Jamnae. (Clarity.) - Open
Aikhosh'tohr 'le draomn.
It barely made sense in Rihannsu, philosophical drivel, words without meaning, translated without it over long millennia apart from Thaessu. It was a joke on ch'Rihan, a phrase caught in less than an hour of time, forgetfulness. The Havrann never had it, imagination. He'd been to Vulcan, stood on it and felt time pass. Watched across deserts where stars never set, when night was a relative concept, bathed in perpetual light.
He'd asked, just once, to an aide who never left him, an unofficial guard, suspicious and silent. He asked him if he knew it, knew what it meant. It was too old, something shameful that the Rihann had carried away from that world while it burned. The aide didn't know it.
His mother had been quiet, kind and light of hand. She was delicate, perhaps ill, he'd never asked and she'd never made excuses. She'd scolded him on occasion, for tripping the forge lights, breaking dishes, and always she repeated it. Told him he had a memory long as twilight. He never made excuses, never bothered to tell her he didn't understand.
As he stared at the guards, through the low glow of predawn, he finally understood.
Everything in his skull was slanted, long and warped like light on the horizon. As he fell through it, walked on walls, he never knew it. Now he was vertical again, standing flat, and it felt wrong, made him nauseous, made him hyper aware of the slow drag of his vision, the light tug of vertigo and the sharp relief of bright light.
Ayel had stayed conscious as long as he could, through a day and a half, watching for betrayal, for signs of poisoning. He finally fell asleep against Nero's shoulder, half propped against the back wall of the cell. The weight of him, the warmth of him, was less of a comfort than it should have been. It was easier to feel stable when he was floating and grabbed on. Now...now it was like it had been. There was some terrible loss in that.
He felt ill, perfectly and imperceptibly, nothing would stay still everything swam and vibrated and it was all he could think about. It consumed him, trying not to vomit, trying to vomit, considering both too deeply as the sun rose and the light burnt at his eyes. It struck through his lids and he recalled nothing in the moment. It merely was.
He leaned his head back, balanced his skull against the solid rock and tried to remember that the ground and the wall did not move. They were not shifting, were not rolling beneath him. He would not fall. He reminded himself, repeated it as he sat there with his eyes closed and a horrible hollow sensation in the center of his gut.
Aikhosh'tohr 'le draomn.
Everything danced in his mind, glittered in pieces that made no sense in this harsh, waking light. He couldn't fit them together, couldn't force them into whole coherent pieces, but occasionally something jumped to mind. It felt familiar, this way of things, but now he couldn't seem to remember how to maneuver.
His face was wet and his gut hurt, twisted violently. The lethargy in his head snapped to irritation and he pushed himself away from the wall. Shifted and left Ayel leaning against the stone. A pang of regret fueled his anger and he forced himself up. The action was draining and he ran the span of his hand against his face as he braced the wall. His eyes were too slow and his stomach convulsed against nothing. He'd not had food yet today, it was too early, and the bitter bite of that drug lingered in his throat.
Nero rested his weight against the wall and repeated, into his hand, that it was not moving, he was not moving. There was some terrible loss in that, as well.
It barely made sense in Rihannsu, philosophical drivel, words without meaning, translated without it over long millennia apart from Thaessu. It was a joke on ch'Rihan, a phrase caught in less than an hour of time, forgetfulness. The Havrann never had it, imagination. He'd been to Vulcan, stood on it and felt time pass. Watched across deserts where stars never set, when night was a relative concept, bathed in perpetual light.
He'd asked, just once, to an aide who never left him, an unofficial guard, suspicious and silent. He asked him if he knew it, knew what it meant. It was too old, something shameful that the Rihann had carried away from that world while it burned. The aide didn't know it.
His mother had been quiet, kind and light of hand. She was delicate, perhaps ill, he'd never asked and she'd never made excuses. She'd scolded him on occasion, for tripping the forge lights, breaking dishes, and always she repeated it. Told him he had a memory long as twilight. He never made excuses, never bothered to tell her he didn't understand.
As he stared at the guards, through the low glow of predawn, he finally understood.
Everything in his skull was slanted, long and warped like light on the horizon. As he fell through it, walked on walls, he never knew it. Now he was vertical again, standing flat, and it felt wrong, made him nauseous, made him hyper aware of the slow drag of his vision, the light tug of vertigo and the sharp relief of bright light.
Ayel had stayed conscious as long as he could, through a day and a half, watching for betrayal, for signs of poisoning. He finally fell asleep against Nero's shoulder, half propped against the back wall of the cell. The weight of him, the warmth of him, was less of a comfort than it should have been. It was easier to feel stable when he was floating and grabbed on. Now...now it was like it had been. There was some terrible loss in that.
He felt ill, perfectly and imperceptibly, nothing would stay still everything swam and vibrated and it was all he could think about. It consumed him, trying not to vomit, trying to vomit, considering both too deeply as the sun rose and the light burnt at his eyes. It struck through his lids and he recalled nothing in the moment. It merely was.
He leaned his head back, balanced his skull against the solid rock and tried to remember that the ground and the wall did not move. They were not shifting, were not rolling beneath him. He would not fall. He reminded himself, repeated it as he sat there with his eyes closed and a horrible hollow sensation in the center of his gut.
Aikhosh'tohr 'le draomn.
Everything danced in his mind, glittered in pieces that made no sense in this harsh, waking light. He couldn't fit them together, couldn't force them into whole coherent pieces, but occasionally something jumped to mind. It felt familiar, this way of things, but now he couldn't seem to remember how to maneuver.
His face was wet and his gut hurt, twisted violently. The lethargy in his head snapped to irritation and he pushed himself away from the wall. Shifted and left Ayel leaning against the stone. A pang of regret fueled his anger and he forced himself up. The action was draining and he ran the span of his hand against his face as he braced the wall. His eyes were too slow and his stomach convulsed against nothing. He'd not had food yet today, it was too early, and the bitter bite of that drug lingered in his throat.
Nero rested his weight against the wall and repeated, into his hand, that it was not moving, he was not moving. There was some terrible loss in that, as well.