The Scars of Remembrance.

The Scars of Remembrance.

Postby Kylerryth » Tue Aug 11, 2009 3:33 pm

The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.

* * * * *


The Four Boars was an establishment residing on the northern half of Main Street, two blocks up from where it intersected with Ravensridge, and due to its location attracted a variety of patrons. There were merchants and nobles at one table, discussing trade and politics and the inevitable link between them; laborers and farmers at another, grumbling about the summer's heat like they did every year; a gaggle of seamstresses at yet another, apparently celebrating the imminent marriage of one of their own; and even a pair of off-duty Constables -- or so they claimed -- enjoying a pint before they retired for the evening. The Four Boars was not a large place, but it was remarkably clean, its reasonably-priced fare was above the average cut, and it possessed a pleasant atmosphere, as evidenced by its smiling serving girls, a single wide hearth, and a small dais for itinerant performers; and its pleasant atmosphere was enforced by the owner's two sons, Espen and Harald, whose arms and legs resembled tree trunks more than human limbs, whose unblinking eyes seemed to watch and catch everything. The owner was a woman, rotund and jolly for it, named Helene Malin, and she was often seen greeting new guests or speaking to familiar ones, tending bar, cleaning tables right beside her girls, yelling from and into the kitchen, and, one could rightly assume, preparing and cooking food in the aforementioned kitchen. Helene was nicknamed "The Whirlwind," for she was always storming about the Four Boars on some task, but it was not a moniker used in mockery -- it was said out of respect and recognition for her tireless efforts and unfailing duty to her customers, and the person foolish enough to besmirch the good woman's name would find themselves driven out by silent stares. That is, if Espen and Harald did not first get to them.

The rooms at the Four Boars were spartan in design and furnished appropriately, but all the necessities were present and the beds were comfortable, the mattresses stuffed with goose down. In every room there was a wash basin and a mirror on the wall above it; were tall, deep wardrobes for one's garments, squat chests at the foot of each bed for personal belongings; and a nightstand on which rested an oil lamp and a leatherbound copy of the One True God's scriptures, as Helene was a devoted woman and thought the world could use a dash of hope and good faith from time to time. They were simple and inviting rooms, and quiet, which was why Coran again found himself in one of them.

For most of the evening, Coran had lain in bed and stared at the ceiling. He had nowhere to go, no friends he knew of, and no desire to sit in the common room, alone but for a pint; and tonight of all nights, Coran had wanted a measure of comfortable silence in which to think. It was the night before he and Daveney were to leave for Darkenhold, where he would meet with and talk to a woman who knew him better than he knew himself -- a woman who, according to Daveney, was his friend -- and he had not even considered what he might ask her. And now, as he stood before the mirror gazing at his reflection, Coran asked himself the most obvious but also most prominent question of them all: Who am I?

Who are you?
Coran thought, leaning in closer and studying himself. Blue-gray eyes met blue-gray eyes, and there was no flicker of recognition; he lifted a lock of reddish-brown hair, more red than brown when light hit it, and before today did not recall when it had last been cut. He raised his hands to the glass and examined them, and discovered they were remarkably normal, though for some inexplicable reason they made him think of a farmer's hands: strong and callused and, while accustomed to long hours of intense labor, gentle in their unique way. On a whim, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the bed; and when he turned back to the mirror, Coran saw scars.

A small scar shaped like an inverted triangle was on the front of his left shoulder, its twin on his back at a slight offset. Another formed a thin but long white line between two ribs on his right side. Burns spiderwebbed his hands and forearms, parts of his chest and abdomen. On his forehead, a white mark formed a closed third eye. A hideous crescent moon rested on the curve of one cheek. Jagged grooves made a vicious arc over his chest. Worst of all, however, was when Coran turned and saw a latticework of lashes built upon the foundation of his back, extending from the nape of his neck to the nadir of his spine, and there were so many it was a wonder he still had anything to call skin, anything that was not raised, ridged, unfeeling scar tissue.

It was a horror of past injuries, a solved puzzle of flesh with pieces carved from pain; looking at himself in the mirror, Coran felt his throat constrict in abject terror, felt himself sway. He gripped the wash basin -- and very nearly toppled it and its stand, but caught both and himself in time. His vision darkened at its edges, and he thought for sure he was either about to be sick or unconscious, if not both. Coran breathed in slow, measured breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth, and closed his eyes. Phosphorescent afterimages danced on the inside of his eyelids, fuzzy and burning. After what seemed like an hour, Coran finally opened his eyes and lifted his head to look in the mirror again.

The scars were gone. He was once more normal.

"Am I?" Coran whispered.

* * * * *


A few hours later and a few hours before dawn, Coran performed his nightly ablutions and then went to sleep. He thought it better to have some sleep as opposed to none, as he and Daveney had a journey to make in the morning.

He did not dream.
I'll either find a way or make one.
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Kylerryth
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