Dreams And Visions

SAELYNA

The first arrow misses the mark. I draw another and fire. It misses as well, and I kick the bow in frustration. 

Cyran is doing fine. He's the best at what he does. He nocks the arrow deftly, raises it up to eye level and aims. When he lets it go, it travels twice as fast as mine does, and strikes the red dot on the tree. 'The easiest thing in the world', he says when he sees me watching, 'I wonder why this isn't a sport in Quindar'. I stick my tongue out at him and draw another arrow from the stack on the ground. I try to imitate his adroitness, his stance, but it's hopeless. The arrow misses the red dot and the tree entirely. I curse loudly and toss the bow to the ground. 'Easy now, lest you vex Archon'. 

Dad emerges from the cottage behind me, his own bow in hand. He is a tall man, too tall for an elf, and he sports a green coat that matches his eyes. 

He walks down the steps and approaches me, picks up an arrow and nocks it in his bow. 'The key to being a perfect archer, is nothing but patience', he says calmly, 'The utmost of it'. He raises it to eye level like he taught us and he takes aim. 'You're one with the arrow. When you become the arrow, you fly towards your target…' He lets go of the string, and the arrow hits the mark. 'All you need is patience. And practice', he says, smiling down at me. That warm, reassuring smile that tells me everything will be fine. 

I pick an arrow, nock and draw. Be one with the arrow. I close my ears and hold my breath, tilt my elbow downwards and imagine myself flying through the air. I open my eyes, then I release my fingers, l let myself fly with the arrow. It hits the mark head on this time. I squeal with delight and my father swoops me up in his arms. 'See? Told you it was easy', Cyran says, walking over to pat my arm. 'Indeed it is, Cyran', father says and kisses us both on our heads. 'Come along now. Your mother just made duck stew. Personally, I'm famished from working on the farm. I'd like a bite of one of her dishes', he says. 'Last one in is a duck!' Cyran calls and dashes inside. I run after him laughing loudly, father chuckling behind me. 

Mother is not at the dining room as she usually is. She's outside, standing quietly in front of the open door, staring off into the woods. Her ear twitches once or twice. When she turns around, there is a foreign expression on her face, that I now recognize as worry. She smiles weakly at us, but exchanges a glance with father. 'Stay here', he tells us, his face assuming that hunting glare. He walks out the door, coat swishing behind him, dagger in hand.

I yell for him to come back, that there was an ambush out there, that it was the last time I would see him alive. I cry for him, I run after him. Then everything dissolves into a void….

And I snap awake on a bed in the middle of a large hall. At first, I think I'm back at Halden, in old Ingrid's hospice, but I see a young girl with claws walk past me in white clothing and memories flood in so quickly that I hiss with pain at the headache that follows in sync with my heart. 

I drop one leg over one side of the bed, and that's when I notice Cyran sitting by me. He's deeply asleep, but he's not snoring, so I know he's been in my dreams. In my memories. 

I push his blonde hair out of his face, and he jerks, blinking widely as he wakens. 'Don't go, don't go…', he whispers, and pushes himself up to his feet. I watch him shake his head and run a hand over his face after he notices me awake. 'Hey', he mutters and sits next to me, 'How are you feeling?' I touch my neck, and my fingers come away with some sticky matter. 'Like wax', I mumble, pullings face and he chuckles. 'Veesa says it's tearin or something like that…' 'It's tarren, one of the oldest elvish medicines and one of the rarest there is'.

The woman who enters wears a black, long sleeveless gown that looks too big for her small frame. Her hands are lined with veins and her arms are quite muscular…too muscular for a lady, especially for someone as old as she looks.

She shuffles over to the bed and smiles at me. It's a kind one, unlike the lupine grin I had envisioned would be on wolvens' faces. I wonder if she is one of them. 'I'm Veesa, the woman in charge of keeping you alive. How are you feeling now, Saelyna?' I frown at her. 'I never told you my name', I point out. She's mixing something in the bowl, her fingers covered with something black and sticky. 'No, you didn't'. She fixes me with those dark eyes that seems to penetrate me, then she smiles again. 

'You look taller than when last I saw you. Which is inevitable, I reckon, but then, I didn't think you'd be this tall'. Beside me, Cyran stiffens, but I prod, 'Who are you?' 'I'm going to apply this salve on your head now. It'll help with the headache that's no doubt began since you are awake', she says, like I hadn't inquired about her identity, 'I'll need you to lie back, please'. 'Not until you tell me who you are', I say and fold my arms. She clicks her tongue like I'm some stubborn child that she has no idea what to do with. 'I will tell you, once you are well. It is my duty as a healer to ensure that my patients are in the best of health. Right now, you are not. I'll tell you what you need to know, but only after you are back in your feet'. 

I purse my lips, preparing to argue, but Cyran places a cool hand on mine. I look at him, and that's when I notice the shadows under his eyes up close, and the leanness of his cheeks. I don't know how long he's been here, but he has been, waiting for me to recover. And now, he's pleading that I make it easier for me, not for himself. 

I sigh and lie back on the bed, allowing Veesa rub in the salve gently. It smells like lemons and tree bark, like fresh leaves and something else I can't place. I feel my eyes flutter close, lulled to sleep by her kind fingers and the promise of better dreams.