“Do you remember a name? Any name at all?”
He squinted and shook his head. “Wait…I feel…something with an M…”
“Mael? Manann…Mandred…Midhir…” Tristan ran through some of the name he knew and the young man bit his lip.
Suddenly his sharp gray eyes flew open. “Mozenrath…I think my name is Mozenrath.”
The Lost Man by Lynn Osburn
Author's Notes:
Thjis is meant to be a three part series. The Lost Man is compleate and The Dark Man is currently being updated on ff.net.