Figurehead

twenty-one

The room is devoid of light. It may as well be empty. It's hard to tell, in this darkness.

But now there is some light, although I can't tell where it is coming from. It's.. Green. Like some sort of.. Glow. But it's faint.

Still, despite the meagre amount of light present, I can make out the outline of someone standing a little to the right at the end of my pallet. Someone dark-skinned, a female, wearing a torso wrap and loincloth, both seemingly darker than they should be, like they've been dyed. Her hair is tied up, knotted in a bun and escaping in frizzy strands.

Her back is punctured with knife wounds, open and exposed, skin torn, blood dripping, and even though there is so little light, I can see tissues, organs, fats, even the glow of bone.

How is she standing? And how can I stand to look at her?

And then she turns to meet my gaze, and it's her eyes that glow with unnatural green light. It's blood that dyes her torso wrap and loincloth. The light exposes the swelling lumps mapping her body. Bruises, I realise.

And then she smiles, and I can't breathe.

It's Nirs. It's Nirs. It's Nirs. It's Nirs.

"Aren't you happy to see me, Janf?"

I can't speak.

She pouts. "I saved your life, you know."

"I didn't ask you to!" I scream, shocking myself, and with a jolt I realise it wasn't real. She wasn't there- here. I sit upright, cover my face in my hands. My forehead and hairline are damp with sweat, the beating of my heart irregular and rapid. I take a few deep breaths to try and steady myself.

The room is not devoid of light, as the fire in the hearth still burns. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them again.

I sit on a pallet in a smaller room than when I last woke. I was moved here because I was considered far less injured than most others. Fortunate, they say I am. And I am. I'm thankful to the Lord for that. But Nirs..

I grab the waste pot beside the pallet with clumsy hands and throw up into it until my stomach hurts, my chest heaves, my eyes blur, and my mouth tastes sour.

I glance around at the others; some aren't in the room, perhaps doing what they can to help healers or palace guards or the serving. Most of the others in here were palace guards. All the rest in here still present are awake now, glaring at me, ignoring me or casting looks of sympathy at me.

Too many are looking at me. I cover the waste pot, set it down and get up, leaning on the staff the healers gave me and leaving the sheet to drop to the pallet. Most turn away, others return to their sleep.

I leave the room as quietly as I can, ignoring any remaining looks.

All the rooms occupied by the wounded and healing are near the palace entrance. Surrounding them, rooms filled with healers and palace guards. Then there are the rooms that have always been used by the serving-families here, and the palace guards who were staying here at the time of the battle. That's what they call it now. The battle. But the guards' rooms are empty right now.

I leave the door half-closed behind me, leaning against the wall beside it. There are guards in front of every occupied room, and this one is no exception. "What time is it?" I ask.

There are two guards here, one man and one woman. The woman shrugs. "Almost first light," the man answers.

"You need to identify yourself before you go anywhere," the woman adds.

"Trusted messenger Janf." What's the point of identifying myself to people who will forget who I am before I return to the room?

"If you wish to write to your kin, please go to the meeting hall. There are supplies there, and it will be easier to ensure all messages are sent."