Iridian

01. LACUNA

.present (I am?)

Breathe...

The woman lurched into a seated position, a hand to her chest, trying to slow her racing heart. Her breath came to her in short, ragged gasps as her mind spiralled back into the present. Death. Was that a memory? A dream?

A trickle of sweat beaded her brow, her already pallid skin growing shades paler. Echoes of that memory reverberated even as it faded rapidly from her. She reached out with a trembling hand, blindly, looking for something tangible to hold on to. Her fingers brushed the rough texture of a browned leaf, swept in through the open balcony. She grasped it in silent desperation.

There is no pain here, no pain... she reminded herself. A breeze swept in, caressing the thin skin of her cheeks, teasing the dark locks that lay limply over her shoulders.

The leaf her fingers had found was dry, its scent brittle and crisp. That scent invoked images of a wooded path through a shady bower; tall, generous oaks clustered together and an aged yew that stood apart from the rest like a sentinel keeping watch.

Her head hurt as memory tried to come to the fore, unable to form clearly.

She dropped the leaf, her shaking fingers massaging her temples. She didn't know where those images came from or if they were even hers. As of late, her mind often belonged to another, especially when she slept. She would dream of a place where a strange bird with iridescent purple feathers warbled an alien song; trees that glowed as if made of crystal, and flowers that shifted hues to the tone of a humming voice. It couldn't be real.

Sometimes she would dream of darker things... a man with a face veiled in shadow. He made her afraid. Blood smeared on her hands, the piercing scent making her ill. A war that must have occurred in a fantasy; this world didn't have cities that floated up in the sky. Those cities would shatter, fragments of it crumbling into a dark, violent sea below.

None of it could be real. None of it could be...

What am I? she asked, a question that plagued her waking hours.

"Is anything coming back to you?" a voice questioned her gently.

The woman jumped, unaware that she was not alone in the room. Her head snapped around to find the speaker, eyes narrowing in fear. Her hands raised—raised to do what? She stared stupidly at the palms-outward gesture she was making, her body rigid, pressed tightly into the corner of the divan like a trapped animal.

The owner of the voice stood, approaching her with caution. Her fear tore at him, but could he fault her instincts after all that had happened?

"Child," he said as soothingly as he could. "You have nothing to fear from me. I won't hurt you."

He pressed those warding hands back into her lap, as he lowered himself into a crouch before her. She was shaking almost uncontrollably; survival instincts warring with the logical brain that he knew lay behind those amber eyes. She was so thin, so pale and transparent. The dark bruises around her eyes and that livid scar on her cheek screamed wordlessly of trauma. It hurt him to see her like this.

The woman bit her lower lip, forcing herself to calm down. There's no pain here... once again she had to remind herself. She struggled out of the fear that had her encased, focusing on the man before her. His hands still rested over hers in her lap.

Child, he had called her. Where had she heard that before? She was far too grown and old to be "child" to anyone, not even to him—with age lines that were just beginning to show and hair that hinted at streaks of silver in its dark mass.

It was a face that had much character; a closely trimmed beard and eyes that were the blackest of blacks. They were so dark, you could barely separate the iris from the pupils. They gazed at her now with compassion.

Something about him... something lingered in the void that was her memory. Despite his appearance, he was much older. She knew this.

Atreus. The name whispered across the void.

"Atreus," the name crossed her lips. Relief flooded his eyes.

"You remember," he spoke carefully. His hands tightened over hers, whispering healing energy into her to bolster that memory. Nothing to force it, just enough so it would not sink back into the convoluted sea where it had lain hidden. Her memories must not be coerced. Not if she were to regain her true identity.

"I don't—know. I don't remember you, but I know you," she replied haltingly. I know that you are safe, her mental voice added.

"Then that's enough for now." He patted her hands in consolation, wincing as he stretched to his feet. His old bones were not what they used to be.

"Do you remember who you are?" he asked, settling beside her. It was a question he had posed every day, ever since she had shown signs of awareness. She had forgotten her own name and her initial reaction had worried him. But her loss of memory seemed to confuse her more than make her panic. Today, she had recalled his name. It was progress.

She frowned as she uncurled from her defensive posture. Her eyes alit on the vase of orchids across the room. The splash of purple against the pale green walls tried to push something else to the forefront of her memories, something less pleasant.

Once again she shivered, though no breeze stirred the balcony curtains this time. Those green walls... green... that colour... why did it make her think of the beginning of the end?

A true memory misted into form—one of green walls, of antiseptic and medicine, and beeping monitors that kept track of life signs.

Her life signs.

Her eyes strayed back to the walls. Pale streaks of daylight added character to its flatness. Once more, they sent her back that place of a similar shade, but was far less pleasant and much more sterile.

The walls in her memory were faded, desperately in need of a repaint. They reminded her of a name uttered on the lips of doctors, spoken with sympathy and bleak honesty.

"Arden." The name flung itself at her. "I am Arden Ga—Arden Grey," she stuttered and part of her wondered why the name didn't feel quite right, as she sank into the green walls and sterile smells.