How To Polish A Pearl

Chapter 3 - Proposing

Opening his eyes didn't make a difference. This was a new kind of darkness. The kind where no shadows exist. The kind where there isn't even a reflection of light.

A blanket has been firmly wrapped around his body, making breathing a little bit difficult. However, it isn't the blanket that is keeping him from being able to move. Silky fabric is wrapped securely around his chest and ankles, safely anchored somewhere he can't reach. Strangely, the cuts from the chains are not affected. The silky fabric has been carefully tied away from any of his wounds. The slicing pain is gone, replaced by that itchy sense of healing as the body frantically goes into self-repair.

Broken memories start to flicker through his mind, so close he can almost reach out and touch them, yet far enough to be just out of reach of his fingertips. All he can do is watch as they collapse, one after the other.

What kind of medicine from hell did those insane ghosts forced down my throat? This wasn't part of the plan. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He has to remember why he was here.

After one small cup of the bland watery liquid, he had been in and out of consciousness, mostly the latter, for what he estimates is little over a week, unable to move or even speak.

Thinking back, some memories are still vivid in his mind. His Shifu, his brothers, his seniors, his parents - all clear as day along with waking up as a captive in that cage. Anything in between burying his Shifu and now is melting into porridge, all sticking together, impossible to separate and sort.

The more he tries to hold on to even a fragment of those memories, the further they drift, leaving behind a headache so horrid he almost pukes blood on the spot. Judging from some of the memories from the past days and the vile sub-metallic taste in his mouth, he had already vomited several times. Why are some memories so clear and others so foggy?

In more of a symbolic gesture, he closes his eyes, both to let go of these visual fragments that keep disintegrating but also to subdue this soul splitting headache radiating down his spine. Ingrained by years of cultivation, he automatically slows his breathing to a meditative state to focus and intensify his other senses.

Goosebumps slowly spread in waves of tingling along his limbs, as he works through each of his muscle memories from the past week. Reflecting on what he has seen, smelled, and touched, or rather what had touched him, in those fleeting moments.

No matter how much he searches through his normally eidetic memory, the last visual impression is from getting dragged out of the prison by those ghosts. Starting from that moment, the pressure of a blindfold tightly secured around his head is almost always there. His long raven black hair is not held in a top knot anymore but scattered all around his shoulders. A few tender areas around the temples tells him that the hair has sometimes gotten caught in the blindfold as it comes on and off during, what must only be, the dead of night.

With no images to explore, the sweet aroma of pale pink peach blossom petals, reminiscent of sweet honey and almond, embrace him so strongly he can almost smell it as he lay there remembering it in the darkness. The aroma is sweet as he is submerged in perfectly tempered warm water. Strong arms holding him from behind, oh so gently, as every limb is washed by what feels like multiple pairs of hands.

Soft towels patting him dry before gentle fingers apply various dressings on his wounds, the medicinal aroma sometimes so strong it almost burns his eyes through the blindfold. He is carefully dressed in warm robes out of the finest silk, the fabric feeling delicate against his skin.

Those strong arms again, lifting him up and placing him on to a bed so comfortable he wouldn't mind continuing to sleep on it for the rest of his life, even though he is always tied in the same way he is now.