We Solemn Few

Chapter Seventeen : A Brief Respite

The light.

Samson basked in the light that surrounded him, a blazing flame of pure gold that consumed him, devoured him, yet felt nothing but faintly warm, almost cozy. It was as if he was swimming, floating, and still all at once, and furthermore, at peace within the roiling flame of... what exactly, he was not sure. But there was no darkness, and no urge. No cold, grasping hands trying to tear him from the light, to pull in into the void and force him to sink. If the flame did not make him feel so at peace, he might just have sicked up at the memory. He did not know what scared him more; how futile it was to fight the urge, or that the urge was a making of his own mind.

Slowly, sensations began to peak through the light. He almost thrashed against the first one, but there were no dark hands. He did not want to sink. And so the feelings drifted past him as if sliding through oil, caught only briefly in the flame which seemed to extend those small moments into hour spans of time. Whispers broken into fragmented words, even fragments of words, slid through without meaning, and brief, gentle touches graced his arms, shoulders, chest. He even swore he felt a brush comb through his hair - he thought that must have been a subconscious thought of his own. How long since I've had a brush? Too long, he decided.

Then, one last touch passed through the golden fire, and following it was pain. Pure pain, shooting from his temple through his skull and down through the rest of his body, and suddenly the gold flame was no longer warmth, but ravenous flame, pouring into his temple. He wanted to scream, tried to scream, but the pain ripped the scream up with a forced gasp, and just as suddenly was he torn from the dream that did not seem a dream.

Recoiling as suddenly as if he had been stabbed, Samson was surprised to find himself facing an older, motherly looking woman with worry and shock both painted across her face. The pain crippled him from moving further, or moving closer, and if he was rooted from pain, she was rooted from fear. For a moment, at least. Both emotions had been so plain on her face, yet they smoothed over as if they were a patch of soft dirt stamped down, and the plain expression wore a soft smile that regarded him with warm eyes, framed by red-brown locks. As much as he claimed to be a noble - he would be a noble! - he read very little, yet he knew that hair color was more native to people southward of Kluseth, and even then he knew not exactly where. He was not sure he could think straight with how much those eyes seemed to stare through him.

Instead, he dared a glance around the room, and nearly startled himself twice. The room was rather fine, no, too fine to be a Kluseth home. The paneling should have said enough - Old Keruk seemed to put less and less effort into each wall, even when they belonged to the same house - but it was the wall hangings that suggested otherwise. Directly across from the bed he lay in, two small banners hung against the wall, one a deep crimson embroidered in a copper-looking silk that formed the regal head of a fox, and another in nightly black with a silver silk stitching out a snarling wolf. Certainly neither of those were found in any home he knew of. Not even those of their two esteemed hunters, Djula and Zefric. No, this could not be home.

If the idea of being away from him startled him, though, seeing Marrow beside the bed nearly jolted him to a stand. If he had the energy to stand he was not sure he wouldn't have. Away from home, with Marrow sitting - sleeping - in a beautifully carved, vermeil oak chair, with copper fox heads seated at either shoulder. The boy looked exhausted, yet even in sleep one hand tightly held the oak haft of his axe with white knuckled fingers. What use he had for an axe in his sleep, he did not know, but he found himself hoping Marrow did not sleep walk, or even sleep thrash.

"I am sorry if I startled you, young Samson," this time, he was startled, nearly jumping in his skin as he turned to face the motherly woman again. How had he forgotten she was there? His head ached as if he had been struck ten times. "I assure you, you are in safe hands. I am Helia Thurah, born of Chiira Widowbane, Mistress of the Sixth Seat and heir to the Crimson Throne." There was an odd mix of pride and amusement in that statement, yet her eyes, warm still, stared into his soul as if she knew it better than he. He almost believed she could.