Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  Tucking the cloak in tighter, pushing my ridiculous premonitions aside, I carry her to the cottage.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Elodie

  Sand scratches my skin, abrading my cheek and chest and legs. A harsh wind whips around me, foreign and cruel. It’s a shock after the warmth of the water, and I curl into myself as my mind goes foggy again. A distant, hazy voice of consciousness wonders where I am and how I got here, but mostly I want the world to go black again, want that fog to take me so I may die in peace.

  I drift in and out, waking only briefly to absently note the lightening of my sandy deathbed and the intense pain radiating from my skull. Gulls cry overhead, their calls sharp and overwhelming. I clench my eyes shut, curl further to block the harsh chill, and will myself to drift again.

  But that peaceful nothingness drifts farther away, just out of my reach. The wind carries a sharp smell. It’s the scent of the sea, but it’s different somehow.

  A voice breaks through my jumbled thoughts. It’s deep, insistent. I cringe away from it, but the movement sends shards of fire from my head down the base of my neck, to the very end of my spine. I hear myself whimper, and then I choke back a sob.

  A man kneels near me, talking urgently. I pick up pieces of the words, but they are clumsy in my mind. Something soft and warm settles over me, blocking some of the chill. Then I’m lifted into strong arms. I burrow against the man’s solid chest, and finally, I drift away.

  ***

  It’s the crackle of the fire that wakes me. I open my eyes and turn toward the flames flickering in the hearth. I watch them, too groggy to care that I have no idea where I am.

  After a moment, I let my gaze travel over my surroundings. I’m in a tiny cottage—more like a hut. Judging from the sound of the ocean just outside, it must be very near the shore. I’m on a pallet bed, topped with heavy covers. The bedding is warm yet scratchy, and the rough texture makes my skin itch.

  A soft snore causes me to jump, and I jerk my head to the other side. A man sits in a chair next to me, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. Both terrified and intrigued, I study the person who must have carried me from the shore. His long, tall frame fills the chair, and his legs are extended in front of him. He fell asleep with his arms crossed, and his head is tipped back, resting against the rough graying wall.

  He’s young, lean, and golden like a sailor—one who hasn’t been marred by the sun’s unkind years. Stubble shadows his jaw, but it’s short, so he must usually be clean-shaven. He has a kind look about him, as far as one can tell. I have the unexplainable urge to touch him, to wake him so I may see what color his eyes are. In my mind, they’re blue, blue like the stormy ocean.

  As if sensing my gaze on him, he inhales sharply through his nose, roused from sleep, and then blinks several times. Slowly, he focuses on my face, and there are questions—so many questions—in his eyes.

  His brown eyes. Soft, warm, rich. The color of the trunks of the towering trees that grow on the cliffs that rise above the sea in the far north.

  “You’re awake,” he says, his voice groggy though relieved. He clears his throat and sits up. “How are you feeling?”

  I think about his question and assess my aches and pains. They are numerous, but one stands out above the rest. “My head hurts.”

  He gives me an understanding nod and leans forward, moving slowly, and grazes his fingers over the back of my skull. “You hit your head at some point. Do you remember? You were barely conscious when I found you.”

  I shake my head, which makes the throbbing worse.

  “Where am I?” My voice sounds scratchy and odd, like I haven’t used it in days.

  How long have I been here? And where was I before?

  Panic slowly sets in as I search my brain for memories—memories of anything. It’s a white fog; the images are just out of reach.

  The man touches my arm, offering comfort when he sees my internal struggle. “You’re in Triblue, not far from Saltwreath.”

  The southernmost kingdom in Elden—that I remember. But what of the rest? Who am I? Where am I from? Who is my family?

  Are they missing me?

  “I don’t remember,” I tell him as my throat begins to close with fear.

  Gently—it seems everything he does is gentle—the man leaves his chair and kneels next to my bed. “You don’t remember what?”

  “Anything.” I fight the terror, but it’s winning.

  The man frowns, concerned by my declaration but trying very hard not to show it.

  “It’s all right,” he finally says. “It will come back. You’ve suffered a great trauma. These things sometimes happen.”

  “What do you want with me? Why did you bring me here?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I realize how abrupt and harsh they sound.

  His eyes are kind, but I do not trust them, not when something in the back of my mind tells me to be wary.

  “You washed up on the shore several days ago. You were unconscious—I wasn’t sure you’d wake.”

  I hug the rough covers closer and search his eyes. “Who are you?”

  The man watches me very carefully. “You don’t know me?”

  “Should I?” Again, panic claws at my chest. Surely, I’d remember this man with his warm eyes and gentle manner.

  “Apparently not,” he breathes, speaking as much to himself as me. “I’m Bran, son of—” He stops abruptly. After a short pause, he finishes, “Just Bran.”

  He’s hiding something; I have no doubt. But there’s something about the play of emotions on his face that I would find amusing if the circumstances were different.

  “Just Bran?” I question.

  “For now.” His expression softens, and a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Do you remember your name?”

  Immediately, I answer, “El…”

  It was right there, right at the tip of my tongue, and then that strange white fog descended, snatching it from me. My pulse jumps as I struggle for it.

  Bran sets a hand on mine, distracting me from the rising panic. Our eyes meet, and he somehow calms the storm, talks me from the ledge.

  Quietly, he says, “Give it time.”

  I look down at his hand, resting on mine. It’s a strong hand, with long fingers and trim nails. Slowly, mesmerized, I turn my hand under his until our palms touch. His skin is rough and warm, and yet his touch is so careful.

  This man feels safe.

  When I look up, I find his gaze lingering on our joined hands as well. He pulls his eyes to meet mine. My chest grows warm as I study him further. He’s handsome enough but somehow different. I can’t explain why. There’s a realness to him—flaws, quirks, tiny imperfections.

  Slowly, Bran lifts a hand to my cheek, softly trailing his fingers to my jaw. “You are a fortunate one,” he whispers, a note of awe in his voice. “Kissed by a mermaid.”

  The fog dances in my mind, obscuring his words. “I don’t understand.”

  “You bear the mark of their magic.” Then, as if tranced, he cups my cheek, leaning closer.

  My eyes flutter, wanting to close. Without making a conscious decision, I lean nearer to this stranger, drawn to his quiet spirit more than his handsome face.

  “What tragic thing happened to you that garnered their attention?” he murmurs.

  Images, flashes and nothing more, pierce through the fog, making me gasp. Startled by the sudden pain, I clutch my head.

  “You need a physician,” the man says, leaning back on his heels, concern lacing his voice.

  I shake my head, irrationally terrified. “No.”

  Startled by my own reaction, I rack my brain, fighting for the pieces of my past, but I must push too hard. The images fade, and the fog obscures my sight.

  I reach for it, grateful for its dull promise of sleep. Before I drift, I clutch Bran’s wrist. “Please—no physician.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Elodie

  Again, I wake to the sound of the sea. My h
ead is clearer this time, far less foggy.

  The man who saved me—Bran, I remind myself—stands by the fire. He has his back to me, and there’s something about his stance that suggests he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  The ache in my head is dull yet insistent, but I’m able to ignore the pain for now.

  With his back turned, giving me a moment of privacy, I assess my situation. I’m wearing a soft shirt, a man’s shirt, that’s far too large. The sleeves fall past my hands, almost comically long. The fabric is far finer than the scratchy covers that are still draped over me.

  Perhaps it should bother me that he dressed me, but I can’t work up the indignation. This man, in his tiny, simple cottage, gave me what I’m sure is the finest thing he owns. I clench the long sleeve in my hand and rub it against my cheek.

  Have I ever been cared for like this? Maybe once, long ago. And though my memories are still stubbornly trapped in the fog, I somehow know it’s been a long time.

  Quietly, I sit up, pushing the covers aside and crossing my bare legs under the hem of the long shirt. I study the lines of the man’s neck, his muscular shoulders and the back that tapers to a trim waist. Yes, he’s a sailor. I’m sure of it. There’s something about them—you can tell their type. They appear caged on land, edgy until they’re on their ship, on the open sea.

  My heart yearns with understanding. Maybe I spent most of my life on the water as well.

  With a weary sigh, the man turns. He pauses when he sees me sitting, and his eyes flash with relief. “You look better.”

  Self-conscious now that his gaze is on me, I push a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. “I thought you were going for a physician.”

  He seems torn between keeping a respectful distance and coming forward. He settles on a middle ground, stepping near the bed but crossing his arms. “You asked me not to. And I didn’t want to leave you.”

  Something tells me I usually take care of myself—though the fact that I ended up unconscious on the shore like a piece of driftwood would argue that I’m not very good at it. It’s pleasant to be cared for, different.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks after a long pause, jumping as if realizing he’s been staring at me for as long as I’ve been caught in thoughts. “Thirsty?”

  My throat is dry, painfully so. “Water would be welcome.”

  Everything is too dry now that I think of it. My skin feels stiff, and my eyes ache.

  “How long did you say I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness?” I ask as he fills a pewter cup from the earthen pitcher on the table.

  “A few days.”

  Grateful, I accept the water and take a long gulp.

  Bran frowns and reaches out, his hand faltering in the air between us. “Maybe not so fas—”

  I freeze as the water hits my stomach like lead. Bran pulls the cup from my hand and shoves a basin in front of me just in time. I lose the water, all of it.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak after I wretch, past horrified even as my stomach writhes. “But it’s off.”

  He makes a humming noise, a quiet disagreement. “It was just too much, too soon.”

  I shake my head as I meet his eyes. “It tastes wrong.”

  “It’s from the well near the edge of the city.” His gaze never leaves me, so it’s easy to watch the play of emotions as they cross his face—concern, sympathy, confusion. “I’ve been drinking from it myself.”

  Too tired to argue, I nod. He frowns, studying me, but says nothing more.

  Suddenly exhausted, I lie back on the pallet bed and close my eyes. Except for the dull headache, I was fine when I woke, but now I feel wrong. It hit fast, the moment the liquid spilled down my throat. My entire body aches and prickles like a limb deprived of blood. And now the thirst is unbearable. My throat is parched, and my mouth is sticky, but I don’t dare try the water again.

  “Forgive me,” I murmur, focusing on the arduous task of breathing, which is getting increasingly difficult. I can feel my pulse thrum in my throat, but it feels too sluggish, almost as if it’s going to stop at any moment. “I’m going to rest my eyes.”

  Absently, I think that this would be a sad way to go, not even remembering who I am or the people who care for me. Unless no one cares—perhaps that’s why I’m here.

  “Tell me how you’re feeling.” Bran kneels by my side. Worry tints his voice. Even he knows something is wrong.

  It hurts too much to move, even to answer, so I stay silent and still.

  He must think I’ve fallen asleep because he curses under his breath and stands abruptly. He paces the tiny hut several times, muttering about physicians and herbalists and someone whose name I don’t recognize. After several moments, I feel the bed shift as he sits by my side. Then, with a touch as soft as a butterfly’s wing, he brushes his fingers down my face, starting at my temple and following the line of my jaw.

  “Who are you?” he whispers. “And what can I do to save you if you won’t let me bring you help?”

  I focus on the feel of his skin touching mine because it’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt. The sensation is warm and all-consuming.

  “And why do you show up now of all times,” he murmurs, though I’m certain he’s no longer talking to me. Settling in next to the bed, he lowers his hand from my face. “Last month would have been far more convenient. Last year even better.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you,” I manage, a weak smile fluttering over my lips.

  He starts, perhaps surprised to find I’m still awake, and pulls back. “I’m sorry. I was rambling—”

  “Don’t stop,” I murmur, missing the feel of his fingers on my face.

  “Rambling?” he asks, confused.

  “Mmmm, that too.” I crack my eyes open and use a great deal of energy to roll toward him. Not caring that the move is too forward, I reach for his hand and pull it to my cheek. “This.”

  Bran freezes, but after a few long moments, his fingers softly wind through my hair. I lean into his touch, focusing on it alone.

  “Do you think I’m dying?” I ask him.

  “No—”

  “Don’t lie to me, sailor.” I find his eyes. “I feel myself waning.”

  He rubs his free hand over his face, breaking our link. “I don’t know.”

  “Then tell me about my life.” I close my own eyes again.

  “I would if I could.”

  “Make something up. Something beautiful.”

  From his silence, I know he’s not going to concoct a life story for me, but that’s all right. At least I won’t die alone, deserted on the cold, windy beach.

  “Your father’s a captain,” he says after several long heartbeats of silence. “You grew up at sea, visiting exotic kingdoms and dancing under a sea of stars—”

  “You’re not bad at this,” I whisper.

  He takes my hand and rests my knuckles against his lips, almost as if he’s going to brush a kiss over them. “Shhh, don’t interrupt.”

  “Forgive me.”

  He smiles against my skin. “Now I’ve lost my train of thought.”

  I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”

  “You boarded a ship for Triblue, off to meet your betrothed.”

  “Who?”

  There’s a long pause, a heavy pause. “Let’s make the story grand and say a king.”

  I open my eyes again and focus on his face. “Why a king?”

  “Because this particular king is alone in a castle full of content, happy people, and he could desperately use a companion.” He lowers my hand and leans closer. “And it makes a better story, don’t you think?”

  I nod.

  His grasp tightens on my hand. “But there was a storm, and a great wave swept you off the ship, into the deep. Your family, the people who love you, thought you were lost. But unbeknownst to them, a mermaid swam up from her coral home and saved you, bringing you to the shore and leaving her mark upon your ch
eek.”

  The white fog attempts to descend again, concealing memories—stealing them when they are so close.

  Gently, Bran leans even closer and runs his fingers over my cheek. “The mark,” he murmurs. “The sickness.”

  Then he sits back as if scorched.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, startled by his abrupt departure.

  “I’ll be back,” he promises, rising to his feet and darting for the door. In his haste, he leaves it open, and dim sunlight spills into the room, along with a biting breeze.

  He returns less than a minute later with the familiar pewter cup in his hand. Kneeling next to me, he offers the water.

  I shake my head and turn away. Just the thought of drinking more of the tainted liquid makes me wish for the end.

  To my surprise, he pulls the hem of his shirt free, dips it in the cup, and presses it to my cheek.

  I inhale sharply as the cool, healing sensation spreads across my skin.

  “Does it help?” Bran asks.

  When I nod, he sets the cup aside, picks me up, leaving the scratchy covers behind, and starts for the door.

  “What are you doing?” I gasp as my hands fly around his neck.

  “I’m a fool for even thinking it, but I have a hunch.”

  The air is freezing, but the water beckons, calling me with its promise of serenity. Bran carefully traverses the rocky shore, making his way to a secluded inlet sheltered from the cruel winter wind.

  “Forgive me.” Without ceremony or warning, he sets me directly in the shallow water.

  I fight him momentarily, but the relief is instantaneous. I lie back, letting the water wash over me. After several minutes, I cup the water with my hand and take a long drink. It takes away the burn and heals the aches. It’s like an elixir of life, and I take several gulps.

  Satiated, I gasp with relief and let my hand fall.

  Too late, I think of modesty. Bran’s shirt is dark, and the material is thankfully thick, but my cheeks still flame.

  Embarrassed, I pull the drenched cloth away from my skin and turn toward my rescuer.

  He sits back, his face white like sea foam.