The next thing he knew the light was different. Brighter, paler. There was still a fire; he could hear it crackling gently very close by, could feel the heat of it on his face. There were other voices, too—children’s voices—in addition to the singer from before, though they were not singing now, only talking quietly. When he opened his eyes—his eye, for only one would work still—he found everything a little clearer. His head still hurt, but not as badly. He blinked slowly, looking toward the fire, and then to the figure sitting by it, slender and dark-haired. He was carving something, and though he had dark circles under his eyes he was smiling, small and soft, as he answered a question that one of the children had asked him. It sounded like there were two, but he couldn’t see them from where he lay.
“Look, Daeron,” one said suddenly, “he’s awake!”
The dark-haired figure—Daeron—looked up, smile vanishing. He set his carving aside and came to kneel by the makeshift bed. “Good morning,” he said, speaking quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts,” he whispered, and winced at the hoarse wreck that was his voice.
“I imagine so. You were very badly hurt.”
“Where…am I?”
“Ossiriand.” Daeron paused, as though waiting for a reaction, but he had none. The name was familiar, but he did not know where it was, or where he had come from. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I…” He had an impression of—screams, blood, falling stones. Something hard striking him—or many things. Someone snarling something into his ear, though he couldn’t remember the words. Cold. None of it meant anything. “I don’t…who—who are…?”
“My name is Daeron.” Daeron paused, again as though waiting for a response. A faint frown creased his brow, and he asked, “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Daeron,” he whispered, searching his face. “Should it?”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him, Daeron,” said one of the children.
“I don’t,” Daeron replied without looking away, “but my name was once widely known. Can you tell me your name?” he asked then.
He opened his mouth to answer, but found no answer waiting on his tongue. He closed his mouth again, and tried to think. He had a name—he had to have a name, everyone had a name. But when he tried to think of it he found that he could remember nothing—not who he was, not where he had come from, nothing of a childhood or parents or family, nor friends nor—
gummygunk
areudirty
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
izzy806
