Retrograde

Year One.

I. FIRST SPRING

His heart stirs to the steady sound of drums and spring rain. The drums have a strange sense of familiarity that he cannot place, but what truly surprises him is a sense of fear. When he tries to sit up, to open his eyes, to do anything at all, his body... his legs... it is as if they are not his own. They do not respond to his commands, and not only that but there is a dull throb of pain that he suspects is only dull because of a healer's skillful touch.

He can only wonder at his state.

His eyes are unceremoniously pried open, one after the other, a light of unknown source shined into them. "His brain is still alive, I can tell you that." He tries to focus in the small moment that they are open, but all too quickly, his lids shut. "Abrasions on his wrists. Right arm, broken. Both legs, broken... and judging by the bruising on his chest, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of his ribs were..." The voice trails off, then speaks again softly. "I was in the war tent when I heard the report, but I still do not understand why the khan was so determined to rescue him. As is, our people are so few. To send them out to save just one man..." There is wonder in the voice. "Just who is he? A... A friend?"

Another voice, grimmer. "I'm not sure myself. I know that The Khan owed him some kind of life debt but she wouldn't say much more than that."

"I see... I wonder what happened to him..."

"He's been tortured."

"B-by whom? Who would do such a thing? A-and to this extent... It's just so..."

"Who else but those imperial snakes! I told Khan Lasorin we couldn't trust them any more than we could those presumptuous Faerghus' envoys who dared ask us for support in THEIR war. I wonder, will she believe me now?"

Lying in the bed and barely listening, he tries to gather strength to alert them that he is aware of them, but his body simply feels too weak to cooperate. He is uncertain if he is moving at all, as much as he is trying to.

"Hush. You'll aggravate the patient." There is silence, then a sigh. "With this fever, I'm not sure if he's stabilized enough to--" The voice stops speaking. "Fetch my kit, Arsène."

"But you just said--"

"I was wrong! His fingers are moving. That's the greatest improvement we've seen since your squadron went on that suicidal rescue mission in the first place. Go!" The voice seems softer, closer, and he feels a cooling sensation against his head.

"I'm sorry. This is all I can do for now. Just help you sleep." A coolness glosses across his skin, and he can feel himself sinking. It's a pale imitation of the darkness he lie in before, but even so, he feels at rest.

II. FIRST SUMMER

In the heat of summer, most nights he spends in a haze of the light and color in his dreams. Floating above and around and through him, he can hear the voices buoying him along, close to the border of the waking world. He tries to move but when he does, pain like lightning strikes him down, pushing him further towards the inky depths.

Closer to death.

What lies on the other side of that abyss, he does not know, but unlike his imaginings, he cannot hear the voices of those he once called dear while he is yet living. Sometimes, when he has the strength to form thoughts, he thinks that by sinking into darkness perhaps he will feel the warm embrace of his father and mother and friends again. He thinks that it will be a relief, if only so the lightning will stop, but instead... whenever he starts to sink too low, she grasps him by the fingertips and compels him to live.

A pair of pastel green eyes glow in the darkness... they size him up, then pierce him through.

"Are you so weak, child of Duscur?"

Duscur... it's a word he is certain he should know. He concentrates and an image comes to mind... Flower fields as far as the eye could see in the springtime festivals. A man that can only be his father dancing hand and hand with his sisters.