Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  * * *

  Von Thiessen went about his daily business with a mind reassured and a spirit feeling much lighter than it had been since—well, since Roald had crossed paths with Alarick, that is.

  And with that newly acquired confidence and pride, he couldn’t help but talk too much about his desperate pilgrimage to the goddess’s shrine. He especially couldn’t help but talk about the fact that Kummerene herself had heard his prayers and had been moved enough to show herself to him.

  “I’ve been chosen,” he said with a broad smile, while his listeners stared and listened in wonder and disbelief. “Roald’s been chosen. For so long, I’ve dreamt of seeing him cured and properly married to a girl I myself would have hand-picked for him. There’s been a small change in plans, however.”

  “Immortal, you say?” one of his old friends said, his crusty brows wrinkled in amazement. “Young Roald’s to become an immortal?”

  “A small change in plans, indeed,” another echoed in no less awe.

  Von Thiessen nodded, his chest puffing out in ever-increasing pride. “Yes, I couldn’t have chosen a better bride.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  And for the next several days, von Thiessen would enjoy listening to the excited and spirited discussions around him regarding Roald’s unexpected and most welcome destiny. Some aristocrats seethed in jealousy as they eyed their own children, taking careful note of their sons’ and daughters’ shortcomings and wondering what kinds of bargains needed to be made with the gods for their families’ glory.

  Before long, a small number of young lords and ladies began to complain about their parents’ sudden and unfair criticisms of their conduct, with some of them showing bruises and injuries inflicted on their persons by unreasonably irate fathers just because they fell short of certain standards that before were never addressed.

  When a handful of silly aristocrats packed some clothes for their own pilgrimages, their unhappy children gathered their own belongings and vanished from court with a faithful servant or two in tow. They were never seen or heard from again, their lives fading into vague rumors shared among the bored, who’d claimed to have heard from foreign wanderers that young men or ladies fitting those missing youths’ descriptions had been spotted traveling through strange kingdoms across the sea.

  Old and wise men watched the absurd theatre unfold with a tired shaking of grizzled heads. “Apparently,” they noted with an emphatic nod in the direction of those aristocratic bullying parents, “stupidity isn’t limited to the ignorant and starving poor.”

  As for von Thiessen, he turned into a most vocal proponent of the modification of wayward children’s behavior. “Only the gods can help!” he often said with an insistence and a wildness in his eyes that more and more people thought to be a madness once dormant but had now breached the dam. “Humble yourself before them, and they’ll listen to your prayers.”

  With a jolt of excessive pride, he realized that before long, everyone would be raising their prayers to Roald, who, as Kummerene’s immortal consort, could very well take on the much-honored role of intercessor, too. It was too much for the old man’s devout heart to take, and it was all he could do to sink to his knees in the middle of company—startling everyone around him—and thank the remarkable goddess for her generosity with an upturned and tear-streaked face as he spread his arms out at his sides.

  * * *

  It was with growing mortification that Roald continued his travels in faded and frayed clothes. He wished that he’d at least been given something proper to wear or at the very least some means of acquiring a new set of clothes without breaking any laws, but the goddess seemed to see nothing of importance in the thought of preparing her soon-to-be-eternal-consort for travel and for appearing before strangers.

  Perhaps it was nothing more than plain pride that made Roald grimace in shame as he gazed down at himself and took in the pitiful sight of near rags covering his body. “No, it’s self-respect,” he muttered, frowning now as he shook his head. Well, some things weren’t so easily forgotten or taken away by an immortal’s hand.

  Then again, since he couldn’t communicate with anyone but Nature, though he could still hear himself speak—an odd spell cast on him by the goddess, to be sure—perhaps it was for the best that he looked no different from a peasant. If he were to learn more about the deeper and darker workings of the human heart by being practically invisible, surely he could also use that to find those answers to all his questions about his past.

  “And perhaps Alarick,” he appended.

  After watching the flow of travelers through the intersecting roads before him, Roald allowed himself a bit of time eating fruit he’d gathered in a nearby wooded area. It was all he could do, really, to devour as many as he could find, for the lack of meat and the means to hunt for small game for his daily sustenance was taking its toll on him. The heavens only knew how he looked to other people—most likely no more than a sunburned and gaunt shadow of himself, who’d once been…

  Roald’s thoughts froze, his breath hitching. There it was again—that unexpected flaring up of misty images that had long been imprinted in his mind. Images of himself. Reflections in mirrors and bodies of water. He was an aristocrat, and he lived in court.

  “Surely Alarick lived in court as well.”

  And there was another revelation. What he said was the truth, Roald was sure, for the feelings unexpectedly roused by those seven words were warm, reassuring, and above all, triumphant and joyful, their intensity taking his breath away. Another misty image surged weakly, following this revelation and those other brief, vague bursts of his own reflected visage in water and glass.

  This time, it was a reflection of his face in the green depths of someone’s eyes. The distance between him and the owner of those eyes was close enough for him to see himself in a pair of eyes that steadily darkened in pleasure. No, Roald didn’t see all that in that too-brief moment—didn’t catch any sharpness or clarity of his reflection or even the precise shade and shape of those eyes’ owner. Instead, he felt all those recollections, for those experiences had clearly ingrained themselves not only in his mind, but his heart and his soul. A mere vague suggestion of a private, tender moment in his past was enough to give those smoldering embers the much-needed puff of air.

  One of Roald’s hands flew to his chest, gently rubbing it to help relieve the sudden tightness that crushed it, but he grinned in tearful disbelief. He’d just found his first mark, apparently, and his spirits soared at the small victory.

  Swept up and away by the exhilaration of realizing that he’d loved and had been loved—and, perhaps, continued to love and be loved despite this strange and frightening separation as well as the dismaying future that now awaited him—Roald closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for Alarick’s safety.

  Let me find my way back to him, he thought. Green eyes aside, he still had yet to recall everything about Alarick, but the other young man—yes, Alarick was young, wasn’t he?—remained elusive.

  “Only for now,” Roald murmured as he blinked his eyes open, his jubilation giving way to steeled determination. And as for the goddess and her mad quest? Roald still needed to come up with a solid plan for dealing with her. But perhaps his adventures in the first city or town whose borders he was about to cross might help jar his memory further. He only hoped that, by the time he’d gone back to his old self, things wouldn’t be too late for both him and Alarick.

  Abandoning his temporary haven from the sun after resting from a full but unsatisfactory meal, Roald hurried back to the hill where he’d stood, observing the roads and forming plans. It was time to rejoin humanity.

  * * *

  Within an hour, Roald found himself walking through the outskirts of a city, one that bustled with surprising activity, considering its location, which appeared to be cut off from the rest of the world by endless stretches of dusty roads, plains, hills, and mountains. People either ran or walked briskly to and fro, many of them c
hattering eagerly about a much-anticipated wedding or something more mundane such as that evening’s dinner or the weekend’s gathering of relatives. Roald couldn’t speak to any of them, so he contented himself with listening instead, taking in what he could as he searched for much more than what it was the goddess had charged him to find.

  The houses in that area, for the most part, were decrepit cottages in various states of disrepair. All made with stone and dried mud, the roofs thatched, with the doors and windows barely sealed with weathered and worm-eaten wood. Here and there, wide-eyed faces of underfed children peered out of the windows, the light in their eyes a mix of innocent wonder, fear, and desperation. Roald spotted a handful of those little faces wearing the scars of disease or even a cruel beating.

  Here and there, as though to break up the dreary monotony of poverty and need, an occasional luxurious structure loomed above the stone cottages. They certainly didn’t look like mansions, but they were still great houses that either soared to the sky with three floors and a more compact width, or they kept to two floors but expanded greatly on all sides, eating up as much ground as they possibly could. Compared to their poorer neighbors, these houses were made of old, sturdy stone cloaked with ivy. The windows had glass casements set in lovely metalwork and were protected by wooden shutters of remarkable craftsmanship. Indeed, one could catch so many intricate carvings on those shutters flanking crystal-clear windows on the ground floor. The front doors were no less beautiful, with the wood so polished that it gleamed in the sun. Any signs of age or weathering only added to the houses’ venerable appearance, not take away from it.

  Roald couldn’t help but pause in front of such a structure, whose immediate neighbors were little cottages that seemed to be rotting on their foundations. It was a mix of wildly diverging images that was both unusual and cruel.

  “Are these houses here to remind people of their place? To mock others’ misfortunes and elevate their own lives?”

  As though to answer his question, an occasional liveried servant would appear, walking around the great house from the rear. Sent out on an errand, he or she wouldn’t even acknowledge any of the humbler passersby with so much as a nod. The gaze would be fixed ahead, the chin lifted in a show of great pride, the bearing straight and proud, the pace of the walk brisk, steady, and purposeful. The poorer folks, behaving as they’d long been taught through years of deprivation and ill-luck, easily moved their tired and bent figures out of the way, their own gazes falling to the ground as those impressive servants swept past them.

  The people from the cottages looked weathered and drawn, the cares of the world and the shock of the recent war weighing heavily on them. But they carried on regardless, and Roald followed them down one of the larger dirt roads that led him to another part of the city’s outskirts, where an open-air market was set up.

  He walked through the sprawling collection of booths, marveling at the offerings every single one had. He declined temptation with a grave shaking of the head whenever a merchant planted him or herself before him, brandishing goods with honeyed words that promised the stars if he were to purchase the items. Sometimes merchants called out to him from behind their display tables, waving and even singing.

  The air was filled with voices and the smell of wood, paint, freshly-baked bread, and flowers. The modest blandness of every booth’s discolored canvas canopy and unpainted tables was easily overcome by the dazzling array of colors of merchandise that were as varied as they were plentiful. Handmade toys, clothes, pottery, fruit, vegetables, pastries, among others—all fought for attention, and while Roald was easily taken in by the lively yet humble charm of his surroundings, he also ended up developing a bit of a headache from so much visual and auditory noise.

  The market was set up in an area that appeared to have the sparsest collection of trees, and many vendors chose to set up their booths under the largest and shadiest trees, which added to the unique magic of the place.

  Roald at length came upon a booth that stood under an aged elm. It was piled high with flowers, which were tended by a vivacious young man who smoothly tried to ensnare his customers with sweet words that disguised a sharp wit. It was rather difficult to guess his age, for poverty made him appear younger than he perhaps was. Pale, thin, with faint shadows under his eyes, he went about in faded clothes with his jacket looking a little too small for him. For all those, however, his spirits remained high, though Roald suspected it was because he simply had no other choice.

  “Cast a spell on your house with flowers touched by fairy magic!” the young merchant called out, bowing at the waist with an exaggerated flourish, one arm raised and extended, a cluster of brilliantly colored flowers in his hand. When he received no response, he walked a few steps in another direction and cried, “Enchantment by the dozen! How can you not be bewitched by these prices?”

  “Who is he?” Roald asked the venerable old elm under whose branches the booth had been set up.

  “No one of any significance,” the tree rumbled gently in reply. “A mortal with no family, no connections save for one, and no real future but the sale of flowers from his garden.”

  The bright-eyed merchant moved around, calling out and greeting people as they walked by, his grin broad and irrepressible. But no one came, and Roald watched as people walked past the booth, the look of grim determination on their faces showing a deliberate snubbing. Many of them, furthermore, walked in a wide arc past the vendor’s table as though terrified of catching something if they were to pass too close to it. An occasional scowl would be thrown in the merchant’s way as well, and a child even flung a half-eaten apple at him, and his parents didn’t once lift a finger to stop the assault.

  The vendor expertly dodged the projectile, which was easily caught by another young man who appeared to be working with him and was simply hovering in the shadow of the tree. He walked up to his startled partner and spoke a few quiet words, gently rubbing the latter’s shoulders in a gesture of reassurance and comfort.

  “Who is he?”

  “No one of any significance and the cause of the trouble you’ve seen and will see.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Defied his family and followed his heart,” the tree continued. “Once wealthy, now disowned and disgraced, shunned by kin and friend alike.”

  Roald glanced around to watch the people as they continued to dodge the table. “I see that everyone seems to know their story.”

  “Human nature, plain as day. Who’s never sat before the hearth and enjoyed a good gossip or two?” the elm replied, now sounding bemused.

  Gossip…again, that strange jolt.

  Roald frowned, his head bowing as he held his breath, his aching head now struggling with another lost memory. Gossip, yes—he’d been involved in that, and so was Alarick. Of that he was sure, but as to the nature of such gossip beyond what he could only refer to as “the obvious cause of scurrilous talk among the idle,” he didn’t know. At least not yet. Perhaps it had more to do with him, or it had more to do with Alarick.

  And with that thought, another came to the fore, startling him with its grim possibilities.

  Perhaps it had something or everything to do with his current predicament—the loss of his memory, his separation from home, family, friends, and even Alarick, and that goddess’s claim of ownership of him.

  Bewildered by all this, this new puzzle piece compounding his headache some more, Roald remained standing where he was, resolute in his drive to see more—learn more. Even though many did nothing to hide their disgust with the flower vendors, he eventually discovered that some of the people who (he at first thought) were snubbing the couple were walking past the booth not out of spite but rather out of necessity, their steps being hurried as they bent their thoughts on carrying on with their errands. A few granted the vendors the courtesy of an apologetic smile, a brief greeting, or a sheepish excuse for their inability to purchase that day’s offerings. They might have been fleeting at best, but the
y were certainly there. And those who seemed to be burdened the most with true, deep-seated revulsion toward the pair tended to be the most demonstrative of their bitterness and therefore the ones who were the most noticed.

  Happily, even though the numbers were painfully few, there were those who stopped at the table and purchased some flowers without a moment’s hesitation.

  There was comfort there, yes, and Roald turned his attention back to the pair—watched the small, subtle gestures of reciprocated affection, reassurance, and acceptance. A hand momentarily clasping another, a slight smile offered, a vague dimming of the eyes in resignation. He felt a dull twisting in his chest and thought that easing himself of that bout of pain meant that he needed to approach the two outcast lovers and offer them some gesture of friendship.

  I know who you are. I know how it feels.

  He also knew, however, that he couldn’t. Not only did he not have any money with which to purchase anything from their booth, he was literally speechless and wouldn’t know how best to communicate with them. That confounded goddess had shut him out, rendered him completely incapable of forging any connection in the world of men. To what extent it was supposed to aid him in the task she’d given him, Roald had yet to find out, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if this was her way of forcing him into an existence that was solely hers: isolation and loneliness.