A Healing Process (short story)

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Title: A Healing Process
Author: Rohese Bayvel-Timsh'l

First published on the 10th day of Fashanos in the year 5119

At the end of A Difficult Journey, back in early Olaesta 5118, Rohese had been left for dead following a bandit attack in a forest somewhere between Solhaven and the Talador refugee camps. This is a continuation of her story almost a year later and includes perspectives from the other key characters involved.

Timeline of Events

Date Event
1st day of Olaesta, 5118 Rohese is ambushed by bandits on her journey from Solhaven to a Talador refugee encampment. She is left for dead in the woods with an unknown companion. [Disappearance]

At about the same time, Naamit discovers a single strand of Rohese’s hair in her braiding tool and realizes its potential for serving her needs. Using it to divine her location, Naamit dispatches a contingent of “bodyguards” to capture her. [A Woman's Needs]

Once found, a wounded Rohese is taken to a manor house in an unknown location where Naamit compels her into submission through torture and shrewd persuasion. [Dirty Little Secrets]

Ceyrin is informed of the bandit attack and subsequent capture by his network of informants prompting him to investigate. He takes over the search and finally discovers Rohese’s exsanguinated, wounded, and discarded body. He is unaware of the perpetrator. [A Place to Rest: Chapter 0 ~ While the Arkati Laugh]

5th day of Ivastaen, 5118 Rohese remains unconscious in the care of Ceyrin’s associates. [Disquiet]
20th day of Koaratos, 5118 Tyrie (a Green Sister) writes a letter to Puptilian to express her concern about Rohese’s disappearance. With no sign of a recovery, Ceyrin charges his brother to escort Rohese to the Isle of Graces. [Duty]
18th day of Phoenatos, 5118 The Argent Mirror holds a Delegation Meeting to discuss Rohese’s disappearance and asks for a search to be made – with no success. Diplomatic discussions continue between Ta’Illistim and Solhaven. [Meeting]
10th day of Fashanos, 5119 Rohese is now conscious and recuperating on the Isle of Graces: her physical wounds are healing but her emotional state is in question. [Recuperation]
13th day of Fashanos, 5119 Ceyrin arrives on the Isle of Graces. [Recovery]
16th day of Fashanos, 5119 Ceyrin and Rohese set sail on the Shoalblazer for Solhaven. [Return]
23rd day of Fashanos, 5119 The Shoalblazer arrives in Solhaven. Rohese is in a depressed state but Ceyrin sees her settled in the Sylvanfair Mews on Tumbledown Lane before returning to his usual business affairs. [Retreat]
27th day of Fashanos, 5119 Rohese chooses to spend a few days on Mist Harbor (taking up residence in Cyraeni’s house) and sends word to Puptilian that she is “fine”. She witnesses an approaching storm. [Pretty Little Lies] [QST]
11th day of Charlatos, 5119 Rohese finally comes to terms with what has happened to her and with that, comes the realization of who perpetrated the act. She is flooded with emotions and struggles to deal with it. She shares the name (Naamit) with Ceyrin but shys away from recounting the full details of what happened. [Realization]

Prologue

Naamit ~ A Woman's Needs

[Added with the author's permission]

Mid-life crisis

The tired, middle-aged woman sits on a curule chair before a tall rectangular mirror, knotting her hair in sections with the aid of a wooden implement. She notices a stray hair caught in its grain, quite unlike her own. The delicate paleness of it shines bright and distinct in contrast to the coarseness of her own thick, black locks.

A sudden look of dawning clarity crosses her brow.

She twirls the slender strand between her thumb and index finger. Each pirouette the stray hair's tangled path takes screams in her brain a veritable crescendo of some orchestral number on the epic journey to the fountain of youth.

Things once lost, soon to be found. Mmmm. Yes. This will do nicely.

A woman has her needs after all.

Debts owed are rarely forgotten

Donning the disguise of her forefathers, she traveled west to assemble a team of bodyguards with haste, carrying with her the imprisoned artifact now entombed a resin reliquary. It was quite easy to gain compliance from one of her former lovers, he himself having risen through the ranks of office. A man has needs too, but the price of silence is steep. She had finally come to collect after all these years and there was little he could do to decline the proposition.

A most fortuitous series of events played out once the soldiers set forth: aided by the power of this single silver strand, the team was hot on the trail of their target. It hadn't been too difficult, given the sucking mud ruts left in their wake. So too, were a group of idiot bandits. And when the first arrows flew at the behest of the bandits, the bodyguards leapt to action with the finery and flourish befitting their role. To protect their ward was their sole purpose and no other. But unfortunately, the woman was injured in the skirmish. Once the threat was obliterated, they bandaged and bundled up the injured woman best they could and returned to their employer after a difficult journey through the forest highlands.

No good deed comes for free

Cold as they often are, the mountainous manor seemed to warm with the arrival of the injured ward. The mistress of the house took her charge and responded coolly to the adjutant, "Your assistance is appreciated. Leave her with us. You'll have the rest of your payment before the next new moon. Send my pleasant regards to your esteemed officer."

She flipped a bag of silvers to the younger soldier and instructed him to visit the bawdy inn down the hill. "My women will be fair to you. Or harsh, if you beg for it," she finished with grim smugness. The crisply dressed man departed without as much as a salutation.

Long after the house quieted, she called her healer to attend to the ward's shoulder wound while her gaze remained enrapt on the tenderly feathered opportunity sprawled out perfectly before her. As she waited, the human woman knelt beside a richly draped bed and whispered into her elf's ear, "One has to keep up appearances, don't you think? Yes, I think you do."

No good deed comes for free. A woman has her needs after all.

Ceyrin ~ A Place to Rest

[Added with the author's permission]

[Shrine of Onar, Rotunda]
Pristine white marble slightly striated with black veins fills the round room and is crafted with masterful stonecutting. Each block of the walls, floor, and ceiling has been so tightly placed that the effect is almost seamless. Narrow onyx half-columns serve as floor-to-ceiling beams, their grooved shafts rising from half-moon bases and ending in heavily gilded scalloped capitals. An altar waits at the far side of the domed expanse, opposite a small, square opening leading to some dark stone steps.
While the Arkati Laugh

When I look back at my life I can't help but be dismayed at the course it has taken. The dreams I had as a young Maeramil long since lost to the fate I found myself faced with. It's been over twenty years now since I began my service to Onar. In that time I've seen and experienced a great deal -- things I wouldn't have if I were still just a simple Maeramil. I've changed the lives of many different people, some for better and some for worse. Yet nothing salves the wound of what happened on the day it all changed. The day that my clan died . . . the day I killed them all.

I'd always tried to tell the story to others and myself as if I were some sort of hero . . . that I saved everyone from a fate of slavery at the hands of Krolvin. In reality, while I'm sure their death did save them from a much worse fate, the truth is that Onar did not spare my people. My people were slain by my possessed hand alongside the Krol. Neither side survived except myself, and few others including my brother and sister who were away at the time. After that happened I spent years struggling with the so-called debt I owed Onar.

At first I resisted and tried to outrun it, fleeing to River's Rest in an attempt to isolate myself to some degree as well as try and find a new life. I did find that life for a time, until it turned out the woman I had found myself with was a Mularosian who killed our unborn child in some grotesque ritual to her disgusting patron. After that, I knew what I had to do. This world was sick, and it needed the sickness cut away. I would strive toward that end, one life at a time if I had to. Nations and Arkati alike were not to be safe from my vision of this cleansing. I began to wonder what would happen if I killed all people across Elanith. Would the Arkati weaken . . . would they die . . . could they die?

After recovering from the psychological blow dealt to me by that Mularosian I spent some time reflecting my purpose. It was then that I discovered the group known as the Dae'Randir. For a time this was a mutually beneficial relationship. They gained what they saw as a spiritual guide and an outward face for the public while I gained a network of seemingly like-minded individuals that could be utilized to further my goals. The philosophy of those who lead the Dae'Randir at the time was, at least I thought then, misguided. While I never truly understood Turinrond's motives, I wonder sometimes if we had the same goal -- a place to finally rest and a world without need of those who were willing to do ugly things to prevent atrocity, strife, and misery. The relationship and the Dae'Randir itself fell apart and I pulled away from society once again.

In the decade that followed, I spent a lot of time alone refining my perspective. Killing everyone won't solve anything. Killing the Arkati is a flawed plan and likely unattainable in any case. It seems so simple now, and yet at the time I could not see beyond my own animosity towards the world. The path forward is much more simple than I realized. Using death as a tool is a final resort, not a starting point. While it would be easy for me to kill hundreds or even thousands of people, it would simply be a waste. No, my purpose now is to stand behind those who would face the light and give all of themselves to bring positivity into the world, to stand in their shadow and guard their flank. They are the only ones who can truly rid this world of the sickness that has infected it for so long. A sickness that must be healed, and one that in doing so I might finally find a place where I can end my service and . . .

Just then the silence of Ceyrin's meditation was broken by light footfalls of a robed figure approaching him. "I've got news you're going to want to hear", came the gravelly voice from beneath a black cowl.

Ceyrin said nothing and simply waited for the man to continue.

"Rohese has been kidnapped by bandits on a trip between here and Talador", the gravelly voice explained succinctly.

Though his eyes were already shut, Ceyrin found himself forcing them closed more tightly as he took a slow and deep breath while rising smoothly from his meditation position to his feet. "Take me there . . . quickly."

Puptilian ~ A Search for a Friend

[Added with the author's permission]

I fed a piece of raw rabbit to the last of the eagles while I tie the message to her leg. With a command the five eagles flew off in different directions delivering messages to contacts throughout the empire. As they fly out of sight I hear a small growl as Aatu walks into sight followed by his pack. The wolves all smell the last letter sent by Rohese to get an idea of a scent before running off towards Talador. Lastly, I used my touch with nature to call in my little friends in a mix of finches and squirrels to send them closer to home looking for any clues. My hope is that they will succeed in finding any clues where human and elven scouts have not. I know all these options are a long shot but I feel horrible that Rohese went missing helping me aid those in need in Talador. We will find her and bring her home.

Naamit~ Dirty Little Secrets

[Added with the author's permission]

Vertical beams of amber light project through embrasure windows on the western wall of room. A taller-than-average woman reclines against the western wall in a ruddy red robe, the nature of its dye obscured by the shadows between the rays. She watches the elf huddled in the corner, wings pulled protectively around her.

"Give me what I want or stay right where you are. The choice is yours." She closes incredulously, "you have nothing but time."

Food is brought in, stays untouched just out of reach, then wilts and molders. The elven woman's clothing becomes soiled with the duress of her predicament and she growths thin. Yet still, she does not falter as the room grows dim. A pregnant moment passes midnight before the tall woman curiously asks, "You play the harp, do you not?"

Thunder rolls overhead as the day fades to another.

The tall woman gazes intently on the silver-haired elf entangled in the frame of a massive harp. Her body remains suspended-- woven-- between the harp strings. Metal ligatures dig at the elf's thin appendages. She is all but helpless to free herself from the wooden armature built far too large for practical use.

Days go by with similar scenes of arrested torture, speckled with harrowing cries.

"How does that feel, Rohese?"

---<-`<@

As time continues, it becomes apparent that the elven woman does not weep from her own physical anguish, for all the pain in the world has been borne out upon flesh. Yet still, she does not relinquish. Her torment gnaws from something deeper.

In her darkness, the tall woman comes to the elf yet again. "He who is the Sorrow of the World feels your anguish and He mourns for you. But I cannot help you if you won't let me. So speak to me of your sorrow, child."

All the grief of the world streams from the elven woman's dry, cracked lips in that moment. Minutes turn to hours, the sun rises and sets. Rohese has seen a century of strife and the burden of this knowledge is too great to bear any longer -- too great to bear without the love of her life.

The green-eyed woman absorbs what she has been told, machination brewing in kind. "Embrace Him, and the pit in your heart will be filled again. Your troubles will end and the weight of your memories, the gravity of your loss shall be lifted from your shoulders in kind. Give me what I want and I will free of your burden. Words alone are not enough to silence your mind however."

Rohese nods with resignation and says, "I am ready."

Cool serenity now guides the tall woman, as it appears the two have finally come to a grim understanding. She is in her element and revels in her work, this cruel contrivance of... Compassion.

Leather thongs are wound around the elf's wings at their base and she is hoisted into the air. The tall woman draws neat lines down the elf's wrists and she watches, enrapt, until rivulets of blood stain the bronze ritual bowls. She lifts herself up to embrace her ward, allowing her full weight to drag on the feathered appendages.

The two women's voices rise in a sustained cacophony of screams layered with laughter. Whose voice is whose seems indecipherable as the squalling transforms into keening wails and vibrating ululations. Icy feathers fall to the ground as the constriction worsens and ligaments tear under the pressure of such dark invocations. Hour by hour, the tall woman exsanguinates her willing companion and she consumes her bloody bounty as the ritual continues.

They scream the Songs of Sorrow, until there is nothing left but razor-thin strands enveloping the mindspace Rohese's love once held. At last, the skeletonized wings give way even under the frail weight of the elf's frame and that of her keeper. The pair tumble to the ground and in that very moment, a single, roaring boom of thunder followed immediately by a clap lightning shudders the manor at its core.

Both women, spent, clutch one another and pass out in an unadultered, vacuous embrace.

---<-`<@

Vertical beams of pale light project through embrasure windows on the eastern wall of room. A now clearly younger woman rolls over, sits up, and kisses Rohese's cheek almost tenderly as she whispers, "never forget."

She plants a firm hand on the elven woman's forehead, using it like a crutch to right herself out of habit and coldly commands, "We are through here. Get your things and go. One must keep up appearances, after all."

The robust, yet short giantwoman discards her tattered robe at the frail elf's feet and with it, her mask of illusion.

Naamit simply walks away...

Recuperation

Rohese

It is said that the harp has healing qualities, its music generates an atmosphere of peace that sweeps away fear, depression, desperation, and hopelessness. It creates an opening for healing to take place. Whether or not a person recovers from their illness or not is less important than the spiritual healing that so often needs to take place.

Given the circumstances of Rohese's condition, it was somewhat ironic that she felt drawn to the musical instrument as part of her healing process. Having recently woken from her prolonged state of unconsciousness, she had spent her time simply coming to terms with what had happened to her.

It was a miracle that the exsanguination hadn't proved fatal. While the physical wounds had quickly healed, with only a faint scar showing where the crossbow bolt had entered her shoulder and the further torturous injuries to her body carefully concealed beneath layers of modest clothing, the mental scars had left her deeply troubled.

The blood loss had been significant and it had taken months of skilled tending in the hands of the Graces to restore her to near-full health but she was still plagued with horrific flashbacks: images of imprisonment met with sumptuous surroundings ... lavish dishes untouched, yet none within reach, and those eyes ... piercing green ... the hungry eyes of her captor.

In an effort to shake off the distress welling up inside her, Rohese sat on the nearby stool. She adjusted the skirts of her gown and tentatively laid her fingers across the harp. Plucking a few strings, she played a simple glissando but, hitting upon a particular chord, she was instantly reminded of that banshee's wail. A sharp pain bit deep into the flesh of her back and a blood red haze fleetingly obscured her vision causing her to hastily rise and back away from the instrument. She clutched desperately at the driftwood locket around her neck and bit down hard on her lip to hold back her tears and screams.

The momentary feeling of dread subsided to be replaced by thoughts of Ta'Illistim's shimmering blue spires and the faces of her beloved friends. She would need a little more time to recuperate and recover her strength before she could return home though.

Recovery

Ceyrin

[Added with the author's permission]
Ceyrin sits, attempting to be as unobtrusive as possible on the deck of the moderate-sized cutter Shoalblazer, while the halfling crew lazily tends to the rigging as required by such a small craft. Stiff winds beat at the sails of the small vessel creating a deep 'whuffling' sound. The first rays of morning light cast an eerie glow across the sea, changing black into a sickly dark absinthe green. A pod of sea thraks breaks the surface for a few moments off the starboard side, their fins dipping in and out of the water -- a good sign, he decided. Considering the nature of his trip and the relative distance, it seemed like a poor idea to travel on such a small ship, but it turned out to be a successful combination of discreet, cheap, and quick.

It's been nearly a year at this point since I saw her. The informant I paid a hefty sum of coins to hasn't notified me she's left, so I have to assume she is still in the care of the Graces where I insisted my brother take her. I expect by now she's made a full recovery . . . physically at least. Whatever happened to her wasn't quick, and it wasn't pleasant . . . I expect those wounds will take longer to heal, if in fact they ever do. She's fortunate to be alive . . . we're all fortunate. . .

"Port a-view, lads!", cries the captain, a fierce and robust halfling who goes by the name Emerald Eye or 'Cap'n Em' for short. "Trim the sails and get the oars ready," he barks before turning an eye toward Ceyrin.

Before the captain can even ask, Ceyrin quickly states, "Yes, give me an oar."

"There's a good lad," replies Emerald Eye, a name one can only assume he took on due to the emerald that sits in his left eye socket as a 'replacement' for a missing eye.

After a few minutes of rowing, the crew moors the craft at the modest dock on an even more modest isle. A quiet and secluded location, the main attraction of which is a small abbey dedicated to the teachings of Imaera, Phoen, Ronan, Kuon, Oleani, Aeia, Niima, and Charl -- collectively known as the Graces, for the gifts they grace the land of Elanith with.

Ceyrin slowly rises to his feet and steps off the cutter and onto the dock, glad to be rid of the mercurial stability that is a boat. "Remember, I paid you for two days, so don't leave until tomorrow evening"

"Aye", replies the captain. "Sides-which, yer not the only one wit a reason ta visit".

Ceyrin gives a final, satisfactory nod to the captain and turns to make his way up to the abbey.

Though the island itself is likely no larger than the city of Wehnimer's Landing, the bulk of the landmass is a small craggy peak atop which sits the Abbey of the Graces, supported by a tiny seaside village upon the southern shore. In times past, the abbey was used as a refuge for those who sought to escape the trappings of life on Elanith proper, and free themselves from the politics of city-states, empires, and kingdoms. Those seeking enlightenment would venture here to spend decades training themselves to let go of all things material and open their minds to the possibility of harmonious existence. Today, the Abbey is as much spa and resort as it is religious order, giving up strict adherence of faith to gain a modest amount of support income in more recent times.

Taking his time, Ceyrin ascends the elaborately carved stone stairway toward the abbey, each step adorned with a different arrangement of herbs, flowers, and other small flora that can be supported in this climate. A massive teak door pointed towards the west is painstakingly carved with religious symbology depicting the 8 Graces, punctuated with polished brass rings on either side.

Ceyrin pulls the doors open just as the Orb of Phoen begins to rise over the surface of the water in the distance.

"Welcome to the Abbey of . . .", a young male acolyte trails off as he takes in Ceyrin's appearance, such as he is able while Ceyrin is veiled by the glamour of his pendant. "How can we help you, ah. . ."

"Ceyrin, Priest of Lord Onar", he states plainly, and continues, "I'm here to see Rohese"

"We will not tolerate any sort of violence here, sir", the acolyte quickly assumes.

Ceyrin explains, "Don't worry, not only would I not come in through the front door if that was my intention, I'm the one who sent her to you nearly a year ago".

The acolyte's mouth takes on a visible 'O' shape, though no sound is made for a moment. Then, spotting a young woman who appears to be another acolyte, the young man whispers something to her and she heads off up the stairs. "Just a moment, sir"

Ceyrin ignores the young man and follows the woman up the tight spiral staircase wrought entirely of brass until they arrive at the third floor landing. Keeping pace with the young woman they quickly traverse a series of corridors lined with tapestries, flowers, and statuettes before arriving at a door upon which the young woman knocks, pauses a moment, then enters and announces, "There's someone to see you, Rohese."

Rohese

Rohese watched the coral pink of pre-dawn light illuminate the harbor below, staining the white sails of the ships moored at the dockside. A recent squall had brought them within the sanctuary of its walls for a few days but she could see that most of them were making ready to set sail again.

She usually rose early to benefit from the tranquility of the abbey cloisters. The morning prayer bell would soon toll and the hallowed halls would be filled with the hustle and bustle of daily ecclesiastical life. For now, though, she had retreated to the solitude of her chambers and the book she intended to finish that day. She stood at the window, enthralled by the tattered, blue-grey clouds scudding before the wind across the blushing sky and let her thoughts drift over the last few months.

Why have you forsaken me, Lumnis? Suddenly appalled by her own blasphemous judgement, Rohese stepped out onto the balcony and inhaled the crisp, clean air. A salt-laden breeze whipped at her hair and for a moment, the banshee’s wail resonated in her ears again. It’s just the wind. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on the here-and-now and not let her grief and pain become too overwhelming.

Her walk along the beach that morning had yielded a nautilus shell, which she now gripped tightly in her hand. She murmured a brief prayer for the safety of the sailors below and tucked it into the pocket of her gown, making a silent promise to visit Charl’s shrine and honor the memory of her beloved husband. The moniker of widow was one she refused to admit publicly but it was something she knew she had to come to terms with; just not today.

Deep in thought, Rohese hadn’t heard Sister Anyia enter the room.

“There’s someone to see you, Rohese.”

Rohese stirred from her reverie and turned sharply when she heard a familiar voice behind her add, "I knew the sea air would help with your recovery."

Ceyrin released the blue-black haze of his glamour and greeted her with a vague smirk.

Puptilian ~ A Search for a Friend

[Added with the author's permission]
It's been a few weeks now since I sent out my animal friends in search Lady Rohese. None of my contacts throughout the Empire or the Nations has any new leads for me. I talked to the guards in Solhaven that escort the supply trains between Solhaven and Talador and walked away empty. Even Aatu and his pack of wolves have found no sign so far.

My work at Talador has been taking up more of my time then I would have liked and the guilt of not looking for Rohese has finally forced me to leave behind the Taladorian farmers. I did a second sweep of a few bandit and monster camps that have been recently found and destroyed around the western half of Talador. The attack on these camps were not concerned with preserving any possible evidence since the people protecting Talador are only worried about keeping the roads clear. Despite the days spent at these camps looking I yet again come up empty. I even nervously walked deep into the waste lands of Talador with no signs and no luck.

Feeling rejected, I turn to head back to the farmers of northern Talador when I heard a rustle of leaves and a warm breeze blew across me. My heart jumped with the realization that my Lady in Green, Lady Imaera is telling me to not lose hope. I suddenly felt a tug from my connection with Aatu bidding me to run to him. I can feel that he was somewhere between Talador and Solhaven so I took off at once to meet with him.

Days roll past in a blur while I travel southwest. Deep in a dark forest on my way to Solhaven I heard the howl of Aatu and his pack drawing me away from the main road. As I push my way through the underbrush I come to a small clearing to see the pack of wolves and Aatu holding a small piece of cloth coated in dried up blood. A quick survey shows a struggle but weeks of weather sadly washed away any signs to be able to track where anyone went. I quickly write a report and have an eagle friend quickly fly off to deliver what I found to Tyrie.

Return

Rohese

Standing at the stern of the Shoalblazer, Rohese’s eyes were drawn upward, past the small cottages nestled against the cliffside, to the sound of the tolling bell and the grey-stoned abbey on the island’s craggy peak. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as she was reminded of the love and care she had received in that sanctuary; it had become like a second home to her where the Graces had dutifully tended her wounds and proffered the spiritual guidance she had sorely needed for her recovery.

She would normally be joining the sisters for prayer now, the sonorous peal signaling the beginning of another day of reflection and, in her case, recuperation but today was different; today she was beginning her long journey home. I’m not ready!

The sound of the bell receded as a feeling of panic began to overwhelm her. Her vision faded into stygian blackness and painful memories invaded her mind ... thrall to a banshee with piercing green eyes ... excruciating pain as her silver-blue wings were ripped from her back ... gaping wounds and raw flesh ... a pool of sticky red blood ... stunned silence ... cruel laughter echoing in her ears.

The lapping sound of the blue-green waters below called her back to the present moment, each susurration soothing her and bringing with it sweeter memories from her time in the abbey gardens: the gentle breeze redolent with the scent of lavender and thyme, the melodic song of the finches and wrens, and the quiet whispers of the sisters at work in the vegetable patch.

She was suddenly conscious of Ceyrin standing a few feet away. He had not spoken a word since they had boarded the ship but she drew comfort from the fact that he always seemed to be close by.

As if in response to her awareness, the sails billowed and the cutter picked up speed, finally leaving the shelter of the harbor. Heading out to sea in a southeasterly direction, Rohese allowed the salt spray to mingle with her tears before wiping them away. Enough. No more tears. Her fingers rested on the moon-filled pendant and she slowly retreated behind a silvery grey haze. She may be well again, but she still wasn’t ready for the world to see her vulnerable state.

Retreat

Rohese

Love knows many colors.
Grief knows one and its shade is bleak.

Another day dawned, colorless and bleak.

The prow of the Shoalblazer cut cleanly through the indigo waters of the bay and the grey mist parted before them to reveal a familiar coastline. The bustling port of Solhaven lay sprawled out against a colorful backdrop of an evergreen forest and white limestone cliffs.

Rohese stood silently on deck, oblivious to the flurry of cheerful activity around her. Lines were hauled, sails were released, and the anchor finally dropped into the brackish green water but she paid no attention. The welcoming squark of black-headed gulls overhead added to the clamor onboard but she did nothing to acknowledge it.

With the cutter safely anchored and two small-crewed skiffs heading towards them to help with unloading the cargo, the Captain turned his attention briefly to his two mysterious passengers. He pondered the lady first; this was in fact the only chance he’d had as she had stayed below deck for the whole voyage. Shrouded in a silvery grey haze, it was hard to discern her features but it was clear by her carriage and mien that she was high-born and melancholy. Her unlikely companion was equally enigmatic, shrouded in his own blue-black glamour there was little he could determine about his background or purpose.

The skiffs bumped alongside and Cap’n Em’ shrugged off his curiosity to greet the dockworkers now boarding his ship. Throwing his head back to laugh at a shared bawdy joke, the early morning sunlight glinted off the emerald sitting in his left eye socket. Rohese was immediately startled from her catatonic state and stared in his direction ... green ... green eyes ... piercing green eyes.

Ceyrin wasted no time and guided her to the nearest skiff. She stepped into the little boat and, with the folds of her mantle gathered around her, retreated into herself once more; ambivalent even to the golden yellow sunshine now flooding the horizon and the fiery red streaks igniting the sky.

It only took a few minutes for the skiff to reach the North ‘Haven Quay and for them to disembark. Ignoring the jostle of garishly dressed merchants, the malodorous barrels of fish, and the scavenging crabs at her feet, Rohese followed Ceyrin up the Stormdaughter's Steps and onto the Bayside Road. Even at this time of the morning, the road was busy as shoppers headed toward the bustling market in the distance or onward to the Market Bridge rising high above the Cairnfang delta.

Rohese averted her gaze in an attempt to ignore the assault on her senses; shielding her eyes from the onslaught of color and closing her ears to the cries of merchants and curses of the dockworkers.

Another day had dawned, colorless and bleak.

Rohese ~ Pretty Little Lies

[Ceiluir Glade, Beach Path]
Sheltered from the full fury of the sea by a ring of rocks, the cove's small beach is quiet and glitters with the golden sunlight that filters through the puffy white clouds above.  Tall dunes swallow the path as it ambles upward, their edges covered in high beach grasses and wild dog roses. 

An off-shore breeze lifted her hair, whipping it across her pale face. Brushing it aside, Rohese inhaled the fragrance of salty air mingled with wild roses and gazed out to sea. I’d forgotten how peaceful it was here.

There was a squall brewing on the horizon. A bank of purple clouds churned across the sky but not close enough yet to threaten the puffy white clouds overhead. Rohese instinctively massaged her temple. Her dull headache had refused to lift; the cup of herbal tea earlier hadn’t helped and sleep still eluded her. She hoped that a few days on the Isle of the Four Winds would at least help her to relax.

The ebb and flow of the ocean was soothing, its rhythmic susurration over the dark shingle punctuated only by the chorus of birdsong. She allowed her gaze to wander, her eyes drawn to the cliff face where the birds were flitting to and from their small nests. Faces drifted in and out of her thoughts, gentle voices accompanying each visage; some gruff, some soft, but all familiar and recalled with fondness. Puptilian’s low tone mingled with Tyrie’s light laughter and Corlyne’s wry smile filled her heart with warmth. It would be good to see my friends again. Her thoughts turned to where they were now and what they might be doing. Did they wonder what had become of me? Were they worried? What should I tell them?

A distant flash of lightning caused her to flinch, bringing her back to the present moment. She was startled to see that during her reverie one of the cliff-nesting birds had landed on her hand and was simply looking up her, its head cocked at an angle as if waiting for her to say something.

Rohese smiled to herself.

“Let Pup know that I’m fine,” she lied.

The pretty little bird immediately took flight and the faint smile faded from Rohese’s lips. I’m fine.

Realization

Exactly when Rohese realized she knew her abductor was hard to pinpoint; it had been a series of recollections that finally fitted together like a puzzle.

After another night of tossing and turning, she rose from her bed before dawn, numb from lack of sleep and wondering what another day in Mist Harbor would bring. More rain, probably, and more arrests. Fractured images of her own time in captivity haunted every waking moment but slowly they were beginning to merge together into a more coherent memory. Her persistent headache was also lifting slightly, despite the stormy weather, bringing a little more clarity to her thoughts.

She should probably venture out and get some fresh air; perhaps even check on Ilsola. Poor Ilsola, I should have spoken out about her earlier maltreatment but ... Rohese sighed. At least now she was able to put on a brave face and be among people again, if not socialize properly. She had Ceyrin to thank for that. Ceyrin, who had done nothing to spare her feelings. Ceyrin who had arranged her return to the mainland. Ceyrin who had suggested she find something to do.

A loud clap of thunder outside caused her to flinch. The small scarlet leather book resting on her lap fell to the floor but she made no effort to retrieve it. Seated at the arched picture window of the drawing room, Rohese sipped her herbal tea and massaged her temple, hoping for some relief from the dull ache. Time passed as she watched people hurry by, hoods down while they carried out their daily errands.

She was reminded of her time on the Isle of Graces and how everyone around her seemed to have a purpose. She had lost her purpose when she had lost both her husband and her faith. Her eyes drifted to the paintings on the opposite wall; the misty blue watercolors of the nearby Saewehna waterways juxtaposed with images of the island’s native birds: tanagers and parrots captured in blood red and vivid green oils.

Closing her eyes, she murmured her usual prayer to Lumnis in the vain hope that she would finally hear some words of comfort or wisdom ... something ... anything to feel reassured that she was still a part of her life. It’s my fault, I know. I broke faith. A solitary tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away in anger. You left me! Although, who she was accusing was unclear: Lumnis or Sighisoara; perhaps it was both their faults that she had suffered at the hands of ... Naamit.

There, she had openly admitted it to herself. Behind the blood red haze of pain and grief, Naamit’s green eyes bored into her very soul and her enticing voice echoed in her head with empty promises of release and freedom from sorrow. Embrace Him ... never forget.

Something stirred within Rohese’s core. Was it happiness, rage, tranquility, or sorrow? Perhaps it was a mix of all four emotions. It actually felt good to “feel” again! Tomorrow, I will write some letters but today ...

Clutching at the driftwood locket beneath her white linen shift, Rohese finally allowed herself to grieve.