“Alone, again?”
Covered in crimson snow to my left, a face of shock. What once was a man young enough to be my student, is now a stiff corpse forever clawing at the shard embedded in his throat. Extinguished, like the dozens of frozen and forgotten ones around us.
Aside from the white armband, he shared a uniform similar to me and the buddy to my right – whose expression of resignation hinted how his friendly warmth might’ve all bled away by now. The pain in my right leg worsened as the adrenaline wore off.
More drones whirred into the horizon, seeking other targets like us; the rest of my squad already booked it and left us for dead. I applied pressure to my leg wound and grabbed the pocket multitool knife from my vest. It was my father’s gift to me when I turned fourteen. It was also my present to my late husband back when I got licensed to teach, just before we were married.
My quivering blood-soaked hands struggled to find the blade among the myriad of tools on the device. I straightened my arm to slash the sleeve off between my yellow armband and the shoulder pocket where my blood type was written, sliding it off to begin improvising the sturdy fabric as a tourniquet over my right thigh to deal with the severe injury.
"That should do it," I said. "Mend and make do, as always."
My heart raced after the initial sight, but the blood stopped pouring as I tightened the tourniquet using a pink pen as the tensioning rod. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked, and I’d already used my Individual First Aid Kit’s gauze on my comrade prior; I often carried desk supplies with me. Once I secured my tourniquet in place with a paperclip and a cable tie, I checked my friend’s faint pulse.
An echo of artillery tolled in the distance, but my ringing ears can’t tell from which side. My old rifle worked better as a crutch to help me limp past the frozen bodies littering the ruined trench. I stood slowly, glaring at my friend who’s never been paler. We’ve barely slept in days. I moved the multitool's blade to his neck, carefully snapping off his identification tags before pocketing them.
“Fuck, I’m sorry I can’t carry you anymore – but I can go get someone to come back for you. Don’t you dare die on me, too.”
Shells began to sparsely land one after another, obliterating the barren fields behind me. I helped haul those two for too long. Fatigued, my unstable legs covered in iced-up blood dropped me to a crawl over the disgusting mush of decomposing cadavers, as the bombardment crept closer. Just a bit more and–
A shell landed right beside our command trench, exploding mere feet away from me. Muscles seized up. Tons of blasted dirt instantly shrouded the view ahead of me with soil. Frozen and heavy; all that solid mud piled over my tired body leaving no room for light, or air. I tried to move, but all I could muster was to squeeze the multitool in my hand which barely stuck out the dirt. The ringing in my ears hadn’t waned; my rapid pulse was deafening. Nonetheless, my body had finally given up, and so would I.
The scorching sensation in my suffocating chest intensified, reminiscent of the day a rocket strike destroyed my apartment – and my family, during the invasion’s first week. I’ve never felt so alone since that day, two and a half years ago.
I choked every time I saw the kids in my classes at the university, constant reminders of losing my own. Fuck it. So I chose to enlist. Though they wanted reservists, the recruiter gave me a pass after seeing the loss in my eyes. I begged my sister not to tell mom and dad that I’d join. Yet I bet they already knew I would, and that they couldn’t stop me.
Facing down with my head slightly lifted, I opened my eyes to nothingness. My lungs got ravenous, yet I must scream. This is it; I'm sorry, mother. I'm not coming home. Burning stiffness reverberated. A numbness slowly writhed through me. Seconds? Minutes? Eitherway, this war killed me an eternity ago and the void can’t take what’s no longer there. My racing mind ended with my failing grip on the beloved tool in my hand, sticking past the dirt. My sullen, weary eyes slowly eased themselves shut as I bade farewell to this sick world.
Darkness overwhelmed – yet a warm breeze crossed my cheeks. It kinda tickles.
Delusions of death? An odd brightness seared past my eyelids somehow. The caress of such gentle winds have always been rare to this region, let alone the season. I felt light, and the numbness wore off. Paradise, perhaps?
My eyes flashed open to a shimmering lake under a lavender sky, bordered by towering grass that glistened under a setting sun that crested over distant mountains. A faint beam shot across the sky. In my hands were the same bloodied multitool knife, and the two colorful beaded bracelets I made for my kids. Anton, and Anya. I stumbled to the lake's edge to wash the dirty tool. Behold, a rippled reflection of a freckled, dark-haired toddler with amber eyes. But the ears looked off – and the truth dawned on me as I slowly reached for mine. Who, and where the hell am I.
Trotting on my short legs to sit by the silty shore, I basked in its tranquility. From the vibrant sky to the warm winds, it’s all a far cry from the constant snow and frozen breaths I’m used to. I haven’t sat to watch the sun set in ages. Last I remember doing something like this was when we went camping as a family years ago. I can still smell the charred barbecue we had; my husband Viktor wasn’t the best cook, but I loved him as though he were.
“..Forlasita?!”
A stern voice ambushed me during my trance, causing me to drop the multitool into the water. I turned around to see a brawny woman with a dark red ponytail in an oddly tattered hand-stitched tanned leather outfit; the kind I’d only ever seen in my great grandparents’ closet. Before I could even reach into the lake for the tool, the woman grabbed me with both hands and hauled me away. She kept muttering foreign sentences in a reprimanding tone, probably because a toddler ventured out alone. But somehow I couldn’t get rid of the scent of meat – it only got stronger.
I discreetly took off the bracelets, and hid them in my small dress. The lady kept complaining in her peculiar language while occasionally giving me intense stares. Her short-sleeved garment of rough textiles with thick thread for cross stitching the hems and seams, didn’t reek as much as it looked like it would.
I’m cradled in her arms; a bed of scars, as countless marks riddle them where the sleeves can’t cover. A distinct scar also ran from her upper lip to her right ear, and her pupils are a shade of gray that gleams under the sun’s rays. There’s only one building nearby, a two-story wooden farmhouse with a thatched roof ahead of us. That ought to be where the growing fragrance of food is coming from.
The sun had now sunk behind the mountains, faintly glowing over that side of the horizon – and stars flickered on the opposing end, through the darker hues of the purple-indigo gradience. The thin glowing beam brightened, perhaps spanning east to west.
Creaking open, the front door slowly swung to unveil a lean and elegant warm-eyed man with faint silky blonde hair swept over a pair of pointed ears. He donned a faded green set of robes. His golden eyes sparkled, almost glowing. The woman spoke with him as she lowered me down to standing height, sounding a little exhausted from her own complaints. The man knelt and whispered something to me with a smile and patted my head to ruffle what little hair I have.
He noticed the traces of blood still on my hands from the tool, and he gave her a grim look while changing his tone to a concerned inquisitiveness. He scrutinized all over my body to investigate the source of the blood, only for nothing to be identified. I'm glad he didn't find the bracelets. He let me go and began mumbling some sort of chant, then soon enough his palms began to glow. I felt no change, and by the look of his face, he didn’t either. This fueled an argument between the two. This toddler has a ton in common with them both so I’m guessing this is my new family now. The aroma of some sort of stew filled the rustic lantern-lit wooden room.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
The tall man knelt forward and raised my stained palms to the lady. She gestured her hands up and shrugged, clearly just as baffled.
Their tone got louder. He stood up and pointed at her, accusatorily. Harsher, as she rolled her eyes away and pressed some fingertips to the side of her temple. This eased her stressed gaze.
The intensified bickering slowed to a pause as the man grew silent and crossed his arms in a sassy yet stern manner. She turned towards him to clap her hands together in front of her lips once. In silence, she then pointed the whole gesture towards him as she then explained something thoroughly. Down to each syllable.
Within this entire ordeal, only one word was repeated enough for me to grasp – and it was Forlasita; likely my new name since they’d gesture to me with it.
Going further, the burly woman raised her hand back for a slap as she growled. But instead of hitting him she reached for his cheek and caressed it, before pinching it as hard as she could while pulling him closer.
“Ahhh, ahh a-aah!” the towering, pointy-eared man grunted, playfully. A healthy relationship it seems.
Remembering the days when my husband and I would argue over the most minor things. Then came the days when I’d be routinely suspicious of him when he’d be out with his buddies as our children were asleep. I’d give an arm and a leg to go back to those times, hell take both my legs for that again. Their absence has been an ache I could never get used to. It didn’t take long for these strangers to notice my laughter; and they noticed before I did.
Too busy in my own mind to notice the expressions they gave each other, or the fact that they’d stopped arguing entirely. A moment passed before they knelt beside me, offering hugs so snug that I’m mentally grounded; almost to tears. They squeezed my small frail physique tighter while whispering words I’ve never heard before. They ran their fingers through my hair with utmost care.
Their skin on mine came with a kind of warmth and care I haven’t experienced in ages. Though the shock of losing my beloved husband and children all at once had dulled my ability to cry, my tears refused to stop. And I don’t want them to – at least not quite yet.
Their words sounded like how silk feels on skin, or how tea soothes the soul. I held them tenderly, and they embraced me tighter. Time didn’t matter to me – only the warmth of these strangers did. Reasonably, they eventually let me go and continued to pat my head with kind smiles as they cleaned me up.
It soon passed. That happy moment. They offered each other a kiss or two, before lifting me onto a tall chair by the timber dining table. The quality of the furnishings are questionable at best, and I had to be a bit cautious of splinters. But finally, food. Two bowls of watery porridge filled with cut up vegetables and some kind of steaming red meat. There were sides of poached eggs on rough bread, with two mugs of some sort of rough and flat alcoholic beverage.
The man lifted a spoon from the stew but the woman stopped him. “Arsalan!” she called out while extending her hand. He smiled and put the spoon down, reaching forward with his other hand to hold hers. She began reciting a prayer in the strange language for a bit. Arsalan, I’ve heard it at least twice before in an addressing way. It’s probably his name. He chowed dinner down once the prayer finished.
It’s going to feel odd calling either of them mom or dad out here, but we’ll see. I hope my parents back in the old country (or world for that matter) are doing fine. I doubt they’ll ever find my body. Still, I don’t know the striking woman’s name. After a short while of watching her lover heartily eat up, she turns her silvery eyes to me. Shit, I should act like the toddler I am to draw less suspicion.
“Awww, ‘Lasita!” she exclaims, scooting her seat closer across the aged plank flooring. She held up a spoonful of soup for me and gave it a gentle blow. I cooperated by adjusting myself accordingly to any rough usage of the spoon – but she’s been delicate so far. One warm, savory spoonful after another, I could tell how much care and dexterity she’s putting into this. Y’know, maybe I’ll try speaking.
“Mama!” I said, for my first utterance in this world.
Her eyebrows raised for a moment in some kind of confusion, with a slight tilt of the head. She continued to feed me as normally, while also taking bites out of her coarse bread. I repeated it. No attention. Maybe they just don’t use that here? I’ll try for the elf.
“Pa.. Papa.”
They both paused, with a half smile, expectantly. Their eyes met for a moment before looking back to me. The woman joyously pointed at herself and said “Panjo! Pan-jo!”
“..Panjo?” I responded. Is that her name?
The man gave a soft laugh, and the woman stood up in the biggest cheer. They exchanged a few comments, and she called him ‘Salan’ twice, perhaps omitting the ‘Ar’ at the start of his name. She then pointed at him. “Patshjo.. Pat-shh-jo!”
Perhaps her name isn’t Panjo, but it might be their equivalent of ‘mama’ here. Or is 'papa' the base for both parent words? Huh? That's absurd, you can't expect babies to differentiate stuff like 'panjo' and 'patsho', but whatever. I sure as hell know my kids couldn’t until they were aged 3 or 4. I’ll slow down and stumble a couple of times before getting this new ‘dad’ word right. “Pat, pat-jo.”
This went on for a bit longer. Even the elf seemed intrigued now. I took a somber moment to remember when my children said their first words; if their voices filled an ocean I could drown in, I’d dive and die countless times over. I miss Anya and Anton so much. Still, ecstatic would be an understatement to describe the brawny woman. I’ll surprise her again soon.
She tried to teach me other words, and I’d follow a little if she repeated the syllables enough times. After a while, I learned the words for mom, dad, eat, drink, say, you, me, yes, no, and a couple more – but I didn’t make it clear I got them. That’s how I tried to teach my kids, but if I learn suspiciously fast here I may cause trouble for myself. She paused in thought. The elf got up, yawned, and waved himself away.
She slowly pointed towards me, before going on to explain my name. “Forlasita, for-la-si-ta.”
I mumbled fo-fa-fi-ta over and over as minutes passed.
She laughed, gesturing to herself. “Kaaan-tax.”
“Kantax, huh?”
..!?
That was an accident. I spoke my mind out, as effortlessly as I’d thought it up. I also didn’t notice that I’d reactively covered my mouth like anyone who’d said something wrong would – anyone but a baby at least. Kantax gave me a look of shock. Her face had been flush red since earlier. She reached for her empty tankard; so that’s why.
Still in disbelief, she gave me a pat on the back and hoisted me over around the kitchen. Then up the creaking wood staircase. Walls of lightweight wooden construction between sturdy masonry pillars. Their bedroom upstairs is humble and dimly lit. One central window at the bedroom’s “front” was adorned with rough linen curtains and hinged shutters. A large thinly-padded fur bed, adjacent to a bedside table aligned under the window. A wooden bowl topped by a small knife sat on the table. Their room gave the scent of sandalwood.
Arsalan was sound asleep on the side of the bed away from the table. Strapped over the corner of the bed was an ornately engraved horn bow, with a quiver of arrows at its side. Some shelves lined the wall, sparsely occupied with various mementos and pouches around a hefty wooden lockbox. Hanging on the wall was a battered steel kettle helm, and some sort of quilted coat of padding – I think Viktor called those coats gambesons? A polished round metal shield rested on the dresser alongside a sheathed sword.
This actually isn’t that bad, even if you consider the fact I don’t have diapers. Or any running water out here. Or electricity. Or a lot of things. Damn, nevermind. Maybe this region is just backwards and poor. At least I have warm bedding, caring people around, and lots of time to think things through. First, I’ll need to learn the language. Thoroughly. And probably try to get that pocket tool back while I hide these bracelets away. My pillow is a bit rough, but it’s soft enough.
Kantax pinched the wall candle and left only the moonlight to paint the curtain. She walked over and carefully kissed my forehead in the dark, softly caressing my cheeks like any caring mother would. I’d know. She whispered something soft before heading to bed herself.
“La vero estis – mi amas vin, 'Lasita, mia kara.”
I don’t know those words yet, but I already get you.
Of these, what are the top three things that you appreciated the most in the first chapter?
