Not alone. A female voice echoed inside his mind.
“WHAT?!” Tristan shouted aloud, falling off the pew again.
You aren’t alone son. The voice consoled.
He really was going insane. Now voices were inside his head, not just in some creepy empty church in front of a dead body.
You are as sane as I am. She assured him.
Oh that’s comforting, Tristan thought to himself.
The female voice laughed lightly in his head. He couldn’t place the feeling, but her musical voice calmed him and helped Tristan clear his mind as he was asked. In his mind’s eye his world was still ripped in two. He could now hear into the other world too. He could hear the musical laughter coming from above and behind his head. He craned his neck slightly back, trying to see who was laughing at him now.
I’m not laughing at you my Mykl. She said quietly, invoking the pet name she used for all of her children.
Tristan continued to crane his neck back barely making out a soft maroon silken gown, pale arms and a mane of black hair before being unceremoniously torn back to the church.
“What in the hell are you doing!?” His father screamed.
Eight years old again, he sat alone in the front of a church staring inside the coffin at his dead grandfather. His father came storming up the aisle towards him and fear began to creep into every fiber of his young body.
“I said; What are you doing?!” He demanded.
“I’m just sitting here, like Mom told me to.”
“You’re supposed to be out front with the rest of us.”
“But…Mom told me…” His voice died in his throat as his father’s iron grip tightened around his bicep again and he dragged him out of the church.
Just inside the church doors his father released him and brushed out the wrinkles he’d caused in Tristan’s jacket sleeve. He pushed him unceremoniously towards the door once he was satisfied that the wrinkles were gone. That’s right, get rid of the evidence, Tristan thought bitterly. God forbid anyone sees what you do to me behind the privacy of our doors.
“Found him sitting in the church, sulking like a baby.” His father whispered.
“Come here and hold your sisters hand.” Hissed his mother.
Fighting mightily not to roll his eyes, lest he get another yard stick snapped over his rear end, Tristan marched forward and grasped his sisters’ pudgy hand. Standing there, like the robot he was expected to be for the next twenty minutes he tried to think about what had just happened in the church.
Fight.
What?
Again, that soft musical voice filled his head. Fight it Tristan.
Fight what?! You both told me to calm my thoughts! Make up your minds!
Calm your mind so I can bring you home Mykl.
Stop calling me that! I am home. Look at them. Abusive father, neglectful mother and spoiled sister; this is home. What more could I ask for?
An image came into his mind’s eye, an image of a family, six of them, standing there, smiling at him. Tristan shook his head. Another day dream, now he was having them so often that he was standing and sometimes in conversations as they were happening. He felt as though he was being torn in two. One boy, eight years old, frightened abused and alone, the other boy, so much older, happier and nourished.
Please Mykl. Please, let me help you! The voice called urgently. Tristan!
Tristan grunted and his hand shot out of his pocket and to his right temple making those near him flinch and pull away from him.
“Stop acting like a baby!” His father hissed in his ear.
Through clenched teeth Tristan faced his father, anger like burning embers in his eyes.
“I…am…not…a…baby!” He hissed.
The look he was rewarded with wasn’t apologetic, not angry…it seemed…excited.
“We’ll talk about this when we get home.” He announced with relish.
Once again, fear griped his very soul. He knew a lashing was coming again, no one else in his family seemed to have witnessed the exchange, and no one was going to save him. At the edge of the crowd Tristan caught sight of Father Downing. His eyes were unreadable but his posture obviously protective.
Your father will save you Mykl. Let him. Let me. Please Tristan!
“Stop calling me that!” He screamed out loud.
Everyone turned and looked at him. His mother began making apologies of the usual sort, stress of losing a loved one, grief, guilt and so on. His father’s iron grip once again found his bicep as he squeezed harder than ever, half-dragging Tristan back to their car. He unlocked the door, rolled the window down barely an inch tossed his son unceremoniously inside the car and slammed the door.
“Don’t you move from that spot! You’re an embarrassment!” He shouted.
Rubbing his arm where the skin was slowly turning back to its usual shade, Tristan’s eyes filled with tears again. Staring out the window he felt the sweet musical voice in his head as Father Downing came walking brusquely around the building towards the car.
Mykl. This isn’t your home, this isn’t your life. You’ve been attacked; I couldn’t even get to you until today. I’m not giving up on you. Please! Fight! Calm your mind and allow me to help you!
“Tristan. I know it’s hard, I know you don’t know who to trust and who will bring you more pain. You were in the training room in our palace, can you remember?” Downing asked as he approached.
“NO! I can’t remember! I remember you teaching me meditation and healing. I remember Joy showing me love and compassion. I remember Grandpa showing me…” Tristan broke off as finally he began to cry.
Tears streamed down his face as he attempted to wipe them away as quickly as they fell. His father would be so angry that he was crying again.
“I’m not angry.” Downing commented.
“What?” Asked Tristan
“I’m not angry. I’m proud.”
“Proud that I’m crying like a little baby?!” Demanded Tristan, his temper flaring again.
“Tristan. Lesser men, fully grown men, have died because of the spell that was cast on you. You never gave up, you fought…you survived. The spell is losing its power, we’ve never seen this before, your Dana isn’t sure if it’s going to kill you or set you free. Our time is up. We must wake you.” He urged.
“I don’t understand. I…this is my life. I don’t know what you’re TALKING ABOUT!” Screamed Tristan as the pain in his head intensified.
Tristan could hear a loud smash as the window to the car was broken; a bloody hand reached in and unlocked the door. Father Downing got into the car and sat next to him.
“Face me Tristan. Turn and face me.”
Tristan slowly, painfully turned in his seat; each miniscule movement caused a wave of nausea and pain to sweep over him. He nearly vomited from it until he finally had turned to face Father Downing.
“Remember the temple chakra Tristan?”
“Y…yes….” Tristan grunted through clenched teeth. It felt like his mind was going to explode.
“Put your hands on my temples.”
Slowly, hands shaking and his face losing color by the moment Tristan reached up and touched Father Downing’s temples. A bloody hand and a clean one reached up and made contact with Tristan’s temples. Immediately the pain ceased and Tristan’s eyes shot open. His vision was torn in two again, the left eye saw Father Downing, the right eye was back in the candle lit room, staring up at a fabric canopy over his head. Slowly, almost imperceptibly the right image began to shift over the left one.
That’s it Mykl! You’re doing it! I’m so proud! Keep fighting!
“I CAN’T!” He screamed out in pain. “IT HURTS!” Tristan cried out.
“You can son! You must! Fight!” Urged Father Downing.
“Oh no.” Tristan whispered in terror.
Dion! He’s coming!
From around the building Tristan’s father was storming over the church lawn, undoing his belt as he came; th
e anger coming out of him was like waves of intense heat. All of the color drained from Tristans’ face as he realized with uncanny certainty; He’s going to kill me.
No he isn’t! You have to fight! You’re almost there! FIGHT!
Tristan’s father was getting closer, the image he perceived out of his left eye was half the size it used to be, and the right was becoming more crowded. Four people were standing over him, concern on their faces. A young girl was crying, her tears running down her cheeks and onto his hand.
Wait - onto his hand.
He’s getting it Dion! Hold onto him! Mykl! Fight Mykl! FIGHT!
“I am! I…”
An ear piercing sound like an enormous window shattering was abruptly followed by absolute silence and darkness so profound that it swallowed his very soul.
Revelation
“How long has he been like this?” Asked a concerned male voice.
“Four days.” Replied a quiet female voice.
“He hasn’t woken up? Eaten anything?” Asked another male voice.
“He’ll be fine!” Insisted a young girl.
“Eurydice, sweetheart, he’s been through something unheard of. We don’t know what’s going to happen next. He could very well die…” The female voice choked off at the end.
“…but not today….” Tristan grunted.
The mood in the room immediately changed. Everyone, charged with emotion shouted his name.
“…why do you all keep shouting at me like that?” He grimaced as a wave of dull pain washed over him.
“Son? Can you hear me?” Asked the second male voice.
Slowly and very painfully, Tristan opened his eyes. The ceiling, unlike the hard stone church rafters he remembered from his split vision, was a rich blue fabric connected at four black wooden posts.
Immediately the wind was knocked out of him as a small body leapt onto the bed with him and wrapped its little arms around him. The pain shot through him like a hundred little needles.
“Eurydice! Be careful! You could hurt him!” Her mother scolded.
“…don’t yell at her! I’m fine!” Snapped Tristan.
Unnerved by his protective impulse towards this small child, he couldn’t be distracted from the millions of questions blurring his mind. All he could mutter was;
“I’m starving…”
“I’ll see to it” The first male voice said.
The door opened and shut with a metal clang as the handle swung back and tapped against the locking plate. The room began to come into focus as he slowly turned his head to the side. The man he took to be his father, looking exactly how he remembered Father Downing, had his hands on the shoulders of a regal looking woman with dark hair and green eyes filled with tears. This was his mother he assumed, the other male voice must have been his brother, the little arms painfully synched around his stomach must be his sister, he placed his hand on her back and rubbed her reassuringly.
“I’m fine Euri…I’m fi….”
“He remembers me!” She squealed as she released her hold on his middle and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.
Tristan hesitated, he didn’t know how he knew her name, couldn’t remember seeing her ever before and was confused by the intense feeling of protection and affection for this small child. He held onto her, sat up and turned so that he could hang his feet over the side of the bed. Eurydice slowly released her stranglehold on his neck and sat down on his lap, her arms circling around him again as she buried her head in his chest.
He tried to focus his eyes on the room again, this time taking in his surroundings. There was a large stone fireplace off to his right. At the foot of his bed was a large stained glass window in the shape of a bright blue dragon belching green and purple flames, to his left he saw the same large wooden dresser he remembered from his room…or…his nightmare’s room…or…he sighed, it was still so confusing.
The door opened again as an impossibly large man walked in with two servants trailing behind him. They placed a tray of fruit, cheese and some rye bread on his bedside table and bowed their way out of the room. Much like the other furniture in the room, this table was made of the same weathered looking black wood. On the table they had also placed a pitcher of crystal clear water and a decanter of what looked to be wine.
Eurydice slowly and reluctantly released her grip on him as her mother came over and gently lifted her off of Tristan. He took a deep breath. He noticed the faint humidity in the air and the fresh smell of a recent spring rain. Reaching over he grabbed a metal platter and put some fruit, a chunk of cheese and a slice of the rye on it. He poured himself a glass of water and guzzled it down his dry throat. He poured another and placed it on the table as close to him as possible.
He bit into a peach as he watched other servants quickly make their way out of the room. Too quickly, the focus of everyone was back on him. The little girl was smiling at him from her mother’s lap; the older woman still had tears in her eyes. His father was clearly exhausted but relieved and the huge stranger had the strangest look on his face for someone his size. He looked to be torn between tears and joy. Tristan was always taught that only babies and women cry…surely this goliath knew that!
Resentment, always so close to the surface, reared its ugly head again as Tristan tore apart the piece of rye with his teeth. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to have his fill, another foreign concept; people waiting on him. Selfishly he took his time, eating the peach and then an apple, a couple large chunks of cheese and another piece of bread before guzzling down another glass of water. By the time he put the plate and the glass back down on the night stand, he was ready for some answers.
“What happened to me?” He asked quietly.
Everyone in the room looked at one another, unsure of how to answer or what to say he was sure. His father spoke first.
“What is your earliest memory son?”
Fighting off irritation, Tristan thought back to his earliest recollection. He had been five years old, playing on the carpet in the living room, his father watching the evening news on television as he played with his toy cars making engine sounds.
“Would you keep it down!? I can’t hear the news!” His father screamed.
He was quiet for what felt like forever, but once again after some time had passed he began making the engine sounds again as he raced his little toy cars around the carpet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father get out of his chair, stomp over to him, grab him by both biceps and lift him up so they were face to face.
“SHUT UP!!!!” He bellowed and then dropped him unceremoniously back down onto the carpet.
He slowly got up and limped upstairs to his room where he cried himself to sleep.
Tristan’ eyes filled with tears as he regarded the man who looked like Father Downing. The woman in front of him was shaking and her tears were now flowing from her eyes, dropping onto her beautiful maroon silk gown. Apparently she could read his mind…and from the looks on everyone else’s faces so could everyone else. A sense of privacy rose up inside Tristan and he erected his mental defenses, ironically, as Father Downing had taught him.
The little girl, her green eyes much like his mothers had tears gathering in them as she struggled to run over and presumably knock the wind out of him with another hug. The towering man looked helplessly at his immense hands as they opened and closed, powerless to help. His fathers’ knuckles were white as he regarded his son. Tristan wished they would stop looking at him, he felt ashamed of how weak he was being again.
In his mind, despite his pitiful defenses, he could hear his mother’s voice again;
Don’t be ashamed Mykl. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all very proud of you.
“What the hell could you possibly be proud about!?” He shouted. “I’m sitting here crying like a little baby and I don’t understand what’s going on!” He jumped off his bed, adrenaline flowing through his system as he stormed around the room.
“Son please, calm down, we’ll explain everything.” His father said.
“Sit down little brother.” Boomed the large man.
Without thinking about it Tristan sat back down on the bed and stared defiantly back at the large man.
“Well one thing hasn’t changed. He still acts like he’s three times his size.” The big man joked.
The stress in the room lifted as everyone chuckled at his observation. Tristan felt very foolish, everyone was being very kind and he was acting out because of his confusion.
“It’s only natural son.” His father said. “After what you’ve been through, we can only imagine what it must be like.”
“Yes, please Mykl. We’ll explain everything to you, but you need to keep calm, we’re not sure how hurt you are yet.” Continued the woman.
“Fine. Why do you keep calling me that?”
“It’s Mom, that’s just what she does Tristan.” Replied the large man sarcastically.
“I remember you.” Tristan commented.
“Oh really? What do you remember exactly little brother?”
“You were Joy’s best friend.”
“Well I don’t know about best friend, but son might be a better word.”
“I don’t understand.” Tristan mumbled.
“Let me explain. You’re all too serious anyway.” The little girl announced.
Tristan liked her very much. He couldn’t quite explain why, but she just infected him with love and trust. It didn’t feel normal at all, though not in an alarming way. Her presence was infectiously and inexplicably joyous. For years he’d been abused and neglected and all it took this little wisp of a girl moments and his defenses were down. She happily leapt off her mother’s lap, ran over and jumped up onto the bed with him again. She sat cross legged staring at him as he turned and leaned back against the pillows, wincing in pain as he waited.
Draconis' Bane Page 4